James Ross - A Character-Based Collection (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  “You’re human,” Reverend Puld said.

  Tuey shook his head violently like he was trying to loosen the cobwebs. “But now’s I’s got’s nuttin’ ta live fo’.”

  “You do. You’ll make it.”

  “Not’s wit’out my LeVournique.”

  “There’s a higher power, Tuey.” The pair had reached the parking lot and witnessed Harold and D. Wayne driving off.

  “Den please, Reverend Puld, shows me da way. I’s can’ts take any mo’ uh dis,” Tuey begged.

  “Come on over next week an’ we’ll work on puttin’ that smile back on yo’ face,” Reverend Puld said. “I’ve got to run to the hospital right now.”

  “What’s fo’?”

  “To pray for a dying soul,” Reverend Puld said as he headed for his car.

  Tuey stood alone. He whispered out loud to the preacher. “Den prays fo’ my’s dyin’ soul cuz . . .”

  Reverend Puld started his car. “Things will be fine, Tuey. We’ll talk next week.” He put the car in reverse. “I want to see that beautiful smile again. But first I have to go to the hospital and then I have to go to a meetin’ ’bout the satellite station.” He drove off of the parking lot.

  Tuey mumbled, “Have mercy on you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  “Ouch!” Fred yelled. “Dang it, YouWho! What the heck are you doing?” The heavyset regular at Prairie Winds lumbered off the twelfth green toward his cart. YouWho had missed a putt and backhanded the remains with his putter. The result was that YouWho’s golf ball struck Fred squarely on the toe at a high rate of speed.

  “Me so saw-wee,” the Japanese businessman apologized. He felt badly, but the damage had been done.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it!” Fred yelled back. He made it back to the golf cart and sprawled across the seat. The pain was driving him to tears. He gingerly pried the golf shoe from his foot and removed his sock. “Ooooooooh!” he cried. “It got me just right.”

  “Let me see,” YouWho said.

  Fred placed his heel on the seat so that YouWho could see his toe. The big toenail on his foot was split lengthwise. The end of the toe appeared to be pushed back into the joint. YouWho made a move to help. “No! Don’t touch it!” Fred screamed. The pain was agonizing.

  “Maybe it jammed,” YouWho offered.

  “Jammed, my ass!” Fred shrieked. “I think you broke the darn thing!” He winced half at the idea and half at the pain. Swelling had already set in.

  “How can I help?” YouWho asked.

  “Take up bowling!” Fred hollered. “Drive me back to the clubhouse.”

  “Let me look,” Scottie P said.

  “No, I need to get some ice on it,” Fred begged.

  “Be glad that it hugged the ground and didn’t get waist high,” BT said. He grabbed his crotch and cringed.

  “Oooooooo, dat would willy hurt,” YouWho said.

  “And you don’t think that this doesn’t?” Fred complained. “Come on let’s go.” His patience had been tested.

  “We’ll go in too,” Scottie P said. “I’ve had enough and it’s too wet out here.”

  The foursome turned their carts around and headed back to the clubhouse. A few minutes later Fred hobbled into the clubhouse. “Get me some ice!” he yelled at Julie.

  “What happened to you?” Pork Chop said from the back table that he shared with Elia and Paul as his golfing buddy shuffled delicately over to the booth that held his imprint.

  Fred had tears in his eyes. “I think the Jap broke my toe!” He took a look at Pork Chop and asked, “What happened to you?”

  Pork Chop had his arm in a sling. “I got carried away.”

  “You didn’t hurt yourself wiping your butt again, did you?” Fred asked.

  Pork Chop said, “Nah, it’s a different injury this time. The Aqua Mermaid got me.”

  “How you git hurt at casino?” YouWho asked.

  “You didn’t donate again, did you?” Fred wondered out loud as he grabbed a Ziploc baggie that Julie had filled with ice. When he applied it to his foot he sighed. “Maybe this will get it to stop throbbing.”

  “Actually I won last night,” Pork Chop volunteered, “but I pulled a muscle in the process.”

  “You did what?” Fred pried.

  “I strained my forearm pressing the buttons and pulled a muscle,” Pork Chop said as he pointed to a spot on the underside of his arm. “Plus I think that my wrist has carpal tunnel and I got a blister on my thumb.”

  “You played long time,” YouWho said.

  “Probably twelve hours,” Pork Chop admitted. “It can’t get warm enough, fast enough.” The implication was that he couldn’t wait for the summer golf season.

  “How you play golf wit’ injury?” YouWho asked.

  Pork Chop pondered his situation for a moment. “I never thought of that.” He looked at Fred. “We both might be out for a while.” The two of them laughed at the prospects of getting old.

  “How sad are we?” Fred asked. “Injured by a golf ball and a slot machine.” The pair chortled at each other.

  Dr. DV walked through the door with Captain Jer. It was immediately obvious that the retired pilot had made a few stops before getting to the clubhouse. His eyes focused on Julie. “What was it they used to call you?” He smiled at his favorite bartender. “Was it Sweet Cakes?”

  “Good afternoon to you too,” Julie said. “Don’t even go there. One more word about that and you’ll be cut off before you start.”

  “Oh, I’ve already started and I’m in a real good mood,” Captain Jer said. He threw a five-dollar bill on the counter and grabbed a cold can of beer from J Dub’s assistant.

  “The beer always puts you in a good mood,” Julie said. “I don’t know how you answer the bell every day.”

  “It’s easy right now,” Captain Jer declared. “Today’s hump day.”

  “What’s hump day?” YouWho asked.

  “Wednesday,” the retired pilot stated as he took another swig. “You know, the half way part of the week.”

  “What difference does it make?” Julie asked. “You don’t do a damn thing but drink.”

  Captain Jer dropped his chin to his chest, swiveled his head in Julie’s direction, and looked out the top of his eyes. “It’s psychological.” He licked his lips. “You don’t drink so you don’t get it.”

  “You’re so full of it Jer,” Julie said. “What did you have for lunch . . . a cowpie?”

  “Never mind. You obviously don’t get it.” He waved a limp wrist at Julie. “Just keep them on ice for me. I’m celebrating March. It’s coming in like a lion.” He grinned. “Grrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

  Exasperated, Julie sighed. There was never a dull moment when Captain Jer was around. A few seconds later Curt walked in with Justin Ventimiglia and Keith Pucchio. “I haven’t seen you two since last summer!” Julie said with a tinge of excitement.

  The two teenagers had summer jobs at Prairie Winds while Curt recovered from colon cancer. Once school started they had disappeared. “We had to go back to school,” Justin said.

  “And this week is their spring break,” Curt added. “I thought I’d bring them out for a round of golf.”

  “And then we’re going to shoot the fireworks that we didn’t get to shoot on New Years’ Eve,” Justin said.

  “I sure wish that I could have stayed here instead of going back to school,” Keith said. He and Justin went to the corner and greeted BowTye.

  Julie took a look at Captain Jer and then turned to Keith. “No you don’t. It can get old around here too.”

  The door opened and a powerful stench permeated the room. “Oh, my word!” Captain Jer blurted. “Speaking of cow pies, have you been rolling around in one?” He turned and acknowledged Tuey’s entrance.

  “No, dat’s jus’ da way dat da mud in dat crick smells,” Tuey said. He smiled at the gang. He raised his bicep to his nose and took a whiff. “Is it dat bad?”

  Captain Jer turned his head away and sighed
. “Whew.” He reached into his pants pocket. “Do something about that. Either take a shower or wash your overalls.” He placed four batteries on the counter.

  “Where did ya git dose?” Tuey said as he eyed the accessories.

  “I was playing golf one day and had to silence the racket,” Captain Jer explained. “So I borrowed them.”

  “I’s been scratchin’ my’s head fo’ days tryin’ ta figga out where dose tings went,” Tuey said. “It’s been too quiets out on da job site.”

  Captain Jer gnawed at his lower lip. “But it’s been peaceful on the golf course.”

  “Was dat music uh botherin’ ya?” Tuey asked. “Dat’s Shriek Caramel U-Hop, you know.”

  “As far as I’m concerned that singer could have been named Cowpie,” Captain Jer countered, “because it sounded like crap.”

  “Don’ts ya be tellin’ dat ta D. Wayne. Dat’s his rappa name.”

  “If it’s rap it’s crap no matter who sings it or . . .”

  “Show the boys your new haircut,” Elia interrupted.

  Tuey flashed his smile and removed his lime green skull cap. He rubbed his hand over the smooth skin that covered his skull. “I’s kinda gittin’ used ta dat feel.” His cheerful attitude provided a boost to the walking wounded. Tuey then licked his lips. His dry mouth was an ever-increasing problem.

  “How did your wife like it?” Elia asked.

  Tuey’s joyous disposition turned somber. He shook his head from side to side. “She dint.”

  “You’re kidding,” Elia said with surprise. “We cleaned you up a little.”

  “I thought so too . . . ’specially fo’ her birthday. But she left me fo’ Texas.”

  Captain Jer came alive and re-entered the conversation. “Is that some guy she met at the casino?”

  “No,” Tuey said. “Dat’s uh state down south.”

  Curt waved to the guys as he exited through the door with Justin and Keith. “See you guys tomorrow. We have to get the round in before it gets dark.”

  “She left because of your new haircut?” Elia wondered.

  Sadness shrouded Tuey’s face. He panted for breath and extended his face forward to force a swallow. “No, dere’s mo’ to it dan dat.”

  “She’ll be back,” Captain Jer said encouragingly. “They all come back.”

  “Pleeeeeease!” Julie fired back as she placed another beer in front of the retired pilot.

  “I’s don’ts tink dat she will,” Tuey said. “Dere’s too much udder stuff goin’ on.” He stuck his tongue out and bit it in an attempt to produce more saliva. Then Tuey reached up and wiped what had become an everyday occurrence, a white residue, away from the corners of his mouth. He turned to the door. “But I’s don’ts want ta talk ’bout aw uh dat udder stuff right now.”

  Captain Jer popped the tab on his fresh can of beer. “Aaaaaaah,” he sighed after swallowing the tasty ale. “That’s as cold as a black woman’s heart!”

  “Jerry!” Julie yelled.

  The comment had hit its mark. Tuey looked at the floor and then opened the door. “I’s gotsta go.” Disappointed and on the brink of tears he turned and raised the batteries into the air. “Tanks fo’ givin’ dese back ta me.” He stepped outside and walked to his pickup.

  Ginny Slater had driven onto the lot and was talking to Curt as he loaded bags onto a golf cart for Justin and Keith. She was going to join the guys. It afforded Curt an opportunity to spend some time with the teenagers and the woman that he was starting to include in his life. They had gotten to be very good friends and had agreed to try to see more of each other. He noticed Tuey and yelled in his direction. “Tuey, did I ever introduce you to Ginny?”

  Confused, Tuey looked and him and said, “Who dat be?”

  “This is Ginny Slater.” Ginny waved her hand out the car window. “She’s the woman with the government that was trying to help you.”

  “Dat’s da govvie gal?” Tuey wondered out loud.

  “Yeah, she’s the one that we contacted to try to get some help for your civil rights problem,” Curt said.

  Tuey was disoriented and yelled toward the duo. “Why’s cant’s dey’s uh help me’s some, Govvie Gal?”

  Ginny smiled. “It’s a long story,” she started and then paused, “but let’s just say that it’s a part of the government that I don’t work in.”

  “Duz ya tinks dat anybody ova dere will eva be ables ta help me?”

  Ginny shook her head negatively. She knew that he didn’t have a prayer of receiving any civil rights help from the government. “Doubtful.”

  Tuey took the answer as offering him a ray of hope. “Doubtful? But dere might’s be uh chance?”

  Ginny’s eyes lowered to the ground. She glanced at Curt wishing that he never broached the topic. Even offering the black man a glimmer of hope was misleading. She shook her head negatively once again. “No way. Nobody will listen to your race problems.”

  Tuey bowed his head. Dejectedly he mumbled, “Oh.” He opened his car door. “Well den, have mercy on you.” He crawled into the cab, fired up the engine, and drove off of the lot.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  The setting sun on the horizon looked like a ripe tomato ready to be picked off the vine as Tuey made the trek back to his home. The snow had melted so he didn’t have to worry about blocking the path of the mailman. In LeVournique’s absence he could pull his pickup into the driveway and not be concerned about Big Bertha.

  He kept his lime green skull cap in place. There was no need to take it off and put it on the passenger seat. LeVournique wasn’t around to voice her displeasure.

  Tuey entered a dark house. With no furniture and an empty pantry, it didn’t take long for him to be reminded of how lonely his home had become. He slammed a few cabinets and used the hall bathroom. A push of the off/on button produced a screen full of black and white static. He struggled with the bent hanger only to receive a louder volume of fuzz.

  Frustrated, Tuey grabbed the keys out of his pocket, slammed the front door, and headed for his pickup. His evening at home lasted all of five minutes.

  The pickup hadn’t been out of the driveway ten seconds when the phone at Tuey’s home rang and rang and rang. “Dat be funny,” LeVournique said. She had moved into the vacant side of a duplex that her sister Sawilla Tangue owned in suburban Houston. Sawilla lived there with her twin daughters. “I’s dunno what’s wrong,” LeVournique said to her sister. “He awe-ways be home by now.”

  “Maybe he jus’ be runnin’ uh li’l late,” Sawilla said.

  “I’s try agin uh li’l lata. I’s needs ta tell him where’s I’s at.” LeVournique said. She had acted on her threats and secured a job at the Cotton Ball Downs greyhound race track with the help of Sawilla.

  “Ya don’t tink he knows?” Sawilla asked.

  “I reckon he got uh pretty good idea,” LeVournique said. “Let’s git sumptin’ ta eat an’ den I’s can call ’em lata.”

  With nowhere to go Tuey pointed his truck in the direction of Nehemiah’s Neighbors Have Arisen. When he pulled his truck into the parking lot, only a dim light was visible in the atrium area. After parking next to the rusted-out panel truck that doubled as a sign, he entered the building and slowly climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor entrance of the makeshift church. He rattled the locked door and yelled out for Reverend Puld. There was no response.

  Harold Syms had arranged for his French maid, Barbeaux Rivette, to clean the office building. She and a female companion were on the lower level vacuuming when they noticed Tuey. “Can I help?”

  “I’s lookin’ fo’ da Reverend Puld.”

  “Nobody is here,” she yelled from the atrium. “He left long ago,” she said in broken English with an alluring French accent.

  Tuey acted unsettled and mixed up. His mouth was dry. Beads of sweat covered his forehead. Slowly he staggered down the stairs. Barbeaux Rivette and her cleaning companion were petrified that a stranger had gotten into the building. Tuey
looked in the direction of the French maid but it was unclear whether he saw her. In a confused state he left the building and headed across the parking lot to his pickup. Then he stopped, took a few steps toward the building, and noticed the maid locking the front door. Tuey turned back to his pickup and then pulled off of the lot.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Curt pulled the golf cart up to the cart barn and unloaded the clubs. It had been at least six months since the two teenagers had swung a club. “How did we do today?” Justin asked enthusiastically.

  “You guys were a little rusty,” Curt answered. “I could see that you didn’t swing a club all winter.”

  “It’s more fun when it’s warmer,” Keith said.

  “Of course,” Curt conceded, “but if you’re going to golf around here you can’t always count on ideal conditions.”

  “Thanks for taking us out to play,” Justin said. “When are we going to go out and shoot the fireworks?”

  “As soon as we get these clubs put away,” Curt said. “But I want to tell both of you that I’m just a little bit disappointed.”

  “In what?” Justin asked.

  “It’s just a small thing,” Curt started, “but you two need to be reminded of the little things in golf.”

  “Like what?”

  “It has to do with rules and etiquette,” Ginny said. “Anyone learning the game has to start there more as a courtesy to the others who are playing in your group.”

  “What did I say when we started out?” Curt asked.

  “I don’t know,” Keith said.

  “I said that we were going to play the ball down,” Curt reminded the pair. “And both of you bumped the ball out there.”

  “We were having some fun golfing,” Justin whined.

  “I realize that,” Curt said. “But you have to respect the rules that we were playing today. You have to call that on yourself if you’re going to play the game.”

  “Gee whiz,” Keith complained, “you’re being tough on us.”

  “Sure I am,” Curt admitted, “but you need to learn that if you’re going to keep playing this game. If you’ve done wrong, then you have to be man enough to admit it and call the penalty on yourself. It’s just like when you threw your club when you missed that shot, Keith. That’s wrong.”