King of Pentacles
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“Dad – can I take a golf ball?” Damon yelled into the kitchen through the open door from the garage.
“Yes – don’t open a new box.”
“Can I have three?” “What?” Damon took a handful of balls from his father’s golf bag and stuffed them into his pocket. He swung his dad’s old woody onto his shoulder and ran out the open garage door, down two houses, and made a sharp left, leaning into the corner. He sped through a chain-link gate, ducking his head into his shoulders though only a big hot sky loomed over him. Damon came to stand with his feet spread apart and his arms slung over the golf club on his shoulders.
Three other boys stood in similar poses in the yard; they didn’t turn around when Damon joined them. One, holding a shovel rather than a golf club, crouched down to the ground, studied it, then patted it and stood up.
“This will be hole one here. Did anybody bring any golf balls?” Damon practically jumped in the air. “I did!” “Well, let me see one.” Damon handed one of the balls to the other boy. Standing about six inches shorter than Damon and smaller than the rest of the group, their leader reached out with a hand that seemed large for his size, larger than the right hand of the boy handing off the golf ball. The leader poked a divot into the dry dirt of the yard, placed the ball and adjusted its position. He pulled a purple plastic juice cup with a picture of a hippo on it out of his pocket and carefully stowed the ball inside, rolling it briefly with his ear close. Then he put the cup with the ball down onto the perfect spot.
“Okay. I’m going to dig. Roger, go home and get your skateboard ramp. We can use it for this hole. Will, get another shovel and see if you can find a cup. Damon, get ready to test this hole when I fix it.” Two of the boys scattered while Damon watched his friend break up the hard soil.
“Do you really think we can make some money with this?”
“Sure. A golf course is what this street needs. We don’t have to charge very much. The real money’s in the tournaments.”
Damon let out a low hiss and spat. Then he considered. “Don’t your mom and dad care about us doing this to the yard?”
The other boy poked his long finger into the earth to test the depth of the loose crumbles.
“My mom says we grow children here, not grass.”
