Leaving the Colleen O’Donnell Memorial Golf Tournament, clustered in the parking lot, I lean into the truck of one of the organizers, and tell her kids, “Goodbye, children,” and the oldest, who I’d been tormenting over eating candy (“You know, if you go into the club house they’ll give you the sugar packets they use for coffee./Really?/No. I’m teasing you.”) responded, “Goodbye, creepy dude.”
I have arrived.
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