The pounding on the door startled Oscar awake. He sat in his bed and rubbed his forehead. The clock on the nightstand flickered 8 AM.  He would need at least four more hours of sleep for his hangover to release its grip.
          The pounding on the door returned with three firm beats. BANG. BANG. BANG.
          “Mr. Wilberstein?” A female voice called.
          “Leave me alone.” Oscar mumbled to himself unwilling to project his voice for fear of aggravating the throbbing in his head.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          “Mr. Wilberstein?”
          Oscar tossed the sheets from his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed. After anchoring his feet on the floor, he rallied himself and rose to his feet.
          “Mr. Wilberstein?” The voice persisted.
          “Go away,” Oscar grumbled as he gripped his cane as best he could and shuffled into the living room.
          The walls of his living room apartment were adorned with dust covered memorabilia and trophies from a once promising golf career. A newspaper clipping of a young Oscar raising a trophy above his head in victory was faintly perceivable behind the frame of dirt.  A set of cobweb covered golf clubs sat neglected in the corner.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          “Mr. Wilberstein? It’s important that I speak to you.”
          Oscar rolled his eyes, then headed to the kitchen. With a flick of the wrist, water flowed from the faucet. Oscar stared at his hands. Anger rumbled in his gut, followed by a burst of self-loathing. He sighed. Though he knew it to be true, each day he looked to see if just maybe… but no. His left and right thumbs were still missing from his hands.
          Oscar palmed a cup and filled it with water. He swished a mouthful and spat it out, then swallowed the rest in a gulp.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          Each knock ignited a throb of pain in Oscar’s forehead.
          “Mr. Wilberstein. Can you please answer the door? I know you’re there.”
          Oscar grimaced as he moved into the living room. A press of the red button on the TV remote filled his apartment with the hushed voices of The Golf Channel. It was a modest attempt to drown out the noise of the bustling cityscape just outside his window.
          BANG. BANG. BANG.
          Oscar rubbed his temples and shuffled to the door. He peered through the security hole and saw a short, middle-aged woman dressed in hospital scrubs.
Oscar unbolted the door and cracked it open.  
          “What the hell do you want?”
          “You’re Oscar, right? I’m Ms. Haversham’s nurse. Your neighbor up-”
          “I know who she is. Could you tell her to shut up? That blasted woman wakes me up every morning yelling about some blasted cat…”
          “I’m afraid I can’t tell her anything. She died last night. Here, she said she wanted you to have her fish.” The nurse shoved a fishbowl into Oscar’s arms, then abruptly turned and walked away.
          Oscar groaned to himself, “Years of listening to that woman wail, ‘Don’t let the cat out!’ and all I get is this stupid fish! Life isn’t fair.” Oscar ditched the fishbowl on the lampstand in the living room and made his way back to the kitchen.
          He found a bottle of Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet, but struggled to open it. The lack of opposable thumbs made the simple task of opening a bottle a chore. 
          “It’s hard, isn’t it.” Exclaimed a male voice with a slight English accent.
Startled, Oscar dropped the bottle. Tablets of Alka-Seltzer rolled across the kitchen floor.
          “Now look at what you’ve done.”
          Oscar searched the room. “Who’s there?”
          “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a talking fish before?”
          Oscar peered at the fishbowl. A goldfish stared back at him.
          “Actually, no. I have never seen a talking fish before.” He rubbed his head. “What did I drink last night?”
          “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that.” Said the fish.
          “Who are you? What do you want?”
          “I want to help you.”
          “I don’t need your help.”
          “Ms. Haversham told me everything. Such a pity, you are.”
          Oscar shuffled to the fishbowl. He put his nose to the glass. “What did she tell you?”
          “I know that in the 1975 Amateur Golf Championship your drive off the 18th tee went into the water. You lost your temper and blew a 10-stroke lead on the final hole. You got drunk that night and in a shockingly freakish can opener accident lost both of your thumbs, ending your promising golf career.”
          Oscar’s jaw dropped. “Who are you?”
          “Who I am is of no concern, but who you are, that is the question.
          “I know who I am. I am a fool and a failure!” Oscar pulled an iron from his dusty golf bag. He attempted to grip the club with just his palms and eight digits. “It’s useless. I’m a freak! That one hole took everything from me.”
          “Today is your lucky day. Take one swing of that club, and you will have the chance to do it all over. You should be grateful; not everyone has a talking fish to offer a second chance at their biggest mistake.”
          “Now I know I’m hallucinating.”
          “Just one swing.”
          Oscar pressed his palms tightly around the grip. Ever since that fateful day, Oscar longed for a mulligan. He dreamt of it, fantasized about it. He played it over and over in his imagination.
          “This is insane, but what do I have to lose?” Oscar whispered.
          “Your self-pity.” said the fish.
          Oscar lined the clubhead with a stain on the carpet. His palms began to sweat. He closed his eyes. His arms lifted the club back. He paused his swing and whispered to himself, “Please.”
          With every ounce of strength he had, he brought the clubhead speeding toward the floor.
          His follow-through was short.

          The roar of a cheering crowd forced Oscar’s eyes open. He saw his driver resting in his hands and noticed the movement of his thumbs under his gloves. A banner read, “1975 Amateur Golf Championship” and a wooden sign signaled the hole number 18.
          “I’ll be damned. The fish did it.” Oscar reached into his bag for a tee when he saw his clubhead cover lying on the ground. He froze. He stared at the club cover. It was a knitted Wildcat, the mascot of his alma mater.
           In the distance, he heard the echo of his late neighbor’s voice, “Don’t let the cat out.” A tingling sensation shot up Oscar’s spine. Oscar slid the Wildcat cover over his driver and returned the club to his bag. He grabbed his three wood.
          As Oscar approached the tee, the crowd went silent.
          Oscar squared himself with the ball.  220 yards away hugging the right side of the fairway was the water hazard that ruined his career. Oscar took a deep breath then swung the club. THWAP.
          The crowd erupted as the ball whistled down the middle of the fairway.
 
          Oscar woke suddenly. He sat up in his bed and looked at his hands, four fingers, but no thumbs. He signed.  
          Oscar pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the kitchen.
          “When you sleep, there is no waking you.” Oscar heard the familiar voice coming from the living room.
          Oscar spun around and dropped to his knees. “I thought I was dreaming!”
          “It wasn’t a dream at all.” The fish expounded. “You won the championship that day.
          “But my thumbs, they’re still missing!”
          “After winning the championship, you went out and celebrated with your friends. You got drunk, and in a shockingly freakish can opener accident, lost both of your thumbs.”
          “I’m the same person even though I won?!” Oscar cried.
          “For forty years you’ve wanted to change the past, but the only thing that needed to change was you. Enough! My work here is complete. It is time for you to flush me. There are others who need me.”
          Oscar stared into the fishbowl; the fish had become a common goldfish swimming aimlessly in circles.
          Tears welled in Oscar’s eyes as he carried the bowl into the bathroom. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he poured the fish into the toilet. He flushed the fish away.
          Clean water filled the bowl.
          Oscar pulled a typewriter from the buried and forgotten section of his closet.
          He blew the dust off and inserted a piece of paper.
          He typed the words: SelfPityNoThumbsUp:AMemoirbyOscarWilberstein