Page 24 - letmetellyou

Let Me Tell You . . . A Memoir
As I rounded the corner of the back of the clubhouse, I observed a rather obese, dark-complected, middle-aged man standing by a golf bag looking impatiently in my direction. Being reasonably intelligent, I assumed, he was waiting for me, which was confirmed as he abruptly pointed his finger in my direction and pointed to the ground next to his feet. I ran over to where he was standing and he grabbed the leather bag from my sweating little hand, poured its contents into a pile at that spot, returned the leather bag to me, and pointed down the hill toward the fairway. Running as fast and as far as my denim-covered, spindly legs would carry me (neither men nor boys wore shorts back then) after what seemed only a minute, I heard a very loud voice shout "Stop"; which I immediately did, turning in the direction from whence I had come to determine the source of the shout. It was the obese, dark-complected, middle-aged man, motioning me to return, which I began to do, only to be halted again. After several more attempts, apparently, to position me for the distance he intended to hit the golf balls, he just gave up and started swinging his club which began one of the most exhaustingly gruesome two hour periods of my life. I really don’t remember how many bags of golf balls my first job hit, but I know I made of number of trips up and down the hill from which he was hitting without respite. At the end of his practice period, the obese, dark-completed, middle-aged man (I never did learn his name) motioned me once more to come up the hill, which had gotten progressively steeper, reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a silver-colored coin, deposited it into my sweatier little hand, picked-up his golf clubs, and left. After collapsing to my knees to resuscitate, I looked into my hand and discovered my first "pay check"; a shiny, though not quite new, fifty-cent piece and, instantly, I knew that I would work, again.
As I returned to the pro shop to return the shag bag and balls, the young assistant pro asked me where I had been. With a look of amazement, I advised him that I had been on the practice range picking up golf balls. He shook his head and asked me how much the obese, dark-complected, middle-aged man had paid me and when I smiled widely and gleefully told him, he took the leather bag and as he turned to reenter the pro shop, muttered "that cheap son of a ". While I was disappointed that the young pro did not share my happiness at receiving my first ever pay check from my first job, nothing could have spoiled this experience in my young mind, as I turned toward the road and tried to figure out where I lived and how to get there. Little did I know then, just how important to my life that first job experience would be.
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