“The spots are back, and she has a fever again,” Vic’s wife said. “Jolene will have to take my place today.”

Jolene was his wife’s boob fill-in when Vivian had other things to do. Jolene’s boobs worked better anyway, if he was being honest, but it meant giving up one quarter of the profits. She also wasn’t “into it” as much as Vivian. She was grumpy, and she flirted with the celebrities based on looks, instead of how much they were worth.

Vic packed up his supplies. Five headshots. Four baseballs. Three Sharpies. Two posters. One Josh Allen jersey, one Josh Allen rookie card, a glossy photo of Josh and his new wife. He gathered them all into the clear tote bag, threw in his keys, pulled on his white sports socks and sneakers, buttoned up his Hawaiian shirt, grabbed his bucket hat, sunscreened, and sent a text message to Jolene.

“Can you do boob for the golf tourney today?”

“Can you do boob for the golf tourney today”

“Why? Doesn’t your wife have boobs? Where’s Vivy?”

“Taking Amanda back to the hospital. Spots and fever this morning.”

“Can’t you go alone?”

“No, I need to score. There will be too much competition. And there’s big names coming. Josh Allen will be there.”

“Ok, I’ll go.”

Nobody paid more for memorabilia than Buffalo Bills fans. A rabid fan base. Fans with elaborate basements to show off, decorated with framed jerseys on the wall, installed with beer fridges and bar stools, pool tables, sectional sofas and tv screens. They were long-suffering fans, and Josh Allen was finally giving them hope their Super Bowl drought might end. Two AFC Championship appearances, a Most Valuable Player award, Pro Bowl selections. . . plus, he was a good-looking guy with a hot Hollywood wife, and he and his new bride had embraced the cold, snowy, blue-collar town.

It was the kind of story that brings in good money. His signature on a photo or team program would easily bring in $50 and his signature on the jersey at least $250—maybe more if this is the year he gets over the hump and takes his team to the Super Bowl. His autograph was notoriously hard to get, and competition with Bills fans would be stiff. The Bills fanbase travels, and they’ll wait out even the best professional autograph hunters. They were a nuisance for someone trying to make a living at this gig: pure passion, no pretense. The worst kind of humans.

Jolene threw her clear purse onto the floor of Vic’s car, rolling her eyes. “If we’re sneaking in on the 10th fairway, I don’t understand why we need clear bags. It’s not like we’re going through security.” Uniform on, she was ready for work. A scoop neck, see-through, white tank top, push-up bra, cut off shorts, platform heels.

“I’ve told you before,” Vic said when he saw her, “you need to wear a wedding ring when we go out. You’re my wife today. It doesn’t work the same if it looks like you’re not with me. It makes me look like a weirdo, like I’m a grown up trying to get autographs just to sell them.”

“That’s exactly what you are, Vic,” Jolene responded.

“That’s exactly what you are, Vic”

Vic parked the car on the street and they cut through the bushes to the 10^th green, walking onto the cart path, a print out of the day’s pairings hanging from his back pocket like a treasure map.

First on the treasure map: Patrick Duffy from the old TV soap opera Dallas, and Jerry Rice, 49ers great. Two losers. Nobody would pay for Patrick Duffy, and Jerry Rice screamed “move away” at fans last year.

Second stop on the treasure map: Chris Harrison of the reality show The Bachelor and David Wells, New York Yankee. Harrison was friendly, but the only ones who care about his autograph are young girls with no money, and Wells was another story. Somehow, remarkably, last year Wells had remembered him from the year prior and called Vic out in front of Wells’ entire golf foursome, including Larry the Cable Guy, Vice President Quayle and an executive from Korbel champagne.

There were plenty of autographs to get, but they couldn’t afford to be distracted from Josh Allen. In past years it was Aaron Rogers and Steph Curry, but Josh Allen was the biggest “Get” at this year’s tournament. The challenge would be physically getting in between Josh and the same rabid fanbase of Bills fans that Vic planned to eventually milk for a memorabilia sale.

“Here comes the weather girl from the Today show: hang back, Jolene, your boobs aren’t going to work on this one. Watch a master at work.”

Vic fumbled through his see-through tote for the headshot of the weather girl. With no jersey to sign and no balls to autograph, the best he could do was a black and white photograph.

“Big fan, watch you every day,” Vic said when she walked off the green. “Can I get you to sign?”

She smiled and took his Sharpie, beginning to sign, then suddenly turned sour when she saw the photo.

“That woman is not me,” she said. “I’m the Commissioner of the WNBA.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you look so similar,” Vic replied, barely able to hide his annoyance that she’d ruined his headshot of the weather girl, signing it with her first name before noticing the mismatched photo. This commissioner woman was nothing. Unless she was involved in scandal or there was some sort of tragedy, her signature would bring even less than the weather girl, which was already barely enough money to bother with the work of pretending to be a fan.

“That woman is not me”

He turned around in time to see Jolene returning with two Bills fans, both wearing Josh Allen jerseys and likewise carrying Josh Allen jerseys. They were pointing toward a bridge across the fairway where a crowd of spectators had gathered. “We heard Josh was over there, but it was just Jerry Rice. Rice is fine, but we’re here for Josh Allen,” one of them said to Jolene, his head nervously bobbing up and down. “Josh is the man,” the other fan confirmed.

“Why did you bring them over here?” Vic scolded Jolene after stepping away from the two Bills fans. “They’re competition, I don’t want them here.”

“They’re going to help us find him, you idiot, Vic,” she said. “Those two are not going to let him get past without signing.”

A small group of 4-5 fans, all wearing various forms of red, blue and white Bills colors also approached the hole. “Hey, you guys know which hole Josh is at?” one of them asked.

“We heard he’s teeing off with the one o’clock group,” someone responded.

Vic started wondering where Josh Allen could be, getting short with Jolene and visibly nervous as a group of children in Bills t-shirts approached the hole with their parents. He squinted down the fairway and saw a tall, lean, black man with a red and gold ballcap walking down the fairway. Jerry Rice. Jerry wasn’t going to bring in much money, but he was a hall-of-famer, a big name, and over the years had become more and more reluctant to sign autographs and was abrupt, sometimes bordering on hostile to anyone who asked—qualities that made it hard to get his autograph, but also made his autograph scarcer, and in return, worth more money.

“Hey, it’s Jerry Rice, dad! Didn’t you say you saw him play once?” The little boy’s question landed in Vic’s ears and his posture tensed, registering competition of the worst kind: a child with his father.

“JOLENE!” Vic shouted urgently. “Get over here!”

“I need you for Jerry Rice,” he whispered when she arrived, then demanded: “block that kid.” Jolene stepped in front of the child, straightened her posture, pushed out her chest, and when the wide receiver approached the green, she dropped a piece of paper, bent to pick it up, exposing all of her breasts but the nipples.

“Block that kid”

“Jerry! Jerry! Will you sign?” Vic shouted from behind the rope after the putt. He was holding a San Francisco 49ers ticket stub ensconced in a plastic holder hanging from a red lanyard. Somehow the kid and the dad had wormed their way in front of Jolene. The child was in front of Jolene’s swinging breasts, and the father, son and Jolene, accidentally looked the perfect picture of a family, sexy mom Jolene among them. Jerry smiled at Jolene while he leaned down and scribbled his name on the boy’s program guide—a useless brochure given out at the entrance. A flyer with photos of the golf course, advertisements for restaurants, a calendar of events. An utterly worthless, free piece of promotion designed to showcase the event, and to commemorate as meaningless a day as there ever was, not a Super Bowl nor a World Series. An ordinary day with an ordinary dad watching washed-up celebrities play for charity. What could be worse, Vic thought, shaking his head.

Vic refocused, shuddering when he remembered the year he had left the tournament with only a Larry the Cable Guy autographed nerf ball and a John Smoltz signed felt banner. The staff at the memorabilia shop had laughed at the felt banner when he stood at the counter of the store. The owner had called over his assistant, “Get a load of this thing,” he said, laughing out loud. Vic had left, embarrassed, and ended up at a pawn shop across town, leaving with $8 in his pocket. Larry the Cable Guy had signed so many nerf balls that day, and consequently, they were all worth nothing. You might be the voice of Pixar’s Mater, but if everyone has your autograph, it doesn’t matter. When Vic returned home, little Amanda had seen the ball on the floor of his bedroom and assumed it was a toy for her and began tossing it in the air, smudging the autograph, leading to a heated argument with Vivian about not respecting his work and all he was doing to support the family. A good day at an event like the celebrity golf tournament could bring in more than a week working at Jiffy Lube, even with side hustles like overcharging customers, stealing co-workers’ tips, using the cheap oil and sometimes doing nothing more than simply resetting the car’s reminder while never changing the oil. Then there was the lack of respect. At sporting events, he was somebody. He wasn’t a grease monkey doing oil changes, one after the other. Vic still remembered how people looked at him a few years ago when they noticed the time that Aaron Rodgers waved to him in recognition from having signed a jersey on the previous hole after Vic had run in front of his golf cart and pretended to trip. Fans were excited to have a Rodgers insider among them and had asked Vic, “Are you two cool?” Vic confidently answered, “Yes, we’re cool.”

A Larry the Cable Guy autographed nerf ball

But today was about Josh Allen: where is Josh Allen, Vic asked himself over and over. He and Jolene headed to the 14^th hole on a tip from a volunteer worker. At hole 14, there was a group of gray-haired women gathered around Jack Wagner, General Hospital star. “I’m not messing with that guy,” he said to Jolene, loud enough for the women to hear and respond with stern glares.

A second or two later, he flipped the switch: “Jack, Jack, big fan!” Vic screamed when Jack Wagner’s golf cart headed toward the makeshift married couple Vic and Jolene. “Frisco! Can you sign?”

Vic fumbled through his bag of headshots and jerseys and quickly came up with a white piece of paper, then looked at it and thought: “Frisco Jones on a piece of plain paper. Could anything be more depressing?”

Jack Wagner continued to make his way over, stopping the cart and began to take a step toward Vic. “Never mind,” Vic said, turning his back and pulling Jolene by the shoulder before she could drop the piece of paper on the ground in front of Wagner. Jolene turned her head backwards toward the actor, “Hey cutie, have you seen Josh Allen?” He shook his head no and headed back onto the fairway, accidentally ignoring the gray-hairs who’d been waiting for him.

In a flash of hope, Vic noticed three middle-aged men holding beers and wearing Bills jerseys walking up the cart path from the 13^th Hole.

“Hi, guys,” Jolene smiled. “Nice to see some fellow Bills Mafia Members out here,” she said.

“Alright! High-Five!” one of the men said balancing his beer in one hand and a wobbly high-five in the other before lurching toward Jolene.

“Where’s Josh?” Vic asked without wasting time.

“Where’s Josh?”

“We heard he’s not coming,” one of the men said.

“What. The. Fuck.” Vic said slowly, deliberately. “What. In. The. Actual. Fuck.” he added after 15 or so seconds had passed.

Jolene looked at one of the Bills Mafia Members and gave a polite smile and a wink.

“Andre Reed is here, bro!” the man said, trying to cheer Vic up with a reference to the retired, yet renowned Buffalo Bills player. “He signed my Josh Allen jersey,” the Mafia Member added.

“Why the fuck would you ruin a Josh Allen jersey with Andre Reed’s autograph, you dope?” Vic said. The man gave a slow whistle, shook his head and muttered, “No respect for Andre Reed. We want Josh Allen, too, but don’t go shitting on Andre Reed, bro.”

“Come on, Jolene,” Vic said, pulling her by her arm, harder this time and heading toward the concessions.

“I assume we’re not heading toward concessions for actual food?” Jolene asked.

Vic got in line behind another group of Buffalo fans. “You seen Josh?” he asked.

“Someone saw him back at the hotel, I heard” one of them answered. “Guy said he was so cool,” his buddy replied.

Others in line heard the conversation and pretty soon everyone and no one had seen Josh Allen. One man had claimed to see him on the 14^th hole, but when pressed, hadn’t actually seen him. A woman was convinced she had caught a glimpse of him getting into a shuttle bus an hour earlier and said she was sure it was him. A volunteer marshal said Josh wasn’t showing up until tomorrow, and then there was a blurry picture making the rounds on the internet that people  claimed to be Josh in swim trunks on a speed boat tossing footballs to fans in a nearby boat.

Vic held his head in his hands as he finally made his way to the concession worker. “I’m not paying $17 for a beer,” Vic announced.

“Profits go to our school’s youth golf program,” the concession worker smiled.

“I don’t give a shit,” Vic said before walking away.

Jolene left the line she had been standing in and rejoined him.

“I heard he’s at the children’s hospital visiting sick kids,” she said. “Josh is that kind of guy. It’s probably true.”

“Shut up, Jolene, he doesn’t care about kids. It’s just PR,” Vic said loudly enough so that a couple of women in Bills hats muttered “asshole,” while one purposely brushed up against him, pushing him off the sidewalk.

“Shut up, Jolene. He doesn’t care about kids”

“You know, she’s right, Vic,” Jolene said. “You really are an asshole. Have you even checked to see how Amanda is doing? Maybe you should call Vivian and see how your daughter is?”

Vic set down his see-through tote bag and pulled out his cell.

“Vivy? . . . yeah, shitty day. . .Jack Wagner was a dick. . .Jerry Rice, too. . . some woman from the WNBA pretended to be the Today Show girl. . .wait. . .what. . . I don’t understand, how do spots turn into cancer? . . . infection? . . . reaction? . . . how is she? . . . you met with a second doctor too? . . . tell her daddy loves her. . .I need to get back to work here, I’ll see you after. . .”

Then Vic was quiet, holding the phone with a look of disbelief, visibly shook, his mouth gaping open in a clear sign of response to the bad news on the other end of the phone.

“WHAT?!. . .” he cried.

“HE WAS THERE? . . . What. Do. You. Mean. You. Missed. Him. . . He came through, but you were talking to the DOCTOR? . . . You’re telling me Josh spent an hour signing for cancer kids, and we finally have a cancer kid, but somehow you failed to turn that into a score? Unbelievable.”

Vic put the phone back in his clear tote and pulled the treasure map from his back pocket to take a look.

“Everything is fine at home,” he told Jolene. “Come on, the bass player for Chicago is about to tee off on 12 and I have an old concert stub from the Illinois State Fair in my bag.”