A short story: Don’t be that guy

Skip is a twentysomething who works part-time selling used cars. He’s an avowed know-it-all.  You can immediately discern that by the self-centered slant of his conversation, which is often non-stop. “I know for a fact that football did not get deflated,” he blurts out, unprompted, followed by, “Roger Goodell’s a jerk!” Skip’s “spare” time is consumed by betting on fantasy football, fantasy golf and fantasy poker. Women are not particularly attracted to Skip, not that he is ugly, but because he is impossible to engage in a normal conversation since he is, of course, a know-it-all.

Skip started playing golf a couple of years ago. He claims he is a 19 handicapper, but he says on a good day, “I can shoot in the low 80s.” Despite being unable to hook up with a regular group to play with on his days off, he joins groups randomly and likes to play for money. This is real cash, not fantasy. Negotiation for strokes is always contentious, since he doesn’t have an official USGA handicap at any golf course. He deflects the strokes question with, “Just ask my friends what I shoot.” But the truth is he doesn’t have any actual real golf friends.

Attired in camo cargo shorts, t-shirt, tattoos, tennis shoes and hat turned backwards, Skip sports a Ping stand bag he acquired from a thrift shop filled with what appear to be up-to-date Callaway woods and irons, and oh, a Scotty Cameron blade putter. He brags that he bought his clubs on eBay and were all “great deals.”  

“These clubs are money, baby,” Skip beams. They look nice and look authentic, even the Cameron putter, but it turns out they’re all counterfeits.

As they had played only a few holes Skip summons the cart girl and orders a double Bloody Mary and a beer. He remarks about the cart girl’s outfit and “hot” looks. He offers no one else in the group a drink, despite the fact that they invited Skip to join. The tab amounts to $24; he offered a measly $1 tip. The cart girl avoided the group the rest of the afternoon.

Unlike the other players in the group, Skip keeps his rather oversize smart phone in his back pocket at all times. After every shot he pulls it out and stares at it while thumbing downward and sideways. The habit started to become annoying to others, so one of the players finally asked Skip if his phone had a GPS app or a personal golf tips app. “Nope,” he replied. “Just checking my Twitter account. Kim Kardashian tweets that she’s planning for a fourth baby. Wow.”

As the group proceeds further into the round it becomes obvious Skip is a somewhat volatile individual. Prior to the 12^th hole, his off-color antics seemed confined to swearing and kicking the tires of his golf cart after hitting a terrible shot. But on 12, after a decent drive, he hooked his ball in the water and proceeded to helicopter his club down the fairway. This meltdown would not be his last. On the next hole, he pulled his tee shot left where it ended up lodged against a rock wall. Skip proceeded to use his “foot-wedge” to clear the ball from the stymie, but before he was able to take a shot, one of the other players came over to say, “Wait a minute, you can’t do that. We’re playing for some money here, and we’re liberal with the rules of golf, but not that liberal.”

“What! That’s an immovable object,” Skip squawks.

“It’s definitely immovable,” the competitor says, “but it also is the boundary of the golf course. It’s not out of bounds, but if you can hit it you’ll have to drop it where you can, no closer to the hole, with penalty.”  

“I thought you were nice guys,” Skip fired back. “But you’re just a bunch of turkeys!”

With the round finally over, Skip was told that he owed a total of $22 for bets. He then muttered that he was putting his clubs in his car. He proceeded to immediately drive off, leaving the group wondering. 

A week later, when Skip showed up at the course to play, the head pro came to the counter and leaned over, looking Skip in the eye, and said, “Last week you raced outta here, welching your bets. Hey, you don’t pay, you don’t play. Now scram!”