Inspired by an affinity for miniatures (he has a miniature Dachshund and his wife is quite small), my father, Harold Schmidt, builds the Hole-in-One mini-golf course in the spring of 1979. Just behind the course, he has a mock-medieval castle erected with a small office and a lounge, the gatehouse and towers painted on the front in bright pink. He hopes it will attract some of the drivers passing by on Route 41.
The Hole-in-One is a moderate success, frequented by families with young children during the day and teenagers at night. Celebrating a profitable inaugural year, my father goes to the dog track where he drinks too much and gambles away his savings on a greyhound named Fat Jack. Afterward, rather than face his wife, he pays a visit to the girl who hands out putters at the Hole-in-One and persuades her into beginning a new life with him. A week later, they move into the Hole-in-One castle, and I am born within the year. They name me Thomas Thumb, after the Tom Thumb Golf Course, the first mini-golf course ever built.
Mini-golf quickly becomes a sort of religion for my parents. They are always busy attending to the upkeep of the Hole-in-One and the various needs of its customers. While my mother works the register, I sit in the stroller beside her. Sometimes, I reach out for her pinky and when I cannot grasp it, I start to cry. She takes a mini-golf pencil from the box on the counter and shoves it in my hand.
As I grow older, my parents discourage me from making any friends, fearing I might reveal our residence in the castle.
"Golf is a quiet game," my father says, "and so our lives should be as well."
Heeding my father's advice, the course itself proves to be my most dependable companion. I play 36 holes each day, one round in the morning and one after school. I play through rain and snow, squeegeeing and shoveling when I have to.
At night, I lie in bed imagining each hole: the tiny bump just before the elevator up the Sears Tower, the hidden downhill slope behind Humpty-Dumpty's wall, the crooked tooth in Cubby Bear's mouth.
On my 18th birthday, my parents embark on a road-trip, or as they call it, a reconnaissance mission. They inform me that they will be conducting their research at mini-golf courses in every state of the continental U.S. and that I will be running the Hole-in-One while they're gone.
A few months after they leave, I receive a letter that says they have decided to build a new Hole-in-One in Biloxi, Mississippi, a Hole-in-One far improved from the original, with a stream running throughout and two 18-hole courses, one for novices and one for serious competitors. The postscript says they'll be back to check in on the original Hole-in-One every few years.
After reading the letter several times, I take my lucky putter from its case and play a round. I shoot a 29, a new Hole-in-One record, and then I scan the course for witnesses. A guy and girl of about my age are the only other golfers on the course. The boy lies on his stomach, using his putter like a pool cue. The girl giggles.
That's not funny, I want to scream.
Instead, I return to my seat at the register, resolving never to pick up a putter again.
I decide to place an ad in the paper for an assistant. A girl named Lorna answers it and I tell her she can start right away. She distributes putters at the first hole while I work the register, providing golfers with the color ball of their choice, scorecards and pencils. On slow days, I walk around the course pointing out the usefulness of geometry on certain holes and suggesting shorter backswings.
When the last golfers have finished their rounds and Lorna has gone home, I return to my room in the castle and choose a magazine from the pile of Penthouses besidemy bed. Hurriedly flipping through the pages, I find a girl. Afterwards, I lie in bed with the sheet pulled under my chin.
It has begun to drizzle one morning, Lorna's red hair already damp and her mascara beginning to run. She resembles the clown on the sixth hole, only fatter.
I am sorting the balls behind the register, organizing them by color. I've just gotten through the orange ones when she asks me to play a round with her.
"It's raining," I say, moving onto sea-green.
"It's just a little water."
I shake my head.
"Come on, Thumb. What's wrong?" She starts to laugh. "You're scared you've lost your stroke, aren't you? You're worried it's been too long." She takes hold of my wrist and snatches the golf ball out of my hand. "Hey Lancelot, are you listening to me?"
"I quit at the top of my game," I say. "I'd like to keep it that way."
Lorna is on her cell phone the rest of the morning. Her mother's had the nightmare again, where Lorna wins the lottery and moves to Hawaii without her. Lorna tries to calm her down.
It starts to rain harder and I watch it pounding against the Gingerbread Man on the 13th hole. I look at Lorna for a moment and then I look away, afraid she'll catch me. I take one more glance and then I close my eyes, listening to her voice and the rain.
At noon, the rain stops and I walk around the course, estimating how long it will take to dry. I get my squeegee from the shed and I push it up and down the faded green felt of each hole. When my arm grows tired, I pause and look up. Lorna is watching me, her arms folded over the metal railing that runs along the course.
"I bet it gets awful lonely," she says, "living in that big old castle all by yourself."
Ignoring her, I return to my squeegeeing. "Your arm must get pretty sore from all that jerking off," she continues. "Maybe if you gave it a rest, you'd have some strength left over for mini-golf."
The squeegee nearly slips from my grasp.
She laughs. "Well, Thumb, I'm going to Burger King. You want anything?"
I stare down at the rubber tee-box by my feet, rolling the squeegee over the three little holes until I'm sure she's gone.
When Lorna shows up the next day, I'm waiting for her with a putter in each hand.
We play 108 holes, stopping only to run to the register for the occasional customer. By the fourth round, I've shaken off all the rust. The familiar rattle of the ball in the cup makes me feel warm all over.
"You looked pretty good out there," Lorna says. She's swigging from a can of root beer. It's already well past closing time.
"Thanks," I say, smiling as I remember rubbing up against her at the Buckingham Fountain hole.
She swallows down some more root beer, tilting her head way back, the fat of her neck cascading to her shoulders like whipped cream. "Well," she says, "I should be getting home. My mom's probably throwing a fit." She stands and begins walking to her car.
"Wait," I call out.
She turns around to face me.
"Would you like a tour of the castle?"
"I don't know."
"No one's been in there but me since my parents left."
"I am curious," she admits. "I've never been in a castle before."
I undo the padlock on the door and she follows me up the wooden staircase. We stand in the only hallway of the castle, my parents' old room on the left and mine on the right, a dead-end in front of us.
"This is it?" she asks.
"The rest is all a big block of wood."
As I turn to slide open the door to my room, I hear a loud thud and then another. Lorna is kicking the wall with one of her high-tops. "Seems pretty solid," she says.
"Just stay here while I go in and tidy up the place," I tell her.
She nods and I step inside. I gather up the Penthouses and throw them under the bed along with a couple boxes of Kleenex. There are a few pairs of underwear strewn about the floor and I stuff them into the black garbage bag that I bring to the Laundromat every few weeks. Lorna comes in as I'm placing an issue of Mini-Golf Digest on the bed.
"You were taking too long," she says, peering around the room. She is chewing on the drawstring of her jacket. "So tell me about this place, Thumb."
I glance under my bed to see if the Penthouses are still visible. "What do you want to know?"
Lorna picks up one of the trophies on my desk, running a finger along the golden figure's putter. "1994 Hole-in-One Champion," she reads. "Very impressive."
"Thanks," I say, not sure if she's being sarcastic.
She sets the trophy back down and looks at me. "You didn't have to hide the porno, Thumb. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."
"What?"
"I'll admit it," she says. "I snuck a peek under the door while you were cleaning up."
She kneels down and starts crawling towards the bed, her nose to the ground. She is making sniffing noises.
"What are you doing?"
"Am I getting warmer?" she asks, nearing the bed. "Oh, I am. I can feel it."
"Stop," I yell. I am pulling at her legs, digging my nails into the mush of her thighs, but it's no use. She is wedged between the bed-frame and the floor.
"Jackpot," she shouts and starts to giggle. Then she goes silent for a moment.
"I think I'm stuck, Thumb."
I watch her as she tries to squirm free.
"Lift the bed, Thumb. Please."
The side of her face is pressed into the floor while the bed-frame scrapes the folds of skin on her neck.
"Come on, Thumb. This hurts."
Her legs flail about for a while, the crack of her rear peeking out of her sweatpants, and then she gets tired. Her legs are spread well apart. Slowly, I crawl between them and lay myself down.
"Get off of me. Please. I need to go home."
With one hand squeezed between the floor and her stomach and the other atop her behind, I start to pull at the elastic waistband of her sweatpants, wrestling them all the way down to her ankles. I push the strip of cotton panties to the side, a wrinkle in her thigh swallowing the fabric. I kiss the checkered pattern the waistband has made against her skin. Then I unzip.
Afterward, I sit down on the bed. I leaf through Mini-Golf Digest while she cries.
