Synaptic

The final project for this course asked students to compose a story using one of the “shapes” we read and analyzed in the first half of the semester. This student chose to write in the shape of a “Juggling” story, in which the narrative depicts a character preoccupied with an action while their mind wanders toward something else. In this writer’s case, we’re dropped into the final two holes of Kurt’s round of golf as he attempts to distract himself from the gruesome events from the prior night. Structurally, the writer smartly takes advantage of the way this shape generates tension. A lesser writer would be tempted to disclose the details of Kurt’s bloody encounter with the robber all at once; however, this student’s instincts for restraint work in his favor. Kurt’s inner conflict steadily grows as he finds it increasingly difficult to distract himself from his acts of violence.

-Dr. Lance Dyzak

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“I’m sorry son, there’s just no way around it. We need to ask you a few more questions. You need to come back to the station when your round’s over.”

Kurt read the lanky white letters of his father’s text message in a numb sort of trance, then shoved his phone back into his bag. He exhaled strongly, flared his nostrils, and thrust his feet into the moist earth.

His plastic spikes tore into the mushy fairway grass and secured his stance. Rain had sprung from the clouds like torpedo bombers strafing the grass last night. He’d already ratcheted his old spikes off his smudged white shoes this morning and replaced them with new spidery black cleats. Kurt refused to allow a miniscule problem like slippery shoes to ruin his round. His father would’ve thrown a fit at such lack of attention to detail.

“Come on Kurt,” his father would probably chastise. “It’s just common sense.”

It seemed like everything was “common sense” in his father’s eyes.

Kurt loomed over his dimpled white ball with a 5-iron in hand. The navy-blue wooden stake on his left reminded him with elegantly painted white numbers that he was 250 yards from the hole. The pin sat on a downhill slope in the back left corner of the green. Kurt could swing for glory and try to reach the green with his 3-wood, sure. But he’d never been good with a 3-wood in his hands. There was a high likelihood he would send his ball sailing into the grove of oak trees to the right of the green. Another cruel slice in a cruel round. No, he couldn’t risk that. The last 7 hours had already backhanded him across the face. A blanket of exhaustion pulled him downward with every shaky step. He was almost finished with his miserable performance. The last hole was just around the corner. He saw no need to send himself to rock bottom with a shitty slap out of bounds. And if he had to go face his father after the round, he knew reporting he had made a mental error would earn a disapproving shake of his father’s head. Common sense, Kurt.

It was much more sensible to lay up and try his luck with a wedge. Kurt was much better at that sort of thing. Calculation and assessment were two of his most admirable qualities. Or at least that’s what his father told him. His father would say Kurt’s planning and strategy had led him to his sales career. Kurt would say his father had given him more than a subtle nudge into that profession. But never to his father’s face, of course. Kurt was thirty-two years old now, and already a successful account executive for a blossoming software company. His higher status in the company meant he could pick and choose when he crammed himself into his dull white office. Most mornings, he chose to play golf. Often that was how he’d gain new clients, and almost always how his father chose to spend his time with Kurt.

He could recall when his father had given him his first “adult life lesson” out on the golf course. He was 16 at the time. The group in front of them had stopped to flirt with the cart girl and buy overpriced, flat beers.

“They always bring the lookers out here,” his father had told him, flicking an index finger toward the cart girl. Try to seduce committed men into higher tips. But you and I both know your mother would whack me over the head if I flirted back. As for you, you just keep your hormones in check, boy. Your brain’s up here,” he’d said, tapping his temples, “Not in your pants. That cart girl understands that much. She’s a business lady. Leveraging what she has going for her. If you can make calculated moves like her,” his father had said, angling his head toward the doughy group of middle-aged men handing $5 tips to the girl, “You’ll never end up like those dense bastards.”

Kurt had followed his advice to a tee, figuratively and literally. Thirty-two years old now, and utterly alone except for golf and work. He hadn’t even gone on a date since high school. Dating served as a distraction. Kurt couldn’t have any of those. He’d gone to the course by himself today to escape from all the distractions. Except now his father was asking him to relive last night all over again, trapping him back in a box of mirrors, all dedicated to reflecting the offense Kurt had truly committed.

He released a smoother exhale, then swung his club back and through, one fluid motion that rocketed the ball away. He watched the ball sail across the sky like a plump angel. It swerved right and imbedded itself in tall tendrils of grass right of the green.

Another poor shot. Kurt reckoned this day could hardly get worse.

He slid his 5-iron back into his black golf bag, then gripped the handle of his pushcart and loped down the fairway toward his ball. Most of the guys who came to this course liked to use golf carts. Then again, most of them were also chubby, short little blobs, the kind his father despised. Many were balding on top but had curls of chest hair sprouting from their unbuttoned collars. They looked like their hair was afraid of their scalp and had migrated to safety on their blubber. Kurt had vowed to never let himself look like them. A beer gut could hinder his golf swing and shred the disguise of health and happiness he wore for his clients. His father had taught him discipline in everything. No shortcuts, no distractions, just hard work. His body shape displayed that discipline.

Today, though, his fit physique added no benefits. In the mild spring sunshine, Kurt began to break a sweat under his sleek royal blue windbreaker and pressed black slacks. His faded white hat bore the stains of many moist summer days. He yanked the hat off his head and mopped off sweat with his sleeve. His effort produced a strange splotch that stained his sleeve a shade darker.

Kurt reminded himself he was lucky he’d even been freed to walk out here today. He’d had one hell of a night. Even if it truly was self-defense, most guys would still be at the police station right now. He knew that his family connection had saved him from a night in an interrogation room. His father, the police chief, kept detectives from troubling Kurt any further after they investigated the scene and moved Kurt to a motel for the night. That didn’t stop Kurt’s mind from trouble, though. It still flashed with siren lights and froze his thoughts. He felt like he was hovering outside of his body, reduced to a spectator. Almost as if his real self had slunk out of his own stocky frame last night.

Kurt shook his head and slid his hat back over his close-cropped chocolate hair. He wasn’t out here to think about last night. That could wait until after the round. Right now, he was here to play. Next shot, Kurt told himself. No distractions.

He parked his pushcart next to the cart path that wound down the right side. He jerked free a 60° wedge and a putter from his bag and plodded over to his ball. The wedge’s severe loft and strange shape had always fascinated him, but then again, so did many of the aspects of golf. Another odd instrument for a peculiar game. Sometimes it made him wonder why his father loved this game so much. Then again, he knew the mental fortitude it demanded was what hooked dear old Dad’s interest. Plenty of “adult life lessons” ripe for picking in golf.

He laid the putter in the grass to his left, then stood behind the ball and planned his next shot. Kurt envisioned the ball springing up from the club face of the wedge, taking a hop onto the green toward the flagstick, then spinning madly and halting a few feet from the pin. He took a deep breath, assumed his stance and flipped open his club face. He took a few practice swings, getting used to the short chipping motion. Ernie, Els, Kurt told himself. Ernie, Els. Back and forth. Back and forth. He’d learned that swing thought from his father. It helped him to keep an even tempo.

Kurt took one more deep breath. He set the club behind the ball, then flicked it back and through the ball like a clock handle. The grass seized his club face and halted his follow through. The ball popped up too high and began crashing down at a concerning speed.

“Sit!” Kurt commanded.

The ball disobeyed. It plunked down onto the green and kept rolling. It looked like it wanted to run away from Kurt. Like it was horrified of what he’d done. The ball sped off the green and into the fringe. A fresh indentation from the ball’s initial landing spot gave the green another pockmark. Kurt wondered if the detectives had found a similar dent in the robber’s head last night.

“Yeah, real fucking lucky Kurt,” he muttered to himself. He set down his wedge and snagged the putter from the turf, then strolled toward his ball. He halted his strides in the middle of the green and tugged a divot tool from his pocket, then thrust it into the ground and repaired the mark. He always fixed and filled his divots. He took care of the course like it was his baby. A very green, very unforgiving baby. He wished he could repair the robber’s head just as easily. Or maybe fill the divot stuck in his mind.

Kurt at last approached his golf ball. He’d already decided he would putt the ball from its new resting spot. It was just “common sense.” He crouched down to read the green but found no concerning curves. The best path seemed to be dead straight to the pin. Kurt hunched over the ball with his putter, then pulled it back and through.

The golf ball popped off the putter face and rolled toward the hole. It smacked into the pin, dropped down, and nestled into the cup with a purr, like an asthmatic cat.

At least his putter refused to fail him today. He sauntered over to the pin, reached down into the hole and pried his ball free from the tiny pit.

Kurt strode away and snagged his wedge. He returned to his bag and headed for the final tee box. He racked his brain for happy thoughts but found none. A permanent scowl remained chiseled into his face. He wondered if his expression would ever change. Maybe it would remain permanently fixed, just like the robber’s frozen stare when the detectives had snapped the crime scene photos.

As he arrived at the 18th tee box, he parked his pushcart and surveyed the layout from the mound. Kurt had played this course enough to know the design intimately, but he still liked to confirm no new obstacles had appeared. He needed something familiar in his life today. He was delighted to find the same elm trees lined up like dominoes down the right side. A jellybean-shaped fairway bunker guarded the left, along with a field of wavy wild grass and a red spray paint line that marked it out of bounds. Thick, rough sprouted next to the freshly mowed fairway, which winded and wobbled on its way to the green. A maroon flag flapped in the wind on a bright yellow fiberglass stick, roughly 400 yards away from the tee box. A small pond served as a moat to protect the green, leaking from the right side toward the middle. The pin sat in the back right corner of an undulating green, which sloped downhill toward the pond like a man stranded in the desert crawling toward an oasis.

A tough challenge to end the round. The course heaved all its might upon you at the end. This is what his father would call “a doozie.”

Despite the challenge ahead, relief cascaded down Kurt’s body like a waterfall. Finally, something that wasn’t foreign to him today. Dozens of previous rounds had prepared him for the best attack strategy. He had fought the course for 17 holes, and it had returned several jabs. It was time for Kurt to stop blocking punches and launch a sweeping knockout hook.

Kurt pulled his glossy driver from his bag and yanked a pristine white tee from his pocket. He sunk it into the ground between the black wooden tee markers and gently rested the golf ball upon it. He ran through his pre-shot routine, settling the club and circulating the humid morning air through his lungs. Routine invigorated Kurt. It calmed his nerves, quieted his inner monologue.

Kurt stared at his golf ball and examined the red dots on its dimpled surface. He had drawn the dots with Sharpie to give him somewhere to focus his eyes. But after 17 holes of being battered and bashed like a rotten watermelon, the drops of red marker had bled into a smudgy mess. The smears reminded him of flecks of the robber’s blood all over his bathroom tile floor.

Kurt swiveled his club heavenward, then let loose and unleashed his fury upon the golf ball. His whole body seemed to release all its anguish into the poor little sphere. The ball soared off the club face like a mortar shell. The impact vibrated through the club and up into his arms. He lofted his head up and watched the ball zoom through the atmosphere right toward the middle of the fairway. It seemed piped down the middle, but an aggressive gust of wind forced the ball to fade right. The ball smacked into a tree along the right side. It pinballed around in the branches before the tree spat it out next to its trunk.

Kurt’s frown deepened. Just what he needed. Another crappy shot. He growled, but huffed out a deep breath and reassessed the ball’s landing spot, telling himself he needed to find a plan of attack. Reassess. Control your emotions. Use common sense. He saw no trees in the way of his line to the green. He was further away from the hole than he would’ve liked, but he could manage a good shot. The tensed muscles in his face released. He grabbed his pushcart and commenced his march down the fairway.

He reached the ball and slid a shiny bronze-painted rangefinder from his bag, then aimed it at the flagstick. The scope blinked back digital numbers: 150. One hundred and fifty yards to the hole. One fifty. It had happened at 1:50 A.M. He’d jumped in his sheets, startled awake by the shatter of glass. Kurt had immediately registered the scuffling sounds of an intruder’s boots on his hardwood floors. He’d slid from his bed and onto the floor. He’d seized his father’s old 5-iron from its resting place under the king-size frame. His father had gifted it to him as a weapon for self-defense.

“You can’t get caught with your pants down,” his father had told him when he’d handed him the crooked club. He’d given Kurt the club as a present when he’d moved into his first house by himself. “This neighborhood’s sketchy. Never can be too safe.”

Kurt had never thought he’d have to use it, but suddenly he’d found himself hunkered down behind the side of the bed furthest away from his bedroom door, awaiting the intruder. The boots had scraped closer.

Suddenly he heard a wicked thwack echo through the damp air.

“Fore!”

Kurt hit the deck and curled up behind his bag. A second later, a blinding neon-yellow golf ball smacked into a tree a few feet to his right and rolled to a stop behind him.

Kurt remained cowered behind his bag as he heard a man’s expletives punch the air. His ball awaited the embrace of a steel face a few yards in front of him, but he couldn’t move. His thoughts paralyzed him with the sound of a different club hitting its mark.

That thwack. Such a violent noise. Unnatural. Not how someone should strike a golf ball. Not how anyone should strike anything. And yet he’d heard that noise last night. He’d created that noise.

Kurt broke out in a nervous sweat and found his chest shaking, diaphragm spasming, lungs gasping for oxygen. How the hell could he have produced such an awful, gut-twisting noise?

A blurry figure flashed into his mind. The figure had crept into the bedroom, donned in all black clothes and a black ski mask. He hadn’t even known robbers still wore those. Kurt saw himself leap from his hiding spot behind the bed. His hands had swung his weapon wildly. He felt the rusty 5-iron smack the robber’s skull. He saw the body crumple onto his tiled bathroom floor. He saw blood soak the top of the ski mask with a moist stain.

Kurt’s memory was broken by the sound of a golf cart zooming toward his spot. He shook himself violently and steadied his breathing, then arose from his hunkered position and faced his golf ball. The cart skidded to a stop behind him. Kurt tried to ignore whoever drove the cart. He let his right arm dangle next to his hip, rangefinder still gripped with white knuckles. Then he turned to his bag, careful to avoid eye contact. Kurt was here to play his game, not chitchat.

Kurt had just slipped the rangefinder back into his bag when he heard the other golfer shout in his direction.

“Hey! Ain’t this a great day?”

Kurt reluctantly craned his head. Behind him stood a pudgy man in a slumped posture. The guy gripped a dented 3-wood in one hand and a Busch Light in the other. He had a stupid clown grin plastered across his face and sported a double chin under a patchy goatee. Scraggly strands of brown hair sprouted from his scalp.

“Yeah, fantastic,” Kurt muttered. He turned back to his bag and mulled over his clubs.

“I reckon it’s the best weather we’ve had this year!” the man admitted cheerfully. His dirty white visor and dollar-store sunglasses bobbed up and down with every word. “All this damn rain finally up and quit town, and now we’ve got some beautiful sunshine! This looks like one hell of a golf course, too. You a regular out here?”

Kurt sighed quietly and swiveled back to face the man. He registered the man’s loud yellow polo shirt and gray plaid cargo shorts. Sweat stains encompassed the man’s armpits, sternum, and crotch. This man was everything his father disapproved of. Kurt imagined his father would call the man some names he reserved for certain “lowlife” members of society, if only he were here to see the living caricature standing before him.

“Yeah,” Kurt answered. He had no patience for this, but he figured humoring the man would kill some time and shoo him away. Not like he was in any hurry to get back to the station or his father’s icy blue stare. “I play here a lot. Almost finished with my 5th round of the week.”

“Damn! You ain’t a pro, are ya?” the man asked. His beer gut jiggled over a thin black belt. If the man’s waist could talk, Kurt imagined it would be screaming for mercy.

“No, I’m not a pro. Just love the game.”

“Well, ain’t that something. Me and my boys, we just started today!” the man exclaimed. He took a sip from the can. “Saw it on TV one day after the ball game, and I says to myself, ‘It can’t be that hard if that skinny little fucker’s slapping that thing around! I oughta smack that little ball a mile past that runt!’” He flashed another smile and gestured towards his ball, which lay to the left of his golf cart. “Seems like it’s a little harder than I thought.”

“Yeah, golf’s a tough game,” Kurt told him. “Mentally and physically draining.”

“Well, I ain’t gotta worry about that!” the man shouted back. “Got me a fine physique right here.” He gestured toward his gut and let loose an airy chuckle. “And my mind’s better yet. They oughta study it for science!”

“I’m sure,” Kurt responded. “If you don’t mind, I’ve gotta finish out this hole quick. Wife’s nagging me to get home in time.”

“Oh!” the man suddenly looked apologetic. “Don’t let me stand in your way. I know how bitchy them ladies can get when their man ain’t home on time. You go right ahead, show me how it’s done!”

“Thanks,” Kurt said.

Kurt turned back to his bag and pulled out a 9 iron. He ran through his shot routine. On his second deep breath, he heard glass shatter on the hole to his right, where the annoying man had come from.

“Shit!” he heard from the other fairway.

“Billy, what the hell are ya doing?” the man behind him shouted back at the hole he’d emerged from. “You’re s’posed to hit it on the green, not in the fuckin’ house!”

“Sorry!” Kurt heard another man yell back to the one lingering behind him.

Kurt sighed, then readdressed his ball. The pin was in a tough spot, but he knew how to get to it. Kurt would hit a slight fade with the 9-iron and curve it onto the green, nice and tight next to the pin. It was a risky move, but he knew he could do it. He’d done it plenty of times before. It was the best way to salvage a birdie and shine a bright spot on this dark day. It would give him a positive memory to beat back his demons when he stepped into that police station.

Kurt started through his routine again. Deep breath. He saw the robber’s body, sprawled out on the tile. Kurt dug in his feet. He had kicked the robber in the ribs. Practice swing. Kurt saw himself smash the club down on the robber’s head again. Another practice swing. Kurt had hit the robber again. And again. He’d hit him until the blood had seeped through the mask and onto the tile, until he was sure the robber couldn’t get up.

Kurt took another deep breath. He heard his own gutturale yelps as he had beat the robber to death. Kurt heard his heavy, panicked breathing, his exclamation of “Oh my God!” when he’d finally halted his assault. He heard is voice barely above a whisper on the phone with 911. Kurt saw the police lights that had spilled through his windows and danced across the walls. Kurt heard his father when he’d gotten to the scene, telling him, “It was self-defense, son. Nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, you might’ve done this town a favor. One less criminal running these streets never hurt
anyone, especially when it’s a coked-up bastard like this lowlife. If anything, you’ve made my job easier. No shame, son. You stood up for yourself.”

Nothing to be ashamed of? What the hell wasn’t there to be ashamed of?

Kurt interlocked his hands around the velvet grip and choked it until the blood drained from his knuckles. Then he wound the club back and flung it violently through the ball, releasing every ounce of the expectations and pressure his father had poured on his shoulders like wet cement.

The recoil told him he’d struck it well. The ball glided through the air like it was on a zipline. Kurt had aimed way left of the pin, but he watched as the ball began a perfect arc toward the pin, curving back to the right. With a ball flight that Tiger Woods would’ve been proud of, the ball plummeted towards the green.

“Holy shit!” the man behind him screamed. “What a shot!”

The ball plopped down on the green’s front right ridge like a beached whale and settled into its own divot. Kurt thought for a split second he’d done it. Excitement jumped into his brain, but then he realized something was wrong. The shot felt too perfect. His father would’ve chastised him.

“Never celebrate too early. You haven’t accomplished a damn thing yet,” Kurt imagined his father saying.

Sure enough, his apprehension was answered. The ball began to trickle down the front of the green. It picked up speed as it tumbled down the slope. Kurt’s gut felt like someone was nabbing it with pliers. The ball raced off the edge and dropped into the pond.

That was it. Kurt’s bright spot, gone. Nothing to hide behind now. Every ripple in the pond smacked him with overwhelming misery.

“Aw, damn!” the pudgy man yelled. “I thought you’d really done it there.” The man let loose a raspy sigh. “You still got one hell of a grip though.”

“Wha…what do you mean?” Kurt asked, body still facing the pond. Still watching those ripples run.

“Look at your hands,” the man told him.

Kurt looked down. The club remained clenched in his hands, but the glove on his left hand now displayed a crimson red blood stain. Kurt had gripped the club so hard that he’d reopened a cut earned when he’d cleaned up his broken glass. The splotch was the same shape as the robber’s puddle of blood.

Kurt’s eyes watered. He didn’t dare turn to face the pudgy man now.

“Oh, yeah,” Kurt muttered, “I—I guess I do. Force of habit.”

He’d always gripped the club too tight. It was the one habit his father couldn’t break from him. An imperfection in his golf game. Unacceptable in his father’s eyes.

“Well, there’s always next shot, right?” the pudgy man asked.

“Y—yeah, I g—guess there is,” Kurt stuttered.

“You okay pal?” the pudgy man questioned.

“F—fine. Just a little hot, I think.”

“You better get yourself outta this sun,” the man advised. “Don’t need a professional out here getting heat stroke.” The man let loose another airy laugh, like he was coughing up water. Well, I don’t mean to be too much of a burden on ya. I’ll just hit my ball and get on outta your hair.” He heard the pudgy man start whipping his 3-wood against the dirt in what Kurt judged was a practice swing motion. He still didn’t dare turn to watch as the man produced another thwack with his 3-wood.

“Shit!” the man yelled. “I must’ve picked up something from you when I watched ya. I hit that thing to the moon!”

“That’s great,” Kurt mumbled.

“Thanks man! And hey,” he heard the golf cart creak as the man plopped down on the seat, “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Just a game, right?”

“Right,” Kurt croaked. “Just a game.”

The cart sped off again, leaving Kurt alone with his thoughts and the smell of expelled gasoline.

Kurt marched up the fairway toward the hole. He parked his pushcart next to the green, then stood in a fixed posture like an old Greek sculpture. He contemplated his next move. His thought process was scrambled. All he could remember was the robber’s body. He could’ve sworn he’d even seen the same icy blue eyes of his father in the robber’s face.

After a minute or so of silence, Kurt reached into the pocket of his bag and slid out his phone. He reread the text from his father one more time.

There’s no way around it.

If his father had taught Kurt anything, it was to always find a solution. Face the world. Take on a problem head-on.

Kurt didn’t give much of a damn about what his father had taught him anymore.

He slipped the phone back into his bag and strode briskly past the green, speeding uphill back toward the 1st tee.