Working at Prouts

The first job I ever had was working on the porch of the clubhouse at Prouts Neck Country Club, in Scarborough, Maine. I forget what the formal position title was, but for the most part, responsibilities included waiting for members to show up and getting their clubs from the bag room. When they finished, I gave their clubs a quick wipe down, attempted to make small talk, and put the bags back in storage for the next time.

Working at Prouts made me nervous. The country club is notoriously private and located on an isolated patch of coastal land. Despite being a part of the town, a common question asked by some members was: “You from Prouts or Scarborough?” I was 15 when I worked there and had a hard time understanding that question. But, in many ways, it played into the club’s legend. Prouts isn’t just a private golf course; it’s an exclusive club located in a part of town with its own rules and clientele. It might as well have its own zip code.

The drive into work gave me anxiety. Only ten minutes up the road from my house, the vibe changes about two-thirds of the way there. Views of the marsh on either side of the road are blocked out by tall pines, whose shadows stretch over the road. The speed limit drops from 35 to 25 and local police frequently patrol. No one’s gonna bother you as long as you look like you know what the deal is, but at the same time, it’s really easy to make a mistake.

All of this made it hard for me to do my job well. Most of the time, all I had to do was sit on the porch overlooking the 1st tee and the ocean and amuse myself until a member needed me to get something. But I had so much nervous energy--trying to look like I belonged, rehearsing what to say to members so I didn’t sound stupid, trying to play it cool around other coworkers--that I couldn’t help but trip over myself.

One day, towards the end of a slow morning shift, I decided to kill some time by walking to the 18th fairway (located behind the clubhouse) and hitting an approach shot from about 100 yards with a pitching wedge. This was standard time-wasting among clubhouse workers. Prouts is so private there’s often long stretches of time where no one shows up to play. If one understands how the club ticks, there’s ample opportunity to plan a little on-the-clock fun with relatively little risk. But I hadn’t worked there long enough to understand when and when not to do things I wasn’t getting paid for. Instead, I acted impulsively to get my mind off the nerves I felt.

So there I stood, around noon, on a gorgeous day in the summer, in the 18th fairway with a wedge in my hand, on the clock. I’d seen others do this so I didn’t feel guilty. I dropped the ball I had, squared myself to the target, and swung. The strike was crisp and confident. The ball exploded off the clubface towards the pin and I held the finish.

It was one of the purest wedge shots I’d ever hit and the result spoke for itself. My shot soared a good twenty yards over the green, through a set of pines, and onto the center of one of the club’s clay tennis courts. I must’ve hit that wedge about 130 yards. Turns out, I had a witness. The club pro, my boss, had been inspecting the courts on his way to the clubhouse. I heard his voice before I saw him.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOIN’?” he yelled. Still in my pose, I froze with terror. We stared at each other for a few seconds. He clicked his mouth like a disappointed gambler who’d seen too much and went about his business. He didn’t need to tell me to get back to the porch.

The rest of that summer was… awkward. The incident quickly spread and gave my coworkers a good laugh. But I knew I screwed up. After the season, I received a handwritten card from the pro I almost hit, politely letting me know my ass was fired. At least I found out how far I could hit a wedge.