James Ross - A Young Adult Trilogy (Prairie Winds Golf Course)

by James Ross

  Once again Nada was hurt. “I was the checker champion of the conference.”

  “For goodness sakes! There were four tiny school districts! Big deal.”

  “I’m makin’ a checker board to teach the boy how to play.”

  “Out of my vinyl table cloth!” Rayelene ran to the outside hose, turned on the faucet, adjusted the nozzle and sprayed her husband. “Git yore drunk ass in the house. Then git yore butt up out of bed and git back on the road! Owen and I can make it on our own for a while!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ten Days Later . . .

  “Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . Where are we going, M . . . M . . . M . . . Mom?” Mother and son crawled into the front seat of Rayelene’s minivan.

  “School’s out for the summer so we’re goin’ over to Johnny Shaw’s house and pick him up.”

  “Th . . . Th . . . Th . . . Then what?”

  “I’m gonna take both of you to Prairie Winds Golf Course.”

  “Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What for?”

  “Golf lessons. Parks and Recreation worked out a deal for the kids from our town to golf over there for the summer. You’ll get lessons and meet other kids and have some supervision while I’m at work.”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . . I’d rather play b . . . b . . . b . . . baseball.”

  “You can still do that at night. You’re too young to stay at home by yourself and this will give you an opportunity to learn somethin’ different.” She looked down at her son’s foot. “How is that feelin’?”

  “Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What?”

  “Your foot.”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . . I can get around b . . . b . . . b . . . better on it. Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . Why?”

  “If I take you to the golf course then you might be on it all day.”

  “As l . . . l . . . l . . . long as I can p . . . p . . . p . . . play, I’ll be alr . . . r . . . r . . . right.”

  Rayelene popped a chocolate covered cherry into her mouth. “Mmm, I just love these.” She pulled into the driveway of Johnny Shaw’s home and honked the horn.

  Johnny ran out to the van with sack lunch in hand. He was the same age as Owen, not quite as athletic and a lot more studious. He wore glasses to correct severe nearsightedness. “Hi Mrs. Purler. Owen.”

  “Hi J . . . J . . . J . . . Johnny.”

  “Are you ready to go to the golf course on your first day of summer break?”

  “I guess, but something tells me that I’d have more fun at the swimming pool.” They waved at Mrs. Shaw who was standing at the front door as Rayelene backed the van out of the driveway.

  The drive to Prairie Winds was a little less than ten miles. They drove past subdivisions that were under development as well as an area in the Mississippi River bottom that had a hodge-podge of assorted zoning applications. Everything from an abandoned foundry with broken windows that now served as a home to pigeons to used car lots to strip joints to fenced-in light construction yards occupied the flood plain property.

  Half-rented strip malls, manufactured home displays and churches in Butler buildings could be seen out the window. A private airstrip for single engine planes as well as a truck stop/ car wash was visible. Storage facilities were scattered among the corn fields and piles of slag, peat moss and wintertime salt brine. A junk yard for wrecked cars sat near abandoned railcars painted with graffiti.

  Rayelene made a turn and headed up the bluff road to the parking lot of Prairie Winds. The view was majestic. The property was high above the river. It was a crystal clear day in late May—beautiful blue sky, little humidity, a gentle breeze. The United States flag fluttered on the flagpole in tandem with the Prairie Winds flag just below.

  The clubhouse wasn’t anything special. Prairie Winds was a public fee facility open to the throngs that wanted to go out and play a round of golf on a gentle rolling tract of land that was dissected by a creek. The old, two-story farmhouse converted to clubhouse was more than adequate for the expected clientele. The trio exited the van, walked across the parking lot, up a few stairs and entered a room that served as a combination pro shop and snack bar.

  Julie, a street-smart brunette in her early thirties, was working the register and counter. She looked chic dressed in culottes and a sleeveless golf shirt. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re here to take advantage of the summer clinics that you are offering to the kids,” Rayelene said.

  “That doesn’t start until tomorrow,” Julie informed.

  “How did I mess up the dates?” Rayelene searched her purse for the flyer. Upon examination the flyer showed that she had the correct date but the wrong day of the week. “That was my job!” She buried her face in her hands. “We sent these out weeks ago and it was my responsibility to git it right.”

  “Looks like you missed it by a day,” Julie said with a shrug. “It’s not any big deal. We’re pretty relaxed around here.”

  “Have there been any others come by?” Rayelene wondered out loud.

  Julie shook her head back and forth. “Golf isn’t as big with kids as computer games.”

  “And that’s why we’re here,” Rayelene said, “to get away from those things.” She looked at Owen. “I want him outside playin’ instead of lookin’ at a computer screen all day.” Owen wrinkled his nose at Julie. Johnny picked up a golf magazine and plopped onto a seat at the counter.

  “Let me get J Dub, he’s our pro around here. I’ll see if we can get something set up for you since you’re already here.” Julie turned to walk into the office. She stopped and turned back to the boys. “Do you kids want to play golf today?”

  Owen shook his head enthusiastically. Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “I’d like to leave them here if I can,” Rayelene said. “It’s too late to get a sitter.”

  Julie disappeared into the office off to the side behind the counter. A minute later J. W. Schroeder, nicknamed J Dub, stepped through the door. He was fashionably dressed in pressed golf slacks and matching shirt. His tall, lean, athletic frame suggested that he had encountered success on the golf course at some time in his life.

  Rayelene instantly started fanning her face. “Are you okay?” Julie asked.

  Rayelene continued waving her hand in front of her face and slowly blew out a breath of air. “I . . . uh . . . I mean . . . I . . . uh . . . I . . . I’m just not used to working with men that look like that.” Julie smiled. Rayelene fidgeted. She let out a laugh. “That came out wrong, didn’t it?” She closed her eyes and with her first two fingers pressed firmly on the spot between her eyebrows.

  J Dub grinned. “We’ve got it lucky around here, I guess. Everybody that we see is in a good mood and doesn’t have to work for the day. They’re on vacation. It carries over to us. Pretty low key. No deadlines or pressures.”

  “All we worry about is the weather,” Julie added.

  “His stomach is so flat.”

  “It’s n . . . n . . . n . . . not like d . . . d . . . d . . . dad’s.”

  “Hey, my name’s J Dub.” The pro extended his hand to Owen. Then he shook hands with Johnny.

  Rayelene continued waving her hand back and forth in front of her face and then shook J Dub’s hand. “I’m Rayelene. This is Owen and Johnny.”

  “Glad to meet all of you,” J Dub said with a broad smile.

  “I guess we’re here a day early for the summer clinic.” Rayelene forced a weak crease of her lips. She wanted to crawl into a hole for looking so stupid in front of such a hunk of a man.

  “Don’t worry about it. We can take care of little things like that,” J Dub said as he recognized their predicament. “Do you have any clubs?”

  “Clubs?” Rayelene was dumbfounded. “Did we need clubs?”

  “It’s golf,” J Dub deadpanned.

  Rayelene started waving her hand in front of her face again. “Now I really feel stupid. I didn’t even think about that.”

  J Dub got a kick out of the young mom. She obviously hadn’t been exposed
to a golfing environment before. “We’ve got some in the lost and found box or the cart barn or somewhere around here.”

  “Maybe all of this is happenin’ too fast,” Rayelene apologized. “I didn’t even think about clubs. My idea was to git him exposed to somethin’ that we can’t provide.” She rubbed her hand through her son’s hair. Embarrassed, Owen pulled his head away.

  “It’s not a cheap sport,” J Dub conceded. “You’ll need some basic equipment.”

  Rayelene looked for her keys in her purse. “Then maybe it’s not the thing for us after all. We’re just poor folks.”

  “Hey, that shouldn’t stop you from enjoying yourself.” J Dub looked at the boys. “You know I was a kid once too.” He winked at Owen and smiled at Johnny. “My dad taught me the game when I was about their age. If they want to play then we’ve got plenty of ground around here to help them out.” J Dub turned his attention back to Rayelene. “Don’t worry about things. We’ll get them set up and teach them the game.”

  “Even if we’re a day early?”

  “That means they’re going to get a private lesson to start them off on the right foot.”

  “And if there is anybody that can teach it to you the right way, then J Dub is the man,” Julie interjected.

  Rayelene started waving her hand in front of her face again. “Oh, please don’t go there.” She took a deep breath and eyed the head pro from head to toe. “I bet he can.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kropotkin is a city of nearly 80,000 on the banks of the Kuban River. It is located in Krasnodar Krai which is one of 83 federal subjects located in Russia. The population of the subject is roughly 5 million and much of the populace is multicultural. Over 140 ethnic groups ranging from Russians to Armenians to Kurds, Greeks, Turks, Germans, Ukrainians and Cossacks represent the inhabitants.

  Krasnodar Krai is located in the far southwest corner of Russia. Only the Strait of Kerch and the Sea of Azov separate it from its western neighbor, the Ukraine. To the south is the Black Sea. Several other subjects or oblasts border Krasnodar Krai on the east. The Kuban River dissects the subject. While the southern third of the area enjoys a Mediterranean climate, the remaining two-thirds have a continental climate much like the United States’ Midwest.

  Roksana Chesnokov was a nineteen-year-old healthcare worker at a local hospital when her older brother summoned her. He had enjoyed the perks that professional hockey had offered and expounded on the benefits of capitalism that existed in Canada and the United States.

  With the help of an Internet matchmaking service the angelic young woman with wavy, jet black hair, piercing blue eyes and a figure that would make a Playboy centerfold jealous was whisked away by an American advertising exec named Michael. In a matter of weeks Roksana became a mail-order bride. It didn’t matter that the two had never met. The uncouth businessman had a few nights of fun and the Russian bride from Kropotkin got her citizenship papers in the United States. Shortly after that she got divorce papers, American-style.

  Roksana, her Russian namesake, was Americanized to Roxie. The dark-haired beauty set up shop on the outskirts of Oklahoma City. Her residence was a mobile home in a trailer park. In that part of the country Roxie could have been placed on suicide watch. Residing in a trailer in the middle of Tornado Alley wasn’t the most brilliant thing to do, but it seemed to work for a Russian immigrant that didn’t know any better.

  The statuesque brunette with broken English quickly enrolled for nursing classes in an attempt to make a living in the United States’ healthcare industry. All was fine until she looked for various ways to supplement her income. In a valiant attempt to study for her classes and maintain a source of income to pay bills, Roxie found herself applying for a job at the Bare Booty.

  The manager on duty told her to put down the pen. One look into her eyes indicated to him that he had a superstar on his hands. And that was before she prowled around on stage. Roxie was given a shift the next night. On her first performance she had drunken cowboys wearing Stetson’s pitching wadded up ten dollar bills at her naked pubic area like free throws on the basketball court.

  The little girl from Russia learned the power of the cash dollar. But the insecurities created by the demeaning nightly routines soon made Roxie susceptible to the forward advances by the inebriated patrons. And one night changed her life.

  “Olga? Is that your stage name or your real name?” the nice looking young man with a slow twang asked. He had beckoned the dancer over to his table which was located one row away from the chairs around the stage.

  The stale stench from the beer-soaked carpet and cigarette smoke filled the premises. A hundred dollar bill lay on the table in full view of anyone walking by. When it came to his family the funds were tight, but if a night with a lady was involved then the cash would flow freely. The shapely brunette smiled. “You vaunt a lop daunce?” Her accent surprised him. After all, they were in Oklahoma, home of rodeos, Sooner football and Billy Bobs.

  “You have those here?” He was coy. He knew exactly which door opened into the private room backstage. His hand reached for the C-note and he pushed it across the table.

  Impulsively she reached for the money. As she grabbed it he quickly snatched the end of the bill closest to him. The hundred tore in half. “I’m sorry,” she said as she held half of the bill in her hand.

  “The other half is yours when we’re done.”

  The woman smiled. She reached for his hand and led him through the door. Secluded couches were located in private booths. “Pick one.”

  The young man reached down with his left hand and shifted what was growing behind the zipper of his jeans. His right hand held a pitcher of beer and a ripped hundred dollar bill. He nodded at the spot in the corner. “So what is it?”

  “Vaut?”

  “Your real name.”

  She took the pitcher of beer and placed it on a stand. Then she shoved him down on the couch. Her aggressiveness brought a tight-lipped smirk to the young man’s face and a twinkle to his eye. The young brunette jumped onto his lap. She pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Not lacking shyness she rubbed her breasts in his face and bent forward to whisper in his ear. Her warm breath caused his nipples to harden. She pinched them then twisted her fingers. “It’s Roxie. Short for Roksana.”

  “Where’s that from?” the young man asked as her boobs were smothering his face. “It cain’t be from here.”

  “It means dawn in Russia.”

  “You’re from friggin’ Russia?” the man blurted. “Cain’t say that I’ve ever had a woman from there.” He spread both his arms out along the top of the couch. She jiggled her breasts assertively in his face. “I’ll take that treatment until dawn.”

  Roxie smiled. The shapely young woman enjoyed teasing her customer. She reached down at what was growing between his legs, grabbed him with a vice-like grip and didn’t let go. Then she smiled. “You haven’t yet.” She winked at him. “Vaut’s your name?”

  The young man squirmed as she applied pressure to his throbbing appendage. He gritted his teeth and tapped his knees together. “Owen. Owen Purler.” He kissed her nipples. “But my friends call me Nada.”

  “Hope.”

  “No, Nada.”

  The stripper smiled again. “It means hope in Russia.”

  The alcohol was kicking in. He leaned forward and shook his head violently between her breasts, his tongue licking everything in between. “Then I hope to be here until dawn.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rayelene wasn’t gone thirty seconds when J Dub said to the boys, “Follow me.”

  The pro opened a locked door and led Owen and Johnny up a rickety flight of stairs to a musty attic. A single dormer window allowed filtered light into the cluttered room. Cases of golf balls were stacked in boxes. Gloves, visors and other clothing paraphernalia were stored on the shelves. Sample clubs still wrapped in plastic coverings were propped against the wall. A spider had woven a symmetrical web hi
gh in a far corner.

  “We’ve got something up here for you two to use,” J Dub said. He grabbed a red nylon shag bag that had a side zipper, handle and cylinder to the ground.

  “Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What’s that?”

  J Dub continued to a plastic trash can that was filled with used golf balls. “This is a shag bag.” He unzipped the nylon container and loaded it with balls by the handful.

  “How many will go in there?” Johnny asked.

  “Probably seventy-five to a hundred,” the pro responded.

  “Are w . . . w . . . w . . . we going to h . . . h . . . h . . . hit that many?”

  “We’ve got to start somewhere.” J Dub smiled at the pair. “We’ll go until you get tired or bored.” He grabbed a couple of gloves still wrapped in the package and tossed them to each boy.

  “What do we do with this?” Johnny asked.

  “Those will keep your hands from getting blisters. It goes on your left hand.” J Dub reflected. “I wish my dad would have let me start out with one.”

  “Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . Why?”

  “When I learned I had blisters all over my hands.”

  “Ouch,” Johnny said.

  “But they turned to calluses a few weeks later.”

  “A . . . A . . . A . . . Are we going to h . . . h . . . h . . . hit that many?”

  J Dub had never been around a boy that stuttered. He wanted to pull the words out of Owen’s mouth. But it forced him to smile inside. “It depends on how good you want to get.”

  “If we’ve got to get blisters and calluses to get good then I might watch TV instead,” Johnny said.

  “Hard work isn’t for everybody,” the pro agreed. He grabbed two visors off a shelf. “Here, these are compliments of Callaway Golf.”

  The kids put their visors on. “N . . . N . . . N . . . Neat!”

  “At least you look the part,” J Dub said. “Plus that will keep the sun off of your forehead and nose.” He adjusted the visor on Johnny. “We don’t want you to get sunburned on the first day of your summer break.”