Playing Through

Photo by Vin Berardi

I'm on the 11th hole of Colonial Terrace, and I smell a copy machine.

You know the smell. That sweet scent that wafts from warm paper? A copy machine. Outside in the woods! 

And where did that strobe light come from? This ain't a dance floor.

When things don’t match, the little man inside my head stirs—then claws at the back of my eyes. The little man is unhappy.

The thing is, I don’t remember what I was doing before he woke up.

I’m lying on the ground, and Bobby is lying next to me, tendrils of smoke curling from his armpit.

A horn blares in the distance, and I try to stand, but can’t. I turn my head away from Bobby and back to the sky, which has nothing more to say to me.

That fucker laid right up on the green, and only needs to tap me in.

Parents used to tell their kids that thunder was the sound of God bowling.

How stupid.