Matt loved the job. It was where he’d met Chad, the caddy manager. Chad was a former pro golfer who’d gotten through life on his smile （and trust fund）。 The caddies spent much of the day sitting in the caddy shack, waiting out the rain or the lulls on the green, listening to Chad dispense his wisdom, watching him flirt with Angela, the big-chested college girl who drove around in a golf cart selling beer from a cooler.
Chad would give Matt and the other teenagers advice. About bringing girls home （“Have a Glade PlugIn air freshener near the door; they’ll think the apartment is really clean”）。 About their customers （“Don’t bother sucking up; they give the standard tip unless they’re trying to impress a business client or a girl”）。 About higher education （“College is a snowflake factory for woke morons; the only reason to go is for the chicks”）。 About life （“My dad was rich, a CEO with a room full of awards, and no one gave one shit when he died”）。 Matt found himself jumping out of bed, eager to make his shift. Not for his love of the game—carrying golf bags in the sticky Chicago heat was hard work. But because he was part of the gang.
Then the morning came when someone had whispered in the country club manager’s ear that Matt’s brother was in prison. For murder. And Chad, his eyes downcast, asked Matt to turn in his hat and smock. Matt never saw Chad again, but imagined he was still there, doing what he loved, lusting after golf cart girls, giving advice to sad fourteen-year-olds.
Over time, Matt’s loneliness mutated into a medley of anger and resentment, and he started getting into fights. He had a pang of guilt remembering that it was a fight—on the schoolyard after his brother’s conviction—that was the inciting incident for their family’s move to Illinois, his parents deciding it was time to get out of Dodge. For the most part, Matt had managed to keep the beast caged since high school, that side of himself hidden from everyone—well, nearly everyone. After returning from winter break and a massive blowout with his father, a frat boy had made the mistake of saying something disgusting to Jane at a party. Matt pictured the kid’s bloody face, Jane crying for Matt to stop, yanking him away.
Matt sat up, clicked on the television. At four thirty, it was channel after channel of infomercials and lawyers asking, “Have you been injured in an accident?”
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he decided to go for a run. Exercise always helped him focus. It slowed down his thoughts, burned off nervous energy. Kept the beast at bay. This early it would also allow him to slip into his dorm before the paparazzi arrived for the morning shift.
He went into Ganesh’s room. His friend wouldn’t mind if he borrowed some workout clothes. Inside the messy dresser, he fished out a wrinkled Under Armour shirt and pair of shorts. Ganesh was a big guy—he’d gained thirty pounds since freshman year, a by-product of the munchies from all the weed—so Matt was swimming in the clothes. But he didn’t plan on seeing anyone, so they’d do.
He took the filthy stairwell to the ground floor and jogged under pools of lamplight along Seventh. The pavement felt good under his feet. The clouds had rolled away and the air smelled fresh.
He picked up his pace when he hit Cooper Square, running on the cracked sidewalks, crossing the street speckled with orange construction cones from the never-ending roadwork. By the time he saw the arch of Washington Square Park, he was saturated in sweat and his thoughts were clearer. He started formulating a plan.
He’d use the credit card, the one his parents had given him for emergencies—real emergencies, his mother had joked, not pizza emergencies—for the trip to Mexico. Keller said the authorities just needed his signature, and he’d get his family home. He’d call his aunt to discuss the arrangements. Aunt Cindy was a strong personality and would have views. He needed to call her anyway, to check on her and his grandfather. When he got back from Mexico, he’d figure out the house, the cars, the finances, returning to school, Danny.
He was starting to feel overwhelmed again.
As he ran, he heard his father’s voice. Before the constant tension, Dad could always talk Matt off the ledge. His father would say, “How do you eat an elephant?” Dad would cup Matt’s chin in his hand, look Matt in the eyes, and answer his own question: “One bite at a time.”
When Matt was younger, the message got lost in his wandering thoughts. He’d say to his dad, “What kind of person would eat an elephant? How would you cook it? And aren’t elephants an endangered species?”