Chris Cochran
Chris Cochran
Chris Cochran spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son.
Cart Kids
Two golf carts careened down the steep fairway of the sixth hole. On the back of each stood a topless escort—one blonde, one brunette—clutching the frame with one hand, the other windmilling above, like some kind of country club rodeo act. Apparently anything goes when the course is reserved for corporate outings. I watched wide-eyed from the lakeside bar that served both golfers and docked-boat pensioners. I was sixteen.
The carts skidded to a stop just short of the green. The blonde sent the men into hysterics by slapping her driver’s shoulder and pulling his face into her chest. He reached for his wallet.
Behind the bar, Erika cleared her throat, and I averted my eyes. I dragged a rag across the patio tables, stealing glances to satisfy my curiosity while avoiding her judgment.
The golfers moved on, the escorts on the laps of men old enough to be their fathers. I turned my attention back to Erika. She stared at the green, blinked quickly, looked away, and sighed. I watched her stuff cash from the register into a padded envelope, then slam the drawer shut. Next, she closed the four shutters that secured the bar, grabbing the white rope attached to the bottom of each and yanking it down. The metal doors thudded against the concrete, each one harder than the last. She walked toward my cart and threw herself into the passenger seat.
As I drove Erika back to the clubhouse, silence replaced our usual banter. I turned slowly onto a service path that cut between two long par fives on the front nine. I took care not to tip the stack of beer cases on the back of the cart, bound for the clubhouse restaurant. A thick treeline pressed in on both sides; the isolation heightened the discomfort between us. The cart’s battery was low—it crawled at half its normal speed, and I wasn’t sure we’d make it back, especially with the tower of beer weighing us down.
I felt Erika looking at me, searching for something. I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry if—”
“Do you think those women are prettier than me?”
Her question caught me off guard. “What women?” I said, too quickly, hating myself for sounding defensive, like a child denying guilt.
“He’s just like all the rest,” she said. Her jaw tightened. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
I struggled to follow the conversation as the cart strained up a small hill. Erika shot me a concerned glance. “It’ll be fine,” I said.
A chipmunk scurried across the path ahead of us. The cart’s motor whirred.
“I thought Spencer was actually interested in me,” she said.
“Who’s Spencer?”
“The one drooling over the blonde.”
I squinted, still processing. “Weren’t those guys, like, in their forties?” It was an honest question that elicited a burst of laughter. I smiled, not entirely grasping the joke. She leaned her weight against me, and I inadvertently released my foot from the accelerator. The cart stopped. I tried to recover, stomping my foot down on the pedal, rocking my weight back and forth, but we had lost all momentum. I cursed under my breath.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We could walk back,” I said.
“I’ve been standing all day. My feet are killing me.”
“How about I just go? I’ll grab another cart and a tow strap and—”
“I don’t want to sit here by myself.” Erika bit her bottom lip. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. We both ignored the radio resting in the cup holder, not yet ready to give in and ask for help.
“Maybe we just live here now?” I suggested. She looked at me with a hint of a smile, so I continued. “You could forage for wild berries. I’ll hunt for squirrels.”
“A little sexist, no? How about you just carry me back?”
“Now who’s being sexist?” I countered. “You carry me.”
We eventually relented. “He’s going to be insufferable,” Erika said as she grabbed the radio to call for Nick. I imagined snatching it from her and smashing it against the pavement.
Nick was a cart kid like me and the others, but he couldn’t have been more different. He was from the city but spent summers with his rich grandparents. For him, this was a vacation. The other cart kids were locals, working summers to save for college or help our parents make ends meet. Despite his differences, Nick somehow made us feel like outsiders. We hated him for it—and so did Erika, who had no patience for his condescension.
It took Nick half an hour to “rescue” us. While we waited, Erika complained about Spencer. I offered advice I wasn’t qualified to give. I was relieved when she swore never to talk to him again. He sounded like Nick—someone who exploits his privilege, making those around him feel inferior. I wondered if Erika had made the same connection. Because the moment Nick arrived, giving me shit and snapping orders, she shut him down immediately.
“Why did it take you so long to get here?”
“I had to—”
“I don’t care,” she said dismissively.
I had developed a crush on Erika prior to this moment. Now, I was hopelessly in love.
Once the tow strap was in place, she made Nick steer our cart while we towed him back to the clubhouse. We sat and waited while he hauled cases of beer inside.
“I’ve never seen him listen to anyone,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Sometimes you just have to lay into these rich pricks,” she said.
“I’d hate to be Spencer.” Although, secretly, I wondered what it’d be like.
“Yeah, well…”
I regretted mentioning him again.
“Anyway, I won’t listen to some kid telling me what to do,” she said.
“Nick’s not exactly a—”
The back screen door of the clubhouse slammed shut. Nick, unaccustomed to manual labor and sweating profusely, plopped behind the wheel of the now-empty golf cart. “After you,” he said sarcastically.
“I think you boys have got it from here,” Erika said before heading inside.
Nick helped me tow the dead cart to the garage, but then disappeared, leaving me to deal with the deserted golf carts littering the parking lot. I hurried, giving each cart a cursory rinse before parking and charging, hoping to erase evidence of my negligence before anyone noticed. I could have taken my time. The higher-ups were not paying attention, and once finished, I still had to wait for two missing carts.
Spencer’s foursome rolled in long after sunset, the women no longer with them. I imagined a reporter interviewing me after their bodies were found floating on the surface of a water hazard. “I knew those guys were trouble from the start,” I’d say, before parlaying my emotional distress into a multi-million dollar lawsuit.
After dropping his clubs off at his BMW, Spencer pulled his cart up to the garage. I suppressed a puerile instinct to spray him with the hose. He reached for his wallet.
“We’re not supposed to accept tips,” I said.
“Come on, take it,” he insisted, holding a twenty. He looked over both his shoulders, making sure we were alone. “Who’s going to know?”
Spencer was already gone by the time I found his flask buried beneath all the trash he left behind in his cart. I unscrewed the cap and held it up to my nose. It smelled awful.
On a night where vice reigned supreme, I pressed the flask to my lips, squeezed my eyes shut, tilted my head back, and took a huge swig. I swallowed hard, pushing the foul taste past my tongue, forcing the fire down my throat. It was so much worse than I had ever imagined. I tossed the empty flask aside, stood up too quickly, reeled over, and vomited all over the front of the cart.
I wiped my mouth, grabbed the hose, and went to work washing away my humiliation.
***
Nick called in the next morning. I agreed to cover for him. I was exhausted, but did not have the luxury of turning down extra hours. It didn’t hurt that Erika was working, either.
As a cart kid, my responsibilities kept me close to the clubhouse. We worked harder than everyone else, and they rewarded us with lower pay and less freedom. It wasn’t until near the end of my shift, in the late afternoon lull, that I could sneak away.
I waited near the sixth green while a family of four took their time finishing out the hole. “Wait, wait. Just one more,” the mom said, repositioning her two boys near the pin for a photo. “Get in there, babe,” she barked at her husband. He walked submissively into the frame.
They moved on to the next hole, and I drove my cart on the path that circled the green. I could see Erika standing behind the bar, holding a pint under the tap. She had tied her hair back today. She wore a low-cut white tee. I watched her deliver a drink to a man sitting at the end of the bar. She laughed at something he said, then slapped him on the shoulder. He spun on his stool to watch her walk away, and my grip tightened on the wheel as I realized it was Spencer.
I reached for my wallet, retrieved the twenty-dollar bill I had accepted the night before, and stomped toward the bar. I cleared my throat to get Erika’s attention.
“Oh, hey. What’s up?” she said.
“I’d take a Coke,” I said.
“You got it.”
My heart pounded as she held a plastic cup under the fountain. When she delivered my drink, I placed the twenty on the bar.
“What’s this?” she said, amused. “You know you don’t have to pay.”
“Just take it,” I said, but she didn’t take me seriously. She never had.
Erika looked toward Spencer, then back at me, and whispered, “You’re being weird.”
I picked up the twenty, crumpled it, and shoved it in her tip jar. I heard her still protesting as I returned to my cart, but I didn’t care.
She made it clear she wasn’t one of us, so I made it clear I wasn’t one of them.