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

by James Ross

  “Geez, I forgot all about that,” J Dub said. “My little buddy here is Owen. Owen Purler.”

  “J . . . J . . . J . . . Junior.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Go out and grab your putter,” J Dub said as Owen swallowed the last bite of a turkey and swiss sandwich that Julie had prepared. He washed it down with a generous sip of Powerade.

  The boy ran out the door and was greeted by Bogey, the golf course dog. The bull terrier with broad shoulders and developed chest had a brown coat of fur and distinct markings on its long snout. A white circle surrounded Bogey’s eye.

  “H . . . . H . . . H . . . Hey! Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What’s your name?” Bogey’s response indicated he had never met a stranger.

  When Owen bent down to pet the dog, Bogey jumped on him and lapped at his face. Bogey followed the lad to the cart barn nipping at his heels the entire way.

  Owen reached into his golf bag and searched for his putter. It was nowhere to be found. He took the head cover off of the driver, went through each iron and looked at the three wood and five wood as well. There was not a putter in site.

  After a couple of minutes the obvious was evident. That specific club wasn’t in the bag. He headed back to the clubhouse, Bogey in pursuit. “C . . . C . . . C . . . Can he c . . . c . . . c . . . come in?”

  “Sure,” Julie yelled. “He’s as much a part of this place as the oak trees and zoysia fairways.” Bogey ran to the back booth and jumped on Fred knowing that a scrap of food would soon find its way to the floor.

  “Th . . . Th . . . Th . . . There’s no p . . . p . . . p . . . putter in my bag,” Owen turned to J Dub and said.

  “Really?” the head pro asked. “I never checked.” He headed over to Owen. “Just assumed that there would be one in there.”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . . I couldn’t s . . . s . . . s . . . see one.”

  “Like I said the other day, somebody left that set here and nobody called for it. There might not have been one in the bag in the first place.”

  “Maybe they threw it in the lake after they missed a putt,” Paco shouted from the corner.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time that ever happened,” BT followed.

  “Let’s go to the lost-and-found barrel,” J Dub suggested “There’s always several putters in it.”

  “Sh . . . Sh . . . Sh . . . Should we t . . . t . . . t . . . take someone else’s p . . . p . . . p . . . putter?”

  J Dub walked out the door with Owen following. They headed for the cart barn. “We have to clean out the carts when they finish,” the pro explained. “If a golfer calls back and we have what they describe then we’ll give it back to them. But if we don’t get a call then as far as I’m concerned others can have what’s been found and gone unclaimed.”

  “L . . . L . . . L . . . Let’s hope a p . . . p . . . p . . . putter is in there.”

  An old wooden barrel sat inside the cart barn. In it were head covers, mittens, gloves, windbreakers, a sweater, an old pair of golf shoes, one tennis shoe, a pitching wedge, a six-iron, several golf towels, four ball hats and an old putter. “Looks like we’re in luck,” J Dub said as the duo went through all of the items one by one.

  “Th . . . Th . . . Th . . . That’s beautiful,” Owen said as J Dub handed him the putter. The putter was an old Bull’s Eye model manufactured by Titleist. The grip was badly worn. The head was weathered and had a few nicks on the top of it. It was the style that had a thin gold-plated face with the rear end of the putter curled upward like a pair of shoes on a troll in a fairy tale. The shaft came into the club face at almost a ninety-degree angle.

  “I don’t know about the beauty of it,” J Dub replied, “but it will get you started on the practice green.” He examined the club. “It looks like it has seen better days.”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . . It looks p . . . p . . . p . . . perfect to me,” Owen said as he admired the club.

  “Then we’ll go with it. We’re heading to the part of the game that separates the players that can score well from those that don’t.”

  “Wh . . . Wh . . . Wh . . . What do you m . . . m . . . m . . . mean?”

  “This game is all about getting the ball in the hole,” J Dub said as the pair headed back toward the clubhouse. “The guys that can putt are the ones that win golf tournaments.”

  “S . . . S . . . S . . . So it doesn’t m . . . m . . . m . . . make any d . . . d . . . d . . . difference how I h . . . h . . . h . . . hit the ball?”

  “That’s important,” J Dub said, “but all of the good players can get there.”

  “Th . . . Th . . . Th . . . There?”

  “The green in regulation,” J Dub said. “It’s the ones that can knock the putts in for birdies that walk away with the trophies and all of the money.”

  “Oh. A . . . A . . . A . . . Are we g . . . g . . . g . . . going to p . . . p . . . p . . . putt now?”

  “Yeah, I’ll give you a few little tips and let you roll the ball.” They walked past the clubhouse door and over to the practice green. J Dub threw three balls onto the ground. “Pick a hole that you want to hit to. I want to watch what you do.”

  Owen struggled immediately. This facet of the game was altogether different than the ball striking that he had been doing on the range. “Th . . . Th . . . Th . . . This is hard.” All three practice putts went by the cup.

  “There’s a lot to learn,” J Dub said. “One of the first things to do is to set your hands properly. You can’t break your wrists. Limit the moving parts. I like left hand low. Plus you have to keep your head down. You’re peeking.”

  “A . . . A . . . A . . . All of that?” Owen went after the balls and tried again with the same bad luck.

  “One of the first things you need to be aware of is finding out how the ball will break. Look for the creeks. You know, water runs downhill,” J Dub said. He looked toward the horizon. “Go to the head pro at each course you play and ask them which way the ball will break. At Prairie Winds everything goes toward the Mississippi so make sure you know where the river is before you putt the ball.”

  Owen digested everything that J Dub was saying. He lined the balls up and made better strokes, but suffered the same results.

  “You’ll get it,” J Dub said. He placed two tees on the ground about four feet from the cup. He positioned the tees so that Owen was putting straight uphill with no break in the putt. “Here’s a drill. Bring the putter head back between these two pegs; straight back and straight through. Don’t let the toe or the heel of the putter hit a tee.”

  Paul, Easy Earl and Rollie walked out of the clubhouse and grabbed a seat on a bench to the side of the practice green. “You don’t mind if we watch, do you?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah,” Rollie said, “you’re never too old to learn a putting trick or two.”

  “Go ahead,” J Dub said as Owen continued putting the ball through the pegs toward the hole. After several misses he started to get the hang of it and more and more practice putts started to drop. “There you go. You’re getting it.”

  “These help,” Owen said as he tapped a tee with the toe of the putter. The stuttering was gone and an intent look was on his face. After about ten minutes the kid drained twelve putts in a row.

  “Remember that practice makes perfect,” J Dub reminded him.

  As he saw the twelfth putt go into the cup Rollie yelled as if he was in a farm field. “The kid has some peepers!”

  “And a pretty good stroke too,” Paul added.

  “What did you say his name was, J Dub?” Easy Earl shouted over to the head pro.

  “Owen. Owen Purler.”

  The older man turned back to his buddy on the bench. “His name starts with an O. Those aren’t peepers that he’s got Rollie.” He worked his gums back and forth. “He’s got a set of Opur’s,” Easy Earl justified.

  “To go with that older model blade,” Rollie said. He always spoke extra loud because of his hearing deficiencies. “I bet that putter has been
in the lost-and-found barrel for at least three years.”

  “If he can stroke the ball in the cup like that then I’d say that Opur’s blade is a club that he’ll want to carry in his bag for a long, long time,” Paul suggested.

  Chapter Twenty

  The interstate system around Oklahoma City was similar in design to many of the metropolitan areas in the US. Interstate 35 took cars northward to Kansas City and southward to Dallas. Westbound cars had a choice of taking 1-44 through Lawton and into Texas or 1-40 toward the panhandle of Texas, Amarillo and Albuquerque. Interstate 40 to the east would take travelers to Little Rock and Memphis.

  Eastbound 1-44 was about a nine-hour drive to St. Louis. Nada traveled that stretch of highway many, many times over the years.

  Just south of Oklahoma City and north of Norman the interstates converged. A myriad of truck stops were located here to service the eighteen wheelers that continued to different parts of the country. If those lots proved to be full then rest areas a little way out of town were generally a nice place for truckers to stop. Of course, both places were a great place for a young gal to work if she needed an extra buck or two. Roxie had been double dipping to make ends meet. When she wasn’t busy at the Bare Booty she could easily make it to a truck stop or one of the highway rest areas. It was a little risky, but the world is full of people willing to take a chance. If she met up with the wrong dude, then her life might be in jeopardy. But if she could develop a book of regulars then the extra cash would come in handy when it came time to pay the rent.

  For the most part Roxie was a good girl. She just liked to do bad things—a lot of bad things. All in the spirit of making ends meet.

  It was after midnight. The temperature was hot. A blistering heat wave had stifled the breeze out of the Midwest. The parking lot was jammed with cabs pulling eighteen wheelers. Many had their lights on and engines idling. Air conditioning was a necessity on this particular night.

  The twenty-four/seven diner saw a steady stream of customers going in and out the door. If the truckers weren’t refueling, then the travelers stopped for a snack or souvenir. It was the perfect place for Roxie and two girlfriends to get lost in the throngs of people. And if they simply wanted to sit at the counter or in a booth and sip on coffee they were welcome to do that as well.

  While the country music blared through the speakers it wasn’t unheard of for the trio of young women to get a suggestive whistle or snide comment. Vivianna, with long, stringy blonde hair, wore hip hugger jeans, tennis shoes and a tight t-shirt top. Marquita had dark brown hair with a dyed patch of maroon that hung onto her forehead. She wore short shorts and dark blue heels. A country western shirt unbuttoned halfway covered the top portion of her buxom body. Roxie, dressed in a tight, one-piece pullover sheath looked stunning. The sapphire-colored dress stopped at mid-thigh. With black four inch heels every man with a pulse took notice when she moved through the diner.

  Where they went and what they did in thirty-minute segments was their business, but it wasn’t hard to mistake what they were up to. Their nocturnal clocks made hanging out at the diner in the wee morning hours second nature. And if they went home at dawn with more money than what they started with then their entrepreneurial spirit thrived.

  Roxie was unmistakable. She had high cheekbones that gave her cheeks a caved-in look. Her nose was sharp, almost pointed. The lips thin, yet suggestive. Her mannerisms broadcast a European heritage, not one from the Midwest.

  Sitting in the booth Roxie was erect with perfect posture; shoulders back, chin held high. She moved her head with side-to-side, short attentive jerks. She grabbed her toast with both hands, tearing it in half. Her pinky finger would separate from her hand and rise in the air on every bite. In conversation her hands were in constant motion, very theatrical.

  “Where do I know you from?’ the trucker with a country twang said as he stared at the dark-haired beauty that was sitting in the booth. He was at the counter sipping on a black cup of coffee. He blew on the beverage to cool it down. Then it hit him. “You’ve got a different look in the lights.”

  Roxie smiled. She was a stunner and had no business doing what she was doing. Her great looks would get her through more doors than a vacuum cleaner salesman in a dust storm. “Hope?” She looked at him closer. His belly seemed bigger than it did during the extended lap dance. “Is daut you Nada?” She felt embarrassed.

  He grinned. Then he tore a bill in half. “My place this time.”

  “Da Hilton?” She joined him at the counter, grabbing a stool next to him.

  “No. Da Peterbilt,” he said trying to imitate her accent. “I’ve got a double sleeper cab.”

  “Dey vautch us here.” She placed her half of the bill in her purse. “Show me vitch one.”

  Nada looked out the window and jerked his head to motion her where to look. “Go through that opening. Take a left on the second row. Halfway down on the right is a red Peterbilt.” He rapped on the counter four times. “Knock on the door like that.”

  “I von’t be too far behine.”

  Nada got up, stuffed the bill into his jeans pocket and threw a five dollar bill on the counter for the waitress. Something about him rose Roxie’s passion meter to the red-hot level. She was used to the guys and all of their crap. But the cockiness of this one and the blue-collar, rugged confidence made her want to give him all he could handle. She watched him go out the door and then turned to Marquita. “Don’t vate for me. I’ve got a ride home.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Dis is nice,” Roxie said as she crawled into the sleeper. It was more spacious that some of the others she had been in.

  “It ain’t the Hilton,” Nada said. He couldn’t take his eyes off her posterior. The dress had hiked well up her thighs. He caught a glimpse of her panties and wanted to ravage her with no foreplay.

  “Vee gotta take care of bizness.”

  “My place, my terms,” the trucker said. With his hand on the front of her shoulder he shoved her away.

  The mini-rejection stirred her juices. “Den I guess I go.”

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “I vaunt da money.”

  “You know where it is. You can have it when we’re done.” He grabbed her hand and placed it on his crotch. “You’re close to it now.” The aggressive move made Roxie clench her jaws.

  “Mmm. Nice.”

  “Not even close to what it’s gonna be like.”

  Roxie rubbed harder. “I can tell.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. Her breathing intensified. Even though she had experienced several encounters like this, it was always good to get a heightened desire for something new and strange. And it was what she really wanted.

  “Take your time and enjoy it.”

  There was something about him! Her hand groped his jeans. She clutched harder and rougher. Then Roxie nuzzled her face next to his neck. It was against her nature to have feelings, but she kissed his neck and blew a hot breath into his ear. Then she nibbled on his lobe. “Mmm.”

  Nada could feel her body relax. He squirmed to get his left leg between hers. Roxie’s hips thrust against him. With his right hand he grabbed her hair and gave it a yank. Roxie’s face rose three inches from his neck. She felt the pressure in her throat as her neck was stretched backward. Her hips shoved harder against him. “You like that, don’t you?”

  “All uh vit,” Roxie moaned. She lowered her lips to his. For a split second the kiss was wet and tender. Then he nibbled hard against her lower lip. The gentle bite made her push her hips even harder against him. She inched over so that she was positioned directly atop him. His manhood was positioned exactly where she wanted. Nada placed both hands on her hips and forced her weight downward. “Mmm.”

  Roxie could feel his hands groping her hips. She felt her skirt rise and the cooler air in the cabin hit her bare legs. She felt his finger slip inside her panties. With a hand on each side of his shoulders she pushed her upper torso up off of him. More press
ure thrust their hips together.

  Nada grabbed the bottom of her sheath and yanked it so that only her panties pressed against his jeans. Roxie reached down, grabbed the bottom of the dress and pulled it over her head. She shook her head so that her hair fell comfortably down on her shoulders. Roxie unhooked her bra.

  “You’re beautiful,” Nada said as he ogled her breasts.

  Her hormones were raging. She unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down his zipper. With a lightning-quick move she was down at his feet pulling his jeans off of his legs as he squirmed to raise his hips in the air. The pair was dressed only in underwear.

  With her long hair covering her face, Roxie crawled toward her lover. He wasn’t going to be a john tonight. Her lips found his inner thigh. Her tongue swirled suggestively. She teased her interest. What seemed like an hour only lasted a few minutes. Her left hand searched for his crotch. Nada’s manhood bulged in his underwear. “Vaut have we here?” Roxie’s right hand brushed her hair aside. She looked at her lover’s eyes and grinned.

  “Take it, baby.” Nada couldn’t stand it anymore. He lifted his hips slightly off of the bed, scooted his BVDs to his knees and using his feet flung them against the sleeper wall.

  Roxie’s mouth moved provocatively. She teased while Nada squirmed in anticipation. “Mmm,” she murmured as her lips reached their destination.

  Nada sighed. He enjoyed the moment. Then his right hand reached for her hips. Feeling her panties he rubbed his hand across her buttocks. With a surge of anxiety he wiggled his hand under the elastic and tugged them to her thighs.

  Roxie writhed. Her breathing intensified. With her free arm she pulled her panties down to her ankles and onto the sheets. Their hot bodies steamed.

  “Come on!” Nada uttered.

  “My oh my,” Roxie cried as she examined her catch. “I don’t know about . . .”

  “You know what to do!” Nada rasped his intentions.

  Roxie snickered as she crawled forward slowly. Her face met his, and with a passionate kiss she consented.