Fairways
By Max Burge
I keep thinking about this guy I know who belongs to multiple golf courses. Two courses in Chicago (for switching things up occasionally). One course in Naples (for the winter, of course). One course in Palm Springs (you know, for important client meetings). Oh, and one course in rural northern Wisconsin, an exclusive one, one everyone’s been trying to join, but only he had “the in” to join (for bragging rights). It doesn’t matter how many times a year he can use them. He has them because he can.
“Multiple golf course guy” is too long of a nickname, so I’ll call this guy “The Collector.” He’s “The Collector” because he collects things. Following me? He collects titles like “VP of Consumer Excellence & Optimization,” or “Senior Managing Director of Digital Engagement and Enablement.” He collects expensive cars he doesn’t drive. He collects memberships to golf courses. He collects because he can.
Before I get any further, I want to make something clear. This isn’t a hit piece about The Collector. Even though The Collector spends tens of thousands of dollars to stand on some grass fields with sand traps in five different locations (Chicago, Chicago, Naples, Palm Springs, and Wisconsin). Even though the Collector uses absurdly expensive golf clubs (he collects these too) but manages to have an extremely inconsistent and erratic drive (The Collector would call himself a “short game specialist”). Even though The Collector hasn’t been to a single one of his son or daughter’s athletic events since the fall of 2017. The Collector has had to make some sacrifices. The Collector works 80 hour weeks to afford the things he collects. That’s just life for The Collector.
I can’t say I’d make the same choices, but I’ll cut the guy some slack. He’s earned it. I won’t pile on The Collector. It wouldn’t be fair.
Know why? I’m a Collector, too. News Flash: we’re all Collectors. As humans, we collect. We collect shoes, houses, accolades, titles, and yeah, some of us, some of us collect memberships to golf courses. We collect big, small, shiny, dirty, new, antique, practical, and downright preposterous things. As collectors, no matter how much we collect, there is always something bigger, brighter, and shinier we want to add to The Collection. If only we spend more time and effort, we tell ourselves, we can collect more money. In exchange for the money, we can add that final piece to The Collection. The piece that makes The Collection complete. The piece that makes our lives complete. Won’t that be a relief?
Turns out that piece doesn’t exist. Just ask The Collector. The Collector has been searching for that piece for his entire life.
But right now, The Collector, he can’t collect. He’s at home with his wife and kids. Three weeks straight he’s been at home. Twenty-one days. The most consecutive days he’s been at home since his kids were small. Like, really small.
Home was different back then (less bedrooms). He worked less, too. He never used to travel back then. Didn’t he used to pick up the kids some days? Thursdays? Some of the memories, they’re starting to come back to The Collector.
The first seven days were tough. Four people in one house, fighting over bandwidth and counting down the days until they could get back to their routine.
The Collector’s routine was simple before all this. Leave for work before everyone was awake. Return from work (or squash) when everyone was going to bed. Weekends on the golf course. They understood, though. His family. The golf course was necessary for his mental health, you know? For THIS lifestyle, sacrificing some quality time with them was worth it to let off some steam. The Collector had to let off some steam.
Before this, The Collector had this lame dream of being a writer when he grew up. It was squashed after graduation. His parents thought he was crazy. Same with his new girlfriend. The Collector had to be realistic. Get a job, pay the bills, get promoted, buy a house, get promoted (again), get married, have kids, get a bigger house. You know, what everyone does. It’s the way it’s always been. That was the way, right? It was the way The Collector went.
The Collector didn’t really take up golf until his early 30’s, and it was at the insistence of his boss. “There are more deals done on the golf course than in the boardroom,” Bill had told him. Bill had a big house, too. Bill belonged to Bushwick Farms. Bill was on his third wife. Bill was a VP. Maybe The Collector could be a VP, too?
Bill ended up working for The Collector.
Now, Bill’s not working for The Collector. See, The Collector’s business is “non-essential.” Shut down. Overnight. BOOM. Just like that. All for the China virus, huh? That’s what they’re calling it? Kung-flu. That one made The Collector laugh. The Collector thinks they’re all overreacting. Whatever. The Collector has saved enough money to last a while. Can’t be more than a couple weeks though, right? In the meantime, The Collector just doesn’t know what to do with himself. So much time. Too much time. 14 hours per day. Where to even start?
A few more memories are coming back to him now. That’s right. On Thursdays he used to pick up the kids. Didn’t he cook Thursday nights, too? To give his wife a break? He did, or at least he did in the beginning. Back then, he worked hard, but only 8 or 9 hours a day. His priority was his family. That was before the travel picked up. Before work became more demanding. Before the first big promotion. Before Bill sponsored him to join Bushwick Farms. Before they moved into the new house (the second house, the one before this house).
It wasn’t sudden. He missed one Thursday night of cooking for the conference (the big one in Phoenix). Then there was the member-member at Bushwick on the first Thursday of the next month. He couldn’t miss that for a dinner with his family. What would Bill and the guys think? Then there was something else, and something else, and something else. It was never communicated. Just sort of unspoken. Eventually, his wife just understood. She would get the kids (and cook) on Thursdays. That was that.
It was around the same time when The Collector started to feel “The Hole.” You know, The Hole? That feeling that you’re missing something. You just can’t figure out what it is. The Collector, he had this feeling big time. The more he worked, the bigger The Hole got. The more he bought, the bigger The Hole felt. Nothing helped. But he kept trying. The Collector kept trying to fill The Hole. Shoes, cars, expensive wines, the house, the bigger house. The first golf course membership. The fifth golf course membership. It all filled in The Hole, but just for a second. Then The Hole was back. It never went away. The Hole was The Collector’s constant companion.
Now that he’s got this free time, these 14 hours per day, The Collector’s asking himself some questions. Questions he hasn’t asked himself in fifteen years.
What happened? When did he get off track? When did filling The Hole become his priority? When did The Collection become more important than the people he loves? When did the people he loves become the justification for The Collection? It was all for them, he’d told himself. For years. “It’s worth it. This is all for them.” The house, the clubs, the money. The Collection. It was never for them. Deep down, he’d know that. The Collection was for The Collector. The Collector’s life was about filling The Hole. His hole. Everyone and everything else was secondary.
Now for the first time in almost two decades, The Collector has time. Time to slow down. Time to think. Time to prioritize.
Now he’s cooking dinner. That’s how it started. He’s not sure what sparked it. He was bored, maybe? But, hey, surprised his wife and kids. Tacos. Any idiot can make them. They weren’t expecting it. Didn’t they remember? Before all this? He was a great cook. He’d prove it. The next night, and the next night. Now, it’s just sort of routine.
The Hole is a little bit smaller.
Now he’s spending every night talking with his wife and kids. They’re communicating. Like, really communicating. Talking about what’s happening in the world. How much they miss sports, school, and everyday life. They’re all nervous, sure, who’s not? But they’re together. For the first time, in a long time, he’s wondering how he allowed himself to miss a single night like this.
The Hole is a little bit smaller.
Now he’s calling his old friends. Friends from high school, friends from college, friends from before it all got crazy. Before work took over. You know, the friends he really had things in common with. The friends he played soccer with. The friends he did stupid shit in college with. The friends who made him laugh so hard he cried. The friends who were his best friends. It’s been years, decades for some, but they’re picking up where they left off. For the first time in a long time, he’s wondering how he never made the effort to reach out to his friends before.
The Hole is a little bit smaller.
Now he’s writing. Not emails or bullshit memos. Real writing. Like he used to. Every morning for an hour. Not stopping to think. Just letting the words flow from pen to paper.
Now he’s writing about the past. His parents, his family, his friends, his memories. How did life change so fast?
Now he’s writing about the future. His uncertainty, his doubts, and his fears. What is on the other side of all of this?
Now he’s writing about the present. So many people around him are losing everything: their jobs, their homes, their lives. He’s aware of it. He sees it. He feels it. But at the same time, he can’t help but write it: He’s so thankful for the virus. Can he even say that? That’s wrong. He can’t say that. Maybe, the better way of saying it is that he’s thankful for how the virus has changed him.
Words can’t describe how it feels to sleep in with his wife on a Saturday morning. How it feels to sit on the couch with his kids, laughing over nothing. How it feels to hear the voice of an old friend. How it feels to open his notebook, unscrew his pen, and let all his emotion flow onto the paper. How it feels to have his family, his friends, and his passion for life back.
When this is all over, The Collector will be different. He’s already different. He’s finished collecting
He has enough to fill The Hole inside of him. The Collector had enough this entire time. It just wasn’t The Collection.
The Hole is gone.
