Marionette
It was a week before fall in 2001 and I was working at a mini golf course in Virginia Beach. The streets have emptied and the chaos of summer has turned into an eerie calmness. There was a heat wave and the tropical lushness of the fake polyethylene vegetation made it worse. The place was called Jungle Golf and that's where I felt trapped. In a pseudo jungle while my white tee shirt damp with sweat clung to my chest, and a pair of in-ear headphones hung from wires spilled over the collar. ‘Trouble’ by Damian Marley was barely audible, while I stood leaning against the hut at the entrance.
Our only customer was playing the part perfectly. Dressed in proper golf attire complete with a polo tucked into his shorts, which landed a few inches above the knee. Skin was incredibly pale and the gleam of the white socks seemed to soften the sparkle. Black rimmed glasses, complete with Croakies, slightly slipped down the sweat beaded bridge of his nose. Focus was sharp. Unbroken. Putting all of his energy into this next putt. Slow rhythmic breathing. Calm.
The putter drew back and connected with the blue ball. The ball slowly tumbled towards the hole. Stopped short by less than an inch.
In a moment of eruption, the customer threw arms to the sky and let out a bellowing howl.
The growl made me look at the plastic lion, forever paused in the same roar.
“Why have you forsaken me, God!” The words flowed from the customer freely.
The amateur golfer beat the putter into the ground with continuous thuds. Threw the club and hit the giraffe, then stomped away.