Some people say that I disappeared from the face of the earth after that day, which is pure rumor! Today, ten years later, I’ve returned to this place—still full of surprises.
I still remember the first time I came here. I just wanted to play a quiet round of golf. Who would have thought that as soon as I walked to the edge of the green, I would see the lawn caretaker, Jack, pushing a lawn mower decorated with colorful windmills? When the wind blew, the windmills squeaked and spun, making the whole contraption look like a mobile children's playground. Jack even told me, quite seriously, that it was to “build up the psychological foundation for the lawn and help the grass grow more artistically.”
By then, dusk had fallen, dyeing the sky the color of purple sweet potatoes. The wind rippled through the grass on the green. Near the seventh hole driving range, a group of teenagers suddenly stopped playing. A boy with blue hair pointed toward the edge of the woods.
“Did you hear that? Something is moving in the bushes!” he said.
Everyone turned their heads in unison, only to see the leaves rustling wildly. From time to time, they heard the squeak of fabric rubbing together.
“Is Jack doing some ‘artistic creation’ again?” muttered a tall, skinny guy wearing a cartoon baseball cap, shrinking into his collar. Just as he finished speaking, a crooked straw hat flew out of the bushes with a dramatic whoosh. Then, a disheveled figure stumbled out—it was me. A leaf clung to my wrinkled jacket, and a vine was wrapped around my trouser leg, making me look like I had just escaped from the jungle.
I frantically picked weeds off my face while muttering, “The wind was too strong today. Took me forever to catch that hat.”
Finally, I stood upright. The streetlamp overhead lit up my face, revealing the “artifact” I wore—purple-pink mirrored sunglasses, so bright they could double as a reflector. Their aura was more powerful than a hole-in-one.
Right then, Jack emerged from the woods with the flair of a wilderness artist. Flashing a wide, toothy grin, he called out cheerfully, “Kids, want to try the latest fashion?” With a dramatic wave of his hand, a giant golf bag unzipped itself, revealing rows of sunglasses—fluorescent yellow, bright orange, crocodile leather, and even some with chain-link nose bridges. It was a mobile “glasses fashion museum.”
I chuckled and said, “Just try them—you’ll see. His sunglasses have special functions.”
The kids looked skeptical, but one boy with earrings stepped forward, curious. “What special functions?”
Before I could answer, the purple-pink sunglasses on my face beeped sharply. The mint-green frame lit up with a wave of blue light. “Disaster detection!” blared a robotic voice. The glasses scanned the curious boy and announced, “Work shorts with roller shoes? Recommended outfit adjustment in progress…” A holographic projection popped up, displaying a suggested look: dinosaur pajamas with pink rain boots, labeled “Fashion Disaster Terminator.”
The boy turned beet red. “What kind of ridiculous outfit is that?!”
But the sunglasses weren’t done. They began scanning the rest of the group, unleashing a flood of critiques like, “Fishnet socks with holey shoes—perfect for a ‘Rustic Outfit Competition’ ” and “Dinosaur print shirt with skinny jeans—tragically outdated.”
The kids were stunned and indignant. Meanwhile, Jack was laughing so hard he nearly fell over. “He’s wearing my latest invention—Fashion Radar Sunglasses! They can detect every fashion black hole within a 10-meter radius!’
Then he put on a matching pair and looked at me. The lenses flashed red. “Target detected—one wearing a trench coat accessorized with vines and weeds. Suggest career change: performance artist!”
As the wind howled through the golf course, the children's laughter mixed with the sunglasses' electronic commentary and echoed far across the green.
