Golf N' Stuff

as experienced by a ray of sunshine

Golf N’ Stuff Golf N’ Stuff Golf N’ Stuff.

The only thing I like about Golf N’ Stuff is the “n” in the middle of the name. It’s cute. But the fun stops there. Enter its gates and the horror begins.

I had to go to a kid’s birthday party at Golf N’ Stuff.

We got the invitation. “Fucking Golf N’ Stuff!” I observed, with disgust. “I mean, Golf N’ Stuff?!” I added, pointedly. “I guess I’ll have to cancel my dentist appt!” I concluded—as if it were a bad thing.

The day of the party came. We parked in the endless concrete wasteland next to the wretched gehenna known as Golf N’ Stuff. “There used to be trees here! Now look! It’s a desecration of the earth!” I said to my husband, as I often do upon observing the urban paradise that is Southern California. He nodded agreeably, and thought about something else.

We entered the W. Gehenna. The party was at a table under a neon strip light in an alcove adjoining the main ghetto room. We stood around. None of the parents at the party were speaking to each other. Too busy fussing over their kids. Me, desperate to talk to anyone except my kid. But I uttered my Hilarious Bon Mots, Fun Quips, and Astute Observations—only to have them hang unheard in the ether.

“The last time I was here was on my first date when I was fourteen!” I said.

Nothing.

It’s telling, though, that I hadn’t been back.

The walls in Golf N’ Stuff are painted black. It’s dark and stuffy and loud and crowded and sticky and smelly and full of beeping sounds. It’s like if you took Disneyland and Magic Mountain and your local carnie-infested rusty old breaking down shit show of a traveling carnival and a busy ER in Brooklyn on a Saturday night during flu season and shoved it inside a squat windowless concrete building surrounded by astroturf. It’s full of video games and other electronic Machines that Do Things. I don’t know, I can’t differentiate. It’s all a blur of flashing lights. I blink.

I love video games, but not in the company of a teeming quagmire (or crowded cesspool, can’t decide) of Other Families Enjoying Themselves. I look around for like-minded people. Other suffering parents. Connection. Golf N’ Stuff is absolutely crawling with the proletariat. But it’s a Proletariat that is Having a Great Time, a group comprised of Normal People who Love Fun and are Happy Doing Activities with their Children. I can only look on and wonder.

Also, it’s next to the freeway. When you’re outside, desultorily putting a ball around the astroturf, you can hear it—the constant whoosh of traffic.

Because its rightnext to the freeway.

It’s alongside the freeway.

When I’m on the freeway, I see it from the freeway: “GOLF N’ STUFF,” and am aghast. “You’ll never get me back there!” I say.

Halfway through the golf course, I close my eyes for a moment and try to pretend the whooshing noise is a river.

It’s not.

We are going from hole to hole as a group. The people behind me wait for me to putt the ball.

I make a shot. “All of my putt putt dreams have been realized,” I say to the group.

Nothing.

We continue the round.

---

Afterward, my son plays a video game and wins 500 paper tickets. We wait in a long line full of squirming children to exchange the tickets for a small green eraser that says “Golf N’ Stuff.”

---

Golf N’ Stuff Golf N’ Stuff Golf N’ Stuff.

Now it’s a few years later. Guess who wants to go to Golf N’ Stuff for his birthday. We’ve offered Disneyland, a waterpark, Magic Mountain. Nothing. The damage was done and it stuck.

I don’t know where I went wrong. Maybe I know. But I’m not one to complain. Never have been. A regular ray of sunshine. Always looking on the bright side. Who knows? Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll bring home another eraser!