Niko and Orlando (and even myself, to a certain extent) are a mess. It was too hot to sit outside and expect these small children to eat ice cream cones without them melting and getting all over their faces, hands, and shirts. But now the damage is done, and all I can do is ask for a buttload of napkins to wipe off their faces and hands. The shirts will be at the mercy of Grandpa's washing machine.
This, however, is no concern to Niko and Orlando. Now that the ice cream is done, it's on to the next part of my promise: mini-golf.
We wander around back, past the 18 holes of Putt-A-Round originally built in 1988. Twenty-nine years ago! At a glance they don't look so good, but I don't really focus on that and go to the back part of the lot where I recognize the same shed we used to pay at out on Highway 18, that housed the putters and balls. Nobody's there except two guys starting to get a riding lawn mower started. They are typical Sheldon working-class: jeans, work boots, tee shirts and baseball caps. The mower is very old and rusty and they are trying to figure out why it might not be starting.
"Excuse me, guys," I say. "Do you know what we need to do to play a round of mini-golf?"
The younger one shrugs his shoulders. "We don't work here. We're just here to mow the lawn. Ask inside."
"Okay, thanks," I respond. The two men return to their task.
Niko and Orlando and I return to the front of the Dairy Dandy. "How do we go about paying for a round of Putt-A-Round?" I ask the teenager running the cash register.
She shrugs. "No one really plays anymore. If you want to play, just go grab some clubs and balls and play."
"But the shed is closed," I say. "Can you open it?"
She shrugs again. "No idea where the key might be. Like I said, no one really plays anymore. The ones that do, they just go back there and play. They don't stop up here. Sorry."
"Huh. Okay," I say, and she turns around and gets back to work.
"Well, what do you guys think?" I say to Niko and Orlando.
Their faces show disappointment; they really want to play. "Can't we at least check the shed?" Niko says. "Maybe there's an open door or something."
"Okay," I agree, not having much hope, but it doesn't cost anything to humor them.
We walk back and as the men labor over their lawn mower, for some reason, completely out of nowhere, I think These guys almost for sure voted for Trump. These gentlemen are part of the the so-called white working-class that shocked the political class last November. And if they, indeed, did, vote for Trump, they probably didn't do so out of any particular animus, but because everyone around them did (Trump signs are still ubiquitous in Sheldon 8 months after the election). Or, better put, their animus isn't against any one person (besides Hillary Clinton), but against a political and economic system that they perceive as rigged against them. Which, to be fair, it is. The only difference between them and me is that I put more blame for this on Republicans than Democrats. They do the opposite. All the rest--the email servers, the pussy-grabbing, the deplorables, the "I like guys who weren't captured"--it doesn't even really matter. It's just noise. Democrats will continue to fuck people over. Donald--maybe, at least--will look out for us.
I am jolted out of my reverie. "Look, Dad, this door is a little open," Orlando is saying. I shake off my thoughts--what the fuck, I think, I know nothing about these guys, they're just trying to do a job--and go around the shed to a side door that, in fact, is open a quarter inch or so.
It is, technically, locked, but, looking at my sons again, I say Fuck it, she said to just go back here. I push hard against the door. It moves but doesn't give. On my second push, it opens. Niko and Orlando are ecstatic.
We enter the shed. It is a mess. Stuff is just piled up wherever, and it takes a little while to find putters and balls. We can't find one small enough for Orlando, and I tell him he'll just have to choke way down on his putter. He doesn't care. He just wants to play.
We emerge from the shed and I take one more glance at the guys poring over the mower. Then I lead the boys to Hole Number 1.
It is a mess. It is, literally, not safe. Just looking at it, you can tell that if a man of my size walks on it, the floorboards could easily break. I look over at another hole. There are several wasps flying around it, indicating the presence of a nest.
"Guys," I say, "I don't think we can play here. We'll fall through. And look at those wasps. I'm sorry, but it's not safe."
"Can we at least check another hole?" insists Niko. "Maybe not all of them are bad."
"Okay," I agree, and we walk to Hole Number 2. It does, indeed, look to be in better shape than the first one. I test it by first putting one foot on it, then my full weight. It seems solid. I tell the boys we can play this one and my heart melts with the joy on their face.
"You go first, Dad. Then me, then Orlando," says Niko. Birth order seems very important and again, I smile.
The hole is a windmill. You can either go around the windmill or try to go underneath it without hitting the blades. Since the blades don't go around on their own, we push them to make it more challenging. It takes a couple minutes but eventually all three of us are around the windmill and looking to put our balls in the cup.
As I measure up my shot, a giant roar suddenly fills the air. The guys got the mower started. The younger one jumps on the seat and heads toward the back of the lot to start cutting the longest of the grass.
