The Box Has Twelve Sides: Thirteen Curious Tales to Delight and Disturb

GOLF IN THE AFTERMATH

SHOCKING AS IT SOUNDS, I never thought I'd enjoy the end of the world near as much as I have.

My conservative family is probably turning over in their respective graves or has since disowned me if the former is not possible. The idea that I have reached the pinnacle of my golfing dreams or have been able to make the most of the world's misfortune would certainly eat at their craw like back-to-back bogies eats at your confidence.

Now, just a minute, Pards. Don't get me wrong. Don't think for one minute I'm some kind of inhuman monster or uncaring son-of-a-bitch. Don't think one day goes by that I don't shed a tear for those who died two years ago during the Skirmishes. Don't think that I enjoy my life all alone, riding the roads, avoiding what's left of humanity, picking through the metaphorical rubble for playing partners. Don't you dare let it cross your mind that I'm in league with the devil or even the Antichrist.

I'm probably worse than all of them put together.

I'm a golfer.

My name is David Parr. I used to be an engineer in the automotive industry. I used to work a job I hated forty, fifty, even sixty hours a week. I used to be able to hit the links, maybe once a week in the off-season, three times a week consistently during the summer if I was lucky. I used to have a house and a couple of pets. I had friends, acquaintances and one pretty special golf partner who would tolerate me choking during four-ball season. Now I have none of the above.

But I still have my sticks.

I thank God I didn't have a family during the last days. Mom died about ten years ago, finally caught up from all those packs of cigarettes that she used to smoke. She never quite understood why I chose not to marry, settle down and raise a family. I don't blame her for that one. I don't blame her one bit.

Dad died a year before the bombs hit, before it really got crazy. He coached me in baseball until I couldn't play anymore because of my crappy shoulder. He was one of the most revered baseball coaches to grace the chalk lines of Western North Carolina. He never really understood my obsession with golf, but he did understand my passion for sports.

I was alone, which was no big deal. I was always a loner, never at ease with others, always avoiding a crowd. If I'd had a family, trust me, the tone of this story would be way different.

Amateur. Double-digit handicapper. Hacker, chunker, slicer, hooker, Alice, worm burner, T-Rex arms. Every name you've ever tagged yourself or your playing partner with - that's me. I've been called 'em all. Hated them on the outside, but secretly loved the attention on the inside. Bad thing is nobody's left to rib me. And it's no fun to call yourself a chili-dipper.

I don't know what started the Skirmishes. That's what the government called them at first. Even after they got out of hand, the name stuck purely because of how ironic it was. The Skirmishes eventually turned into World War III. World War III eventually turned into the end of civilization as we knew it. Looking back, I really don't want to know what started it all, what made some countries lose their shit and made other nations go mad. I feel that if I knew, then somehow I'd understand. I don't want to understand.

Worst of all, the days of golf came to an end.

Golf's been around, some argue, since the days when Asian fishermen swatted ice chunks around frozen fishing holes. The Scotts, of course, claim the true game started over in the European Highlands. Whenever it began, however it evolved into the game we used to know, golf has persevered through war, famine and pestilence.

Where there have been greens and tee boxes, fairways and rough, and enough junk balls to keep the shag bag filled, history has found people gathered to pursue the insanity of the competition. Golfers, being creatures of misery, constantly flock together and compare tales of woe, yet distance themselves from others on the course. Those who golf find a way.