by Dan Jenkins
I said I’d do that.
My mama said she suffered a migraine last night that would have blinded an elephant at the Forest Park Zoo. I said maybe the elevator would help. She said nothing can help a migraine—it was God’s way of punishing women. I said men get migraines, too. Not as bad as the ones women get, she said. I said I’d forgotten that.
They thanked me for the elevator, gave me a cold meatloaf sandwich on Mrs. Baird’s white bread, and said I was a good son.
THE OTHER thing involved my second ex-wife, Terri Adams. There was a message to call her at Red Taggert’s law office. I called and when she answered the phone I said, “Hi. I just shot and killed two people in cold blood—how busy is Red?”
“Why’d you do it?” she giggled.
“No reason. They just pissed me off.”
“We’re pretty busy around here, but Mr. Taggert will be happy to talk to you about it if you have access to any money. How are you, Bobby Joe?”
“Back home, is all. What’s up?”
“We are so busy. Ray Ron Moreland’s trial started this week.”
I said, “As you know, Terri, I travel a good bit. Who is Ray Ron Moreland?”
“Ohmygod, you don’t know who Ray Ron Moreland is?”
“No idea.”
“He’s the guy who cut off his wife’s head and buried it out behind their double-wide. But he didn’t kill her. Red is sure he’s innocent and he’ll get Ray Ron off. Ray Ron is a very nice person. He sells containers that hold things.”
“Like heads?”
“Bobby Joe! Yuk on you!”
“If Ray Ron didn’t kill his wife, Terri, why’d he cut off her head?”
“It was a bad decision. I won’t argue that point.”
It was impossible not to laugh.
She said, “It’s not funny, Bobby Joe. You have to understand Ray Ron’s thought process. He and Paula Dean Adcock—that’s his girlfriend—came home and found his wife murdered. She had been stabbed to death twenty-seven times. Ray Ron naturally thought if he called the police, they would immediately think he did it, or they did it.”
“I can see where the cops might think that,” I said.
“So he did the only thing that came to his mind,” Terri said. “He cut off Myra Jean’s head and tried to make it look like some kind of maniac came in and did it.”
I said I didn’t want to get all caught up in this, but I did wonder why Ray Ron was bringing his girlfriend home when his wife was there. Terri explained that the three of them lived together. I laughed. Terri said she was glad I found it was so hilarious. A good man’s life was at stake here. Just because Ray Ron did something foolish, like cut off his wife’s head, Terri didn’t see why he ought to have to go to Huntsville and hit the slab like he’d actually murdered somebody.
“They used to ride Old Toasty in Huntsville,” I said.
“Yes, they did,” she said. “Now they catch the Big Needle.”
“Kinder and gentler,” I said. “Why’d you call me in the first place, Terri? You need a character witness for Ray Ron Moreland?”
She said she wanted to alert me to what I was going to find on her Mira Vista club bill. Which was the $2,500 she spent on a new set of golf clubs. Which she badly needed, seeing as how she was entered in the Ladies Club Championship next month.
I asked what her handicap was now.
“I’m a 23, but they won’t let me have more than 18 in the tournament,” she said. “We play one match a week. Alleene’s entered, too. She’s a six. What if we met in the finals? That’d be interesting from your standpoint. A wife-off.”
“When Worlds Collide,” I said.
“Huh . . . ?”
“Old science fiction movie . . . with Barbara Rush.”
“You might have to referee,” Terri said.
I said, “I might try to be out of town for that one. How was it possible for you to pay $2,500 for a set of clubs?”
“I went state of the art,” she said. “Callaway Hawk Eyes all the way, except for the Tight Lies seven-wood. I got the Hawk Eye one, three, and five woods . . . two Cleveland wedges . . . and a Scotty Cameron putter.”
“You didn’t have to spend that kind of money, Terri. I could have gotten you all that for free.”
“It was an urgent thing. I need to get in a lot of practice with the new clubs before the tournament starts. You bein’ a golfer, I would think you of all people would understand that, Bobby Joe.”
“You’d think,” I said.
20
I USED WHAT LITTLE TIME I HAD at home to lavish dinners, gifts, and apologies on Cheryl, my non-golfing non-wife.
I took Cheryl to two elegant restaurants, La Piazza and Del Frisco, bought her two pieces of antique jewelry—a ring and a pin—that I was assured any woman would love, and begged forgiveness every minute I wasn’t eating, drinking, or sleeping.
“I can’t believe you’d pass up Greensboro with so many big names missing,” she said during dinner at La Piazza down on University Drive. She was having the veal chop and I was having the sausage and rigatoni with white cream sauce.
“You’ve always said you like those tournaments where more money spots are available.”
“I’ve never liked trying to hit golf shots with empty beer cans dropping on cart-paths,” I said, “even though Jerry Grimes calls it the Sound of Music.”
Soften her up with humor first.
I said Greensboro was still known for the year—’78, I think—when they had this guy with a deep Southern accent announcing the players coming up to the eighteenth green the last day, and the guy uttered his memorable remark about Seve Ballesteros. Seve was about to win his first tournament in America.
I couldn’t help laughing as I recalled the incident, now part of lore.
Even if the guy with the deep Southern accent had been sober, I said, I’m sure he couldn’t have pronounced Ballesteros. So what he said to the crowd of Carolina Bubbas was:
“Okay, folks, let’s give the little spick a big old hand.”
“Charming,” said Cheryl.
True story, I said.
The dinners were punctuated by long periods of silence. My apologies were deemed “too cynical.” And the jewelry was judged to be too small. “I like big rocks,” she announced.
However, it can be said that I did reduce myself from a “low-rent, weak-willed Nonnie-fucking disappointment” to the simple and more manageable “spineless asshole.”
There was a moment at the last dinner, over steaks at Del Frisco downtown, when I pointed out to Cheryl that the Fort Worth Light & Shopper runs both Ann Landers and Dear Abby, and maybe I ought to write them a letter asking this question—if a man makes a terrible mistake and is genuinely ashamed of himself and knows he’s badly hurt the woman he loves, should he be punished for it the rest of his life, even if he’s willing to cut off his dick?
Cheryl said, “That would be no big sacrifice for you. You’d cut off your dick before you’d cut off your Armour putter. You can still have oral sex with your Nonnies.”
“A man’s got to make a living,” I said. Still exploring humor, I added, “And oral sex don’t count against you. A President of the United States taught me that.”
She almost grinned, but fought it off.
“Why don’t you come home with me tonight?” I said. “We’ll discuss everything at greater length.”
“No thank you.”
“All right, we don’t have to discuss anything,” I said. “We can just watch a movie . . . or a war.”
“What war?”
I said, “There’s always a war on cable. Bunch of silly sumbitches who’d rather shoot each other over some religious bullshit than play golf or watch football. A-rabs and Skullcaps . . . thin Balkans and fat Balkans . . . Shirts and Skins.”
“Shirts and Skins?”
“Yeah, you know. Irish deal.”
“Jesus.”
I said, “What does it prove, Cheryl? Staying mad for so long.
It’s a waste of time . . . or else you enjoy it.”
“Screw you. Go home and sleep with your million-thirty.”
“Hold it,” I said. “You know how much money I’ve made this year?”
Call me amazed.
She said, “I don’t know how much you’ve won. Somebody in the office mentioned it. They saw the money list in the paper.”
“But you remembered the figure,” I said. “A million-thirty. You’re not even an ex-wife, but you know how much I’ve won? What’s that supposed to tell me, you’re just a fan?”
She said, “I might just as easily have said a million something else, whatever. So what?”
“But you got the number,” I said. “I’m surprised you didn’t say the exact amount—one million, thirty thousand, seven hundred. If there’d been forty-three cents on there, maybe you’d have got that, too.”
“You’re not turning this around on me, Bobby Joe,” she said. “I’m the one who has a right to be angry. If you want to make things better between us, you’re going to have to admit you’re a sorry, weak-willed, spineless asshole to screw that bitch, and you’re only sorry you got caught.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “I’m only sorry I got caught. I’m a weak-willed . . . spineless . . . what else was it?”
“Never mind.”
IT DIDN’T help matters that I got caught again before I left for Augusta. Caught in a different situation. What happened was, Alleene Simmons called and wanted us to have lunch—there was something we needed to discuss in regard to the catering business.
I met her at Mi Cocinita, my favorite Tex-Mex joint. It’s a small café in a converted garage tucked away on Bryan Street over by the grain elevators on the South Side. You’ve got to want to get there.
She showed up looking like a soccer mom, but better than any soccer mom I was acquainted with. She wore sneakers, tight purple leotards—those things women wear when they exercise—a short little khaki skirt on top of the tights, a baggy gray sweatshirt, and a white headband.
I said, “Alleene, you don’t have to shed a single pound. It all looks perfect the way it is.”
“Don’t flatter me,” she said. “I’ll do a Patsy Cline. Fall to pieces.”
We ordered the delicate cheese enchiladas and rice and beans with two church-lady tamales—the mild ones—on the side. She had a diet Coke in rebuttal to the lunch. I went with ice tea.
In the course of small talk I learned that Phil Murcer, her live-in and catering business helper, was history.
I said, “What happened? He got tired of playing Warden’s Daughter and Escaped Convict?”
“Naturally that would be the first thing you’d think,” she said.
She explained how Phil Murcer had wanted to be a partner, and how she couldn’t afford another partner—she had me—and how his work at the catering business slowly fell off after he realized he couldn’t become a partner. He’d pretend to be sick, stay in bed, want to be waited on, ask for chicken noodle soup, cough syrup, Advil. She realized she’d never been in love with him. All he ever had was a cute ass, and then he didn’t have that, staying sick, so she told him to take a hike.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” she said. “He was a lazy shit.”
“Who’s the new guy?”
“I don’t have one. I have a dog. A Maltese. He’s a year old, about this big, a little white guy. A River Crest lady gave him to me. She already has three. I named him Cary—for Cary Grant. He’s gorgeous. He sleeps with me, right up against me. I’m insane about him.”
“You keep showing off your legs in those tights, you’ll have a new guy in no time,” I said.
“I’m not really looking. I’ve hired a young girl to help with the business. Might hire somebody else. Listen, I have something for you.” She dug into her shoulder bag, came out with an envelope, passed it over to me. “Your cut for the last seven months,” she said. “I wish it could be more.”
It was a check for $27,516.
I said, “Thanks, Alleene, but I don’t need this right now if you can put it to better use.”
“I know you don’t,” she said. “You’ve won a million thirty thousand this year.”
I laughed. “You left out the seven hundred.”
“What do you mean?” she said, then broke into a grin. “Oh, I get it. Female keeps up with male’s money list.”
“Cheryl told me how much I’ve won, too,” I said. “Maybe I should call Terri, see if I can hit a trifecta.”
“I’ve always kept up with your career, Bobby. You know that. It’s not like we parted enemies. And don’t get too excited about the money I gave you. I’m setting you up for something bigger.”
“Hit me with it now,” I said.
She said eagerly, “Okay. There’s a piece of property I want. It’s a place on Berry near the TCU bookstore. Stubby’s Cafe. You may have eaten chicken and dumplings there. I have. It’s for sale and exactly what I need. I don’t want it for a restaurant—God, no. I want it for our catering headquarters. For Alleene’s Delights. I can’t keep working out of my home, Bobby. My kitchen’s too small for the business we have now. I’m picking up garden clubs and charity organizations and more rich ladies.”
It momentarily crossed my mind that I’d once been married to Fort Worth’s Martha Stewart.
“How much are we talking about?” I asked.
“They’re asking one twenty-five. It will take another fifty, maybe less, to fix it up. It needs an office for one thing.”
“So you need one seventy-five?” I said.
I let it sit for a moment, acted like I was mulling it over, then said, “Well, that’s no big blister.”
“Great!” she yelped. “I’ll tell you this, Bobby. It’s going to be a very good long-term investment.”
I said I’d talk to my agent, Smokey Barwood. He was also my investment guy. He’d tell me what my tax situation is . . . see if we wanted to borrow the money or handle it with whip-out.
“You’re wonderful,” Alleene said, taking my hand from across the table and smiling sweetly at me.
I moaned to her about how I’d been taken hostage in Pebble Beach, and how Cheryl had found out about it and was making me piss blood, and how the Pebble Beach scamp, Nonnie Harrison, wife of a rich guy, was occasionally leaving messages on my answering machine. I said I wasn’t about to return any of her calls, give her any ideas about the future.
“Bunny boiler?” Alleene said.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Just a fun-lover. But trouble.”
Alleene was still holding my hand and smiling sweetly at me when I heard the familiar voice behind me.
“That’s cute,” the voice said. “How romantic.”
I looked around to find Cheryl with two of her real estate friends, Bonnie Lasater and Jolene Frederick.
Bonnie, in her forties, the oldest of the group, usually wears so many bracelets and necklaces I’m surprised I didn’t hear the clanking sounds when she came in the front door.
Jolene, a cute blonde thirty-something, is given to having Sex and the City parties, I hear. She invites a bunch of her chick friends over to drink wine and make fun of guys’ dicks.
Jolene is also known for the engaging messages on the T-shirts she wears. The one today read:
TREAT MEN LIKE SLUTS.
“Hey,” I said pleasantly to Cheryl and them, releasing Alleene’s hand. “You want to join us? Our business meeting is over.”
Glaring at me, Cheryl said, “Oh, really? The business meeting’s over? No, I believe I’d rather try this one—go fuck yourself.”
With that, Cheryl split for the door, saying to Bonnie and Jolene, “Let’s go someplace where I don’t have to look at an asshole.”
“I’m tight with that,” Jolene said.
Bonnie said, “We can probably get in the Paris Coffee Shop by now.”
And they were gone.
Alleene smiled at me sympathetically, took my hand again.
I sighed and said, “Good send-off to Augusta, huh?”
21
PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS ASKING ME what I like best about the Masters, which they only know from color TV. Like whether it’s the beauty of the Augusta National itself, or the challenge of Amen Corner, or the ghost of Bobby Jones, or the excitement of it being the first major of the year. Of course it’s all those things together, is what it is, and most folks could figure that out if they weren’t dumber than Knut Thorssun. So what I usually tell people is that my favorite things are the sandwiches, pimento cheese or egg salad, they sell on the golf course.
I’m only half-joking. Those sandwiches
are what you call scrumptious, and I’ve been eating them the whole ten years I’ve earned my way into the tournament. Another thing is, I hear they’ve always been good—they haven’t changed in fifty years.
Tell me that Clifford Roberts, who used to run the tournament in a no-back-talk style, wanted those sandwiches made the way he liked them. On white bread with no lettuce. They say he’d eat more than anybody during Masters Week.
Clifford Roberts is a familiar name around golf. He was Bobby Jones’s good friend and the tournament chairman from the beginning in 1934 until a few years back when he hauled off and killed himself. Roberts had become so incurably ill—the Big C and Big M were jacking around inside him—he decided it was time to go play the Big 18.
One evening at the club he went outdoors and took himself there with a pistol, which he rightly figured was the fastest route.
One thing your modern-day golf architects find time to do at the Masters is salute a pine tree or an azalea bush in memory of Dr. Alister Mackenzie. I mentioned Mackenzie earlier when I was talking about Cypress Point. It was Mackenzie’s design of Cypress that caused Bobby Jones to hire him to do the Augusta National, Jones working with him.
I’ve often wondered why Mackenzie is so revered. Cypress Point was a no-brainer—here’s the land, there’s Carmel Bay. And if Mackenzie was so smart, how come Augusta’s incomparable back nine was the front nine originally? The course played that way in the first Masters in 1934. Funny deal. If it had played that way one more year, Gene Sarazen wouldn’t have had the fifteenth to double-eagle. Then what?