Brad Flowers

It is 1995. Even Flow is playing on the garage radio. It is 4:30 AM, still dark. I grab a weedeater and spare spool of line. The groundskeeper hops in the Gator cursing. I sit down next to him, and he peels out in reverse. We tear across the back nine as he points and hollers. He jerks the wheel remembering something. Still mostly asleep, I slide across the bench seat and out onto the wet green. Once I came to a stop, I remember thinking, "man, I gotta get a different job."