Mother's Day At The Orphanage: Stories Without A Home

The Sound of a Wanker

Anyone who knows me knows I think miniature golf is the only pure sport. My astro-turf is a pro shop where the crazy-course is only available after driving range hours are over. I go hit around after the irons leave. One Saturday there is a tournament of middle schoolers, like the Get Along Gang transformed into a battalion, but the line is like the line for Space Mountain. I skip to the front to see what the problem is and holy shit, Art Garfunkel won’t get off the range.

So I start hitting too and I can tell he’s sort of annoyed. There are quite a few of us hanging around waiting to play mini-golf, so I ask him if he wants to play with us. He politely refuses. So I politely ask when he will be moving off the range so a tournament can start.

He says, “Sorry, I’ve reserved this course for myself.” Apparently Art’s friends are also showing up soon for a round of putt-putt, and he’s going to wait for them and continue practicing his swing. Then he says, and I quote, “I can’t believe I have to pay to use this dump.” The entrance fee for non-members is like five bucks, and it seems a little weird for someone of his status to be getting visibly upset.

I’m locked in a battle of wits with a guy who was half the voice of my childhood growing up. And suddenly all those memories are getting rewritten. Did I even know who I was listening to back then?

He may be shooting down the middle, but upstairs, he seems a ways off from the pin.

At this point there are about twenty people trying to figure out how to kick Art Garfunkel off the range, but everyone’s weirded out at how he’s acting. The whole thing is absurd. Finally a trim guy in a polo shirt from the front desk comes up and explains that he can’t just occupy the course.

Now he starts really making a scene and it’s just embarrassing. One of the other players claims Mr. Garfunkel snuffed out a Southern mint on the green with the toe of his vintage Wingtips. I didn’t see this, but I think I smelled it. The whole thing doesn’t last that long but the front-desk guy is fed up and comes up with a compromise: “Go ahead and use the course. Sir you’ll have to yell ‘fore’ before each hit.” Finally he leaves.

The last flagstick is pulled and I realize that my lucky putter is missing. I’ve been breaking in a new one I bought for twenty bucks the week before at a going-out-of-business sale at the mall, and I remember setting my other one aside earlier to hit around with Mr. Garfunkel.

The range keeps a Lost and Found so I ask the woman behind the counter if anyone’s turned in my club. “It’s pretty easy to pick out,” I say, “I put Care Bear stickers on it so no one would take it by mistake.”

She says, “Simon and Garfunkel took your lucky putter.” She says he had a large red afro and had called her “sugar-pie.”

I sincerely hope Mr. Garfunkel is out there somewhere playing with my Care Bear putter, talking trash to his grandkids.

***

Later the Folk Music Press gets ahold of this story and makes some hay out of it. Suddenly this small event gets everyone examining much larger issues, like fame, privacy, authenticity in music, fair use, private property, and how memory is corruptible. I read that Art spent most of his next tour denying that he steals golf clubs. So I guess there is some justice.

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