The Customers
Behind
me I hear the unmistakable revving of a golf cart. An indistinguishable mumbling can be heard
coming from the customers inside it.
They drive past the parked golf cart and take a right turn into the
parking lot squealing the tires as they do so.
The driver of the cart is a slender man with dark balding hair. He carries himself with certainty, holding
his head high as he pulls up. The light
reflects off his salmon shirt more than his balding head, almost to a blinding
degree. His smile shows off a set of
bleach white teeth and his skin is a healthy tan. This stands as a great juxtaposition to his
partner, an obese, elderly man slouched over on the bench. He has the beard of a homeless man: gray,
mangled and uneven with small particles of what I hope are just dirt and
food. He reaches forward to the can of
beer in front of him as they pull up to me and lifts it high and starts
chugging down the rest of the can. Drips
of the contents fall from the side of his mouth into his beard and onto his shirt. His shirt, originally comprised of large
white and blue horizontal stripes, now houses a multitude of colors. The red from ketchup and gold from beer,
green and brown from grass and dirt stains.
The smell of alcohol overwhelms the fresh pines and breeze. Salmon shirt sits quietly, adding up his
score from the last round as his friend finishes his drink, crushes the can and
chucks it into the cubby hole.
“Watch start nexus?” he nearly falls out
of the cart as he slurs his question at me, pulling out the vowels and trailing
off as he ended it.
Before I can respond salmon shirt drives
them off to the foot path leading to the club house. As he drives off I hear a dragging sound and
look at the back of their cart. Trailing
behind them is a thin twine of green and white rope which I recognize as the
rope that our course uses to mark off areas that customers are not allowed to
drive the carts. These ropes are usually
supported around greens and tee boxes by small green stakes. I walk across the parking lot to where they
stopped. As I approach I see that the
old man has switched to the driver seat and is downing another beer. I had not realized that the smell of beer had
gone away until I grew closer to them again.
In the basket of the cart are about a dozen empty crushed beer cans.
“Sir, I need to get this rope off your
cart. If you could please just not move the cart until I tell you it is clear,
thank you.”
I had gotten a lot of practice over the
years on dealing with customers, so I knew I had to sound non-incriminating and
act like I was just trying to help. I
can report them later and go replace the ropes.
Apparently I was not very clear however, because as soon as I finish
saying that, I kneel down to free the rope and the cart takes off. There is a loud crunch and then the revving
of an engine. The cart is propped up
against the retaining wall for the garden and the front left wheel is lofted
into the air. The old man is still
holding down the accelerator, confused as of why he is not moving. He steps out of the cart and stares at his
work, smiling. It was the smile of a
baby who just learned that he can throw his food on the ground and make his
parents clean it up. He stands there
chuckling with a large grin on his face.
He takes another sip from his beer while he is laughing and chokes on
it, spitting it back up and into his beard.
I motion for him to step back and then
go to get into the cart. As I put weight
onto the part of the cart that is elevated it sinks down. I feel the weight of the cart go into the
roof as the center of mass starts to roll over.
I step off and brace myself to try and keep the cart upright. With both feet firmly on the ground I lean
into the cart and push with all my strength.
The cart continues to push back on me, slowly pushing me to the ground.
If
I try to just get out of the way this cart will tip over and take a lot of
damage, or I can sit here until either the drunken old man helps, or a
co-worker come along.
I decide to try to do one final push and jump
inside and shift the weight to the other side.
I get a solid footing and push as hard as I can, I feel my feet slide a
little underneath me and I realize how horrible of an idea this was. If I mess this us up now, the cart will fall
onto me, with the roof bisecting my torso right across my kidneys.
A gentle breeze comes in from the west,
waving the tall northern pines back and forth in the clear summer sky. They are all planted in rows, waving in
unison like a crowd of giants at a music concert worshiping the sun. A few
smaller pines stand between the taller ones, barely moving a needle. The parking lot itself is a home to nature,
with each row isolated from the others by the tall pines and a light bed of
mulch. Shiny Corvettes and Cadillacs take
cover from the harsh sun underneath the trees.
A group of balding middle aged men are
discussing numbers and dollar amounts as they walk into the clubhouse, a white
building, reminiscent of a southern plantation with a sloped roof that is only
interrupted by a second floor balcony.
The ground floor has eight foot high windows stretching from floor to
ceiling. If you were to walk along the
porch along the edges of the building the old floor boards creek as your weight
shifts from one to another. A loud
hollow thud accompanies your every step.
From here you can view the gardens full of yellows, reds and greens that
separate the building from the parking lot.
A ramp leads from the parking lot to underneath this porch to the
basement of the clubhouse. A cinderblock
wall holds the gardens back and keeps them from caving in on the car wide
pathway to the basement. Where this ramp
ends in the parking lot, a small concrete path starts leading to the front of
the clubhouse. Part of the parking lot
forms a big opening here.
On the other side of this opening, stands
a small plastic cart that is supposed to be used by a cleaning crew to store
tools like bottles of cleaners and a mop.
Instead, on top rests a stack of scorecards made from a heavy stock
paper. The pound of paper forms a novel
of numbers and empty boxes, to be authored by thousands of customers over the
next couple days. The tools, the small
green pencils, sit in a purple box, each one etched with the words “Shallow
Woods Golf Course”.
A cars length away, a small asphalt path
leads into the woods and splits to the left and right, guiding the players to
the starting holes. A metallic green
sign with gold etching labels the paths at the fork. Behind the sign, a black golf cart sits,
looking like a miniaturized jeep with a plastic roof and no doors. A tan leather bench provides the only seating
and tiny black handles keep you from sliding off the end. On the back, a black wire basket provides a
space to place personal items too large for the cubby holes located in front of
the bench, and behind that, two cloth straps can be fastened to hold golf bags
steady during transport.
As I put my weight onto the cart it starts to
tip forward even more and I feel myself falling. I tug on the steering wheel to pull myself to
the other side, latching onto the far handle.
I pull as hard as I can and can finally feel the cart stop tipping. Just a little further. Then it should fall
back to the proper position. In the
background I can hear the old man laughing hysterically. A quiet hiccup breaks the laughter every few
seconds. I keep pulling, this would be
so much easier if I were in shape, although I might not have the weight to make
it work if I was. At last, the cart
starts to fall back to the ground. I
feel the thud reverberate through the entire cart and I as it comes crashing
back down with the front right tire in the garden. I carefully sit up and look down at the tire
to make sure it is actually touching the ground. I’m applying enough weight to the passenger
side that the tire is firmly set. As I
shift the cart into reverse I catch a glimpse of the old man leaning over,
looking like he’s either incredibly ill or incredibly amused.
Once the cart is back onto solid ground
I put it in park and turn it off. Once
again I kneel down to untie the rope from the bottom of the cart. I spend the next minute untying the rope from
around the drive shaft.
“You should make sure not to drive over
these ropes. They can get caught and
cause problems with the carts”
“We don’t drive ‘em over.”
I realize the futility of discussing
anything with a man as inebriated as he is, and walk away so I can call my boss
on the radio. I am responsible for
helping make sure that these two do not drive anymore.
As I am walking back over to the other
side of the lot I hear the door of the clubhouse swing open. The unmistakable sound of golf cleats on
hollow wood. The periodic “thud” and
“clink”. I turn around and see salmon
shirt running down the pathway holding out a white ticket and a bag of ice.
“They didn’t…” I thought to myself.
Inside the small clear bag, the chunks
of ice cubes concealed another dozen beers.
A cocktail of dangerous fluids for the already drunk golfers sealed with
a cobalt blue twist tie on top.
Before I can run back and say anything
to the two of them, salmon shirt jumps into the cart and the old man punch the
accelerator. It takes them a moment to
realize that they never started moving.
I never turned the cart back on after the whole incident. I stand there watching the two men struggle
with the cart. Underneath the seat is a
small switch that allows you to switch between forward and reverse. The old man starts to flick this switch back
and forth vigorously. The machine gun
tapping stops after twenty seconds when he takes a break to grab a fresh
beer. Salmon shirt gets out of the
passenger seat to see if anything is blocking the way of the cart. Seeing nothing, he scratches his head,
looking back and forth between the switch, the accelerator pedal, and the front
of the cart. The old man gets out and
goes back to his clubs. Defeated, salmon
shirt goes back to his clubs as well.
They stand there putting their gloves and
supplies away back into their bags. I
stand on the other side of the parking lot waiting. I just need to grab their cart once they go
inside. It is like the addiction of a
druggie, or the performance of a child in grade school. I have the one task, as long as they don’t try
to drive away in a car. If they walk
inside, they will walk out of my life forever.
For being in a customer service position, I really hate talking to
people. Every second passes in a minute. As they finish packing their stuff they stand
next to their bags talking. I don’t even
hear them anymore. I just want to be
done with them, and that happens when they give me their cart.
At last, they meander up the path to the
clubhouse. I make a beeline for the
cart. As I slip into the driver seat,
the smell of beer returns. A dozen cans
litter the cubby holes, the golden liquid flooding the containers and the
floor. Crumbs sprinkle the bench next to
me, and a recently extinguished cigarette still glows in the ash tray. Splotches of solidified ketchup mark where
the driver’s hands rested. A half eaten
bag of potato chips has a damp tissue stuffed inside it like a toy inside a
cereal box. At last it will be over
soon.
One more task complete, one more set of
drunks dealt with. Sometimes I wonder
why I am here, why I continue to work in a job where I am constantly in
connection with people unable to stand up straight. A job where those people are given heavy
machines to control and they constantly come close to serious injury every
day. A job where a customer will ask for
a difficult favor, and spit in your face as a reward, and for the entire time,
I must wear a smile and be courteous.
About the only thing that can be
pulled from this job, is that people need to know to keep in mind, how their
actions can affect the people around them.
Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.
