Tennis Pros & Tee Cups: Another Story of Marietta Country Club circa 1996

When I worked at the pool, I always ended up working with this miserable guy who hated life, and everyone involved in it.  You’ve probably met the type. I would bet that he played in a band where no one understood the true meaning of his lyrics, and he would always be complaining about the government or his neighbor's dog. We’ll call him Oscar because he was super grouchy. He and one of the tennis instructors, who we can call “Tennis Pro,” did not get along for whatever reason (probably because they were equally miserable). They would always try to get the last word in an argument with each other. I didn't particularly care for either one of them, so I just sat there and listened, all the while planning how I was going to spend my high school weekend.

One afternoon after a huge match, Tennis Pro came in and asked if he could order a sandwich. I told him that I would make it for him if he wanted to go outside. I just wanted him to get out of my space as soon as possible because his breath smelled like a pile of hot garbage. He mumbled something inappropriate and walked outside to smoke. I think everyone that worked there smoked. Sometimes I even smoked just to go sit in the gazebo for 10 minutes every hour.

Oscar walked back in from break.

“What are you doing?” he gloomily asked.

“Making Tennis Pro a sandwich.”

He paused, “I’ll be right back.”

I replied, “Don’t worry about coming back,” but he was already out the door.

Four minutes passed and he walked back in with a drink.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“Do you need something?”

“I’ll deliver that sandwich for you when you’re done.”

“Great, thanks,” I said as I sat it down and walked back out to the pool.

About twenty minutes passed and I came back in to find TP and Oscar sitting there talking and laughing. I found this odd.  Foul play was on the horizon.  

TP took his last bite of sandwich, thanked Oscar and left. Oscar took the plate, lifted his cup toward me like he was giving a toast, and told me this was his "secret ingredient" that he poured on the sandwich. I asked him what it was, and I could feel my stomach start to hurt. He smiled at me, threw the cup in the garbage, and replied, “I had to go take a leak and didn’t have time to go to the restroom.”