The hospitality cabin

There's a long hospitality cabin, painted white with a green roof and shudders, next to the Burns Park Golf Course driving range. It sits in front of an old, battered range-ball dispenser that has dropped yellow golf balls into green plastic buckets for as long Rock can remember. He had seen the cabin there since 1986, thirty feet below and two parking-lot levels away from the clubhouse, but he had never once been inside. Best he could recall, he'd only seen anyone in or around it one time, maybe twenty-five years earlier.
Now he waited there for his cousin Crutch and sat at a long wooden table with platters of dinner rolls and fried pork chops stacked on it. Crutch was supposed to come in from Russellville, seventy-five miles away, but Rock didn't know when he would arrive. He wondered how long he would have to wait and how well pork chops freeze.