It’s 8:20 p.m. and I’m itching to count the cash and close out the register for the day. Last call for a bucket of balls is at 8:30 p.m. I’m a pushover when it comes to enforcing the rules after 8 p.m.
When people call to ask about our hours, I tell them the lights go out at 9 p.m. and the last bucket is served 30 minutes before close. This is also stated on the website. But not everybody checks the site or calls before coming to the range, and sometimes, it could be their first visit. I try to be flexible.
The ball shed where customers buy their buckets is about a 3-minute walk from the parking lot. It’s not uncommon for a customer to pull in at 8:28 p.m. without budgeting enough time to get to the shed before the register is shut down. To avoid a problem, I try not to shut down the register at precisely 8:30 p.m. After 8 p.m. I also have the power to sell only small buckets (60 balls) to hopefully save enough time for the crew to do a little bit of maintenance work at close while the lights are still on. I can’t remember ever enforcing the smalls-only policy; I try to assume it’s every customer’s first visit and put myself in their shoes.
Sunday night, that bit me in the ass.
It’s 8:20 p.m. and I see a customer coming up from the parking lot. We come face-to-face at the ball shed at 8:23 p.m., where he orders a large bucket (110 balls). He already had the $20 bill in his hand and seemed to be moving with some pace, so I assumed, if he’s ordering a large at this time, he knows himself well enough to finish in 37 minutes. He wastes 3 of those minutes picking a bay at the very end of the range.
He’s the last one there when the lights go out. To make sure customers clear out, the sprinklers closest to the hitting bays are set to turn on. After they do, I make my way onto the range to clear off some targets in the dark. There’s just enough light to make out the balls on the greens, but not enough for me (without my glasses) to see anybody at any of the hitting bays. The lights are off, the sprinklers are on, and I assume those are pretty clear indicators that the range is closed.
WHOOSH! I hear a ball fly off a club face and skip along the range toward a nearby target. Clearly, that last customer is still here somewhere, finishing his bucket.
WHOOSH! Another ball goes skidding between the green I’m clearing off and another one about 20 yards to my right. I pause, give a look back at the bays, hoping that the customer’s eyes have adjusted well enough to the light to see me. Then, I go back to what I was doing. “Please don’t make me say something to you,” I think to myself.
WHOOSH! Another one.
“HEY, MAN!” I yell from the green about 80 yards in front of this customer. “I’M RIGHT HERE!”
Calmly, the customer replies in the dark, “Yeah, I see ya.”
…
…
That irks me. “IF YOU MISHIT ONE OF THOSE YOU’RE GOING TO HIT ME RIGHT IN THE FACE,” I yell. “YOU’RE NOT TIGER WOODS.”
He mumbles something and walks away. Shook, I finish clearing the rest of the greens with a hockey stick. Last thing I have to do before locking up is pick up the balls he left scattered all over his mat. There’s maybe a dozen left. I would’ve given him a complimentary bucket for the inconvenience if he had just explained that he didn’t get a chance to finish before the lights went out.
People, man.