Golf Carts Don't Float
One gorgeous summer day my friend Matt and I were tooling around the local golf course in Omaha when Matt suggested we take a shortcut through the woods between holes seven and nine. I was the one at the helm and was reluctant at first because it had poured the night before and sometimes I think Matt once forgot to duck when someone yelled “fore.”
Eventually, though, I agreed to take us off-roading through the treacherous terrain. We went soaring down a slight decline and were about to hit the low-point of the path when Matt yelled, “Stop!” I slammed on the brakes and came to a sloppy halt and immediately began searching desperately for whatever wildlife Matt had certainly saved me from hitting.
“What, man? Why’d you make me stop?” I asked naively.
“Oh, dude, this is so cool. Check it out,” Matt chuckled as he pointed below the cart.
“We’re sitting in about a foot of water. Tell me we didn’t stop for this.”
“It’s okay, man, I do it all the time. Watch.”
Matt then reached his foot across mine and slammed on the gas pedal, expecting to fly out of the sinkhole leaving nothing but a trail of mud behind us. Oddly, the cart sunk deeper and deeper into the earth and Matt’s smile grew thinner and thinner.
“Dude, you’re pushing,” I said.
“Fine. I’ll rock it and you ease it out of here,” Matt replied.
For the next hour-and-a-half Matt and I tried desperately to get the cart out of the gigantic sinkhole. We tried wedging a stick against the gas pedal while we both pushed, putting rocks underneath the tires and praying for a sudden heat wave that would evaporate every ounce of water and allow us to drive out unscathed. Nothing worked.
Defeated, dejected and dripping with mud, we finally threw in the mud-caked towel and headed back to the cart garage. As we were showering ourselves off using a garden hose, our boss appeared from upstairs with a glare that read of about a thousand different thoughts, all unpleasant, including: 1) What the heck did you two manage to do? 2) I didn’t realize there was this much mud present in the state of Nebraska, and 3) Would the course get sued if I tied the two of you to the 100-yard marker and took target practice?
Oh yeah, did I mention Matt and I worked there?
Well it’s barely worth mentioning because, not surprisingly, our tenure at the golf course was short-lived from that point. We lasted another 24-hours, until the big boss could arrive and do his best Donald Trump impression. Thinning hair and all, Tom lashed his hand in our direction and declared, “You’re fired.”
“But most people pay for mud baths,” we argued. “A spa would’ve charged you an arm and a leg for this. The golf cart is bound to come out reinvigorated and looking half its age.”
“Out. Now.”
Now in my defense, I was merely 16-years old. And another friend of mine actually managed to set the pro-shop at his golf course on fire while trying to weld a club. (Despite their glaring shortcomings, my friends do have many redeeming qualities. As soon as I remember them I’ll let you know.)
That summer day marked the first and