Fiction

The Eighteenth

Michael Schindel

The fairway of Southwick was beginning to brown, and as I shook my father’s hand on the tee of the first hole, I couldn’t help thinking about the economy. My father had watched CNN since the formal announcement of our national recession. He would call once a week with the same warning: “this is the worst recession we’ve ever seen. We’ll be in a depression soon. If you’ve got the chance to spend money, don’t.”

“How was the drive?” I asked.

My father coughed into his golf glove and then stuck it out to shake mine. What once were eighteen holes of lush Kentucky bluegrass now lay the choked remains and patches of repair sod, victim to the bad economy.

“Pretty good, man. Hit some traffic outside Baltimore, but once I was on the pike, I was fine. How’s that apartment?”

“It’s alright. The neighborhood’s kind of shitty, but it’s close to work.”

“Still drawing things?” he asked. He cracked open a beer and gave his receipt to the starter.

“Advertising. But yeah, it’s going well.”

He took a few practice swings behind the white tee. He locked the club behind his back and bent forward. My dad was one of those older men who, for no real explanation, was born to have a bad back. He tee’d up his ball and sent a drive to the crabgrass off to the right of the fairway. He stood there for a moment and then drove the tee into the ground with his foot—his tradition to determine whether he would keep the tee he used. I drove mine down the middle a bit farther than his. Both of us were silent. When we got in the cart, my father had about finished his first beer. He drove me to my ball then cut the corner from the cart path into the woods where he could find his.

Growing up my father used to tell me the first hole could determine the rest of your game if you let it. As a child, he would take me to this golf course every weekend. Back then it always seemed like a small vacation; a hiking trip in the middle of Massachusetts suburbia. The first time I ever swung a golf club, my father was helping my mother adjust her swing. He would watch me from behind her, making sure that I kept my head down and feet shoulder width apart. My mother never particularly liked the sport, but saw it as the only way to get the family out of the house, and me away from the TV on a Saturday afternoon.

We played the second hole silently as well. As we waited on the third tee box, he stared at the dogleg two-hundred yards away. He took the last pull of another beer and crushed the can as we looked down the fairway.

“Did you hear about Pfizer this morning?” he asked, “down twenty percent, that’s huge.”

“Yeah I heard about that. They’ll probably get bought out soon.”

“Jesus, I can’t believe it.” He stood behind his ball swinging his club at tees and patches of repair sod while we waited for the older couple in front of us to hit around the bend.

“I heard from mom the other day,” I said.

“How’s she doing? Still with what’s-his-face in Hilton Head?” He’d just finished his backswing.

“Yeah. They’re making a killing renting condos.” I lined up my drive.

“Glad to hear it.”

Our second shots were right next to one another. I looked over at him sizing up his five iron, and finally asked, “How are things with you and John?” He looked at me for a moment. The smell of cut grass and hot dogs permeated the air.

“We’re good.” He bagged his five iron.

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

My ball landed in the sand trap just short of the green. My father always used to tell me that I needed to work on my bunker shots. Despite my bogie on the hole, I was still even—my dad was already one over. I never let on that I was one stroke ahead of him. By the seventh, I started to sweat beneath my Nike polo. My father’s back was soaked. We were seven holes in and he’d already finished his sixth beer.

“Can you believe the new timetable they laid out for the war,” he asked, “I don’t buy it. We’ll be stuck there for the next twenty years.”

“I don’t know. It seems people are sick of it. We want to leave and it’s about time we did.”

He kept attempting to talk again about current events. Politics was our favorite subject, there’s loyalty among liberals.

I could all but taste the flat cokes and hot dogs as we finished the front nine of the course. We parked the cart in front of the clubhouse and my father went in for two dogs and drinks. I sat in the cart and tallied up the scores. I was still winning by two strokes. Sitting in the cart, I considered grabbing my clubs and heading back to the parking lot. I could feel the stifling grass smell tighten my chest. This was the spot where my father first announced to me that he and my mom were separating.

I was fourteen at the time and I’d hated my father for these weekly trips to Southwick. We played the first four holes together through my protest. Despite what my father told me about keeping my left arm straight, I shanked every ball into the woods. After the sixth hole, he finally let me pick up and ride in the cart. When we reached the ninth, he didn’t run in for the round of hot dogs and cokes. Instead, he sat parked in the cart with me while I tallied the scores.

“Hey Blake, there’s something I have to talk to you about. Your mom and me have been having some problems. We’re getting separated,” he said. I remember he was using his tee to clean grass from his seven iron. He didn’t need to say anymore. The news shook the town of Westham. My father and boyfriend at the time became the only gay couple in the small town. From then on every accomplishment I had was measured to that standard.

In high school, I was the center on the lacrosse team. My mother used to come to every game. My sophomore year, our team made it to states. The day of the championship game I was last to lace my cleats in the locker room. Our coach was Tom Bradley, who also ran the hardware store. While everyone made their way out on the field, he stayed behind and sat down next to me as I finished my left shoe.

“Blake, you’ve come a long way since last year. Everyone’s proud of you considering,” he put his hand on my shoulder. There was black dirt under his nails from the field.

“Considering?”

“You know, considering your father leavin’ and all. And his condition. I’m just glad you ended up ok.”

Coach left and shut the locker room door. I dressed down and went back out to my mother in the stands. The condition I luckily avoided. From then on, everyone viewed my accomplishments like I was a cancer patient..

The afternoon sun was starting to set over the trees. I could see the shadow of the ninth green in the distance. My father brought me a hot dog and a coke. There was another beer sweating between his fingers.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Blake, how are you? I feel like we haven’t spoken in years,” he said. I could tell the beer was starting to hit him.

“I’m ok. I’ve been busy; Boston’s keeping my time occupied,”

“I mean really though. Anything new going on? New girls? Anything?”

“Nothing really. I’m just trying to get my feet on the ground. You know, rough economy.”

“Ha ha, yeah I suppose your right. Well, you’re up. I think you’ve finally learned to beat the old man.”

He patted me on the back. I walked up to the tee and hit my seven iron onto the green. My father and I always used to comment on how strange it seemed to start the last holes of a golf course with a par three. It led you into a false sense of security that wasn’t there on the front. His father hit his closer on the green. The two of us sunk our putts for birdies.

“Not a bad way to start the back nine, is it?” he said. He was already half into his second six pack. “I remember when you were little and they used to give a damn about this course. They used to have caddies remember and free bottles of water on every hole. Ever since they went public the course went to shit. This used to be a place to bring your family. Now look at it.”

He stopped trying to make conversation. I got a chance to focus more on my game. Despite him, despite the years he stood behind me yelling instructions, I’d come to love golf. I could retreat within myself, shut out the noise from the city, my boss, my wife, and my father’s idle chatter. I looked over at him sweating as he kept making awkward glances at me. Sizing me up, checking me out. What do you want from me old man? You left. You’re the faggot who ruined our family. You’re the one—

“It’s your shot, Blake,” he said. He smiled at me, always smiling at me. I gripped my knuckles white around my driver and ripped one down the fairway of the fourteenth.

“Great shot.”

I bit my lip to smile at him. He lined up his drive and I was obliged to remark on his as well. Every time we approached our second shots I made it seem as though I was surprised that I out drove him. That I was proud of this accomplishment.

“Hey, have you seen the news about Citigroup buying up all the banks?” he asked. Of course I had. I’d been banking with them for years. I smiled at my father. I by no means hate him. He was a provider for a long time. Every Christmas, I’d have whatever toy I wanted, of course I did. Those were different times.

“No I haven’t, you’re up,” I said. I felt I was being rude. Maybe I should make an effort. “Nice shot, old man.” My father smiled back at me from his backswing. I could almost see the hopeful glint of brown behind his Ray Bans. Bad economy.

We made our way to the eighteenth hole. My father seemed more at ease with himself as he sipped a Dixie cup of iced tea. This was his ritual for the last few holes; he used the sweet tea to sober himself up for the drive home, however long it was. As he approached the tee, his sweating became insufferable. He was almost dripping.

“Well the eighteenth, the worst hole on the golf course,” he said. He’s made this joke every game since we started playing.

“No more golf after this.” He smiled. I bit my lip and steadied my gaze on the parking lot. I thought of the next time I’d see him again. There would be one more year of peace before I had to suffer through another miserable round. My father hit his drive and pulled his five iron out of the cart.

“Blake, just take the cart up to the green. You can play by my ball up there,” he yelled. I drove the cart past his second shot. I’d quit playing nearly three holes ago. I cracked open the last beer and pulled deeply. I watched my father make his walk his way to the green. He was on his third shot and smiling—happy to be outside, with his only son. As I dropped my ball onto the green, I heard a yell from the sand trap. I could only see the cloud of sand erupt, as my father hacked at his ball.

Bad economy.

Michael Schindel lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He studied creative writing at Stetson University.