Eight stroke maximum per hole. Do not skip holes. Keep balls on course.
No profanity. No alcohol. Only six players per group.
The Minotaur doesn’t foresee any trouble with either set of rules. He chooses a club from the middle of the line and picks an orange ball.
“Hey,” Kelly says playfully. “That’s my color.”
“Hmm,” he says, and tosses her the ball.
“Call it,” Kelly says, and flips a quarter into the air, into the muted tones of twilight. Going up, the coin is hard to see, but as it reaches the apex of its flight the kid behind the counter switches on the lights strung from poles throughout the course. The Minotaur is momentarily blinded.
“Tails,” he says.
“You win,” Kelly says. “Go first.”
Another troubling thing about Honeycutt’s Putt-Putt is the lack of a consistent theme. The design of the course and the obstacles created to make each hole challenging seem random. Greeting players on the first hole is the mechanical mouth of a plywood dragon that jerks and squeaks as it opens and shuts. If you’re lucky enough to get your ball into the barely big-enough space between the teeth, it drops through a short pipe onto a platform surrounded by the dragon’s coiled tail.
The Minotaur misses the first time; his ball bounces off the wedged teeth and rolls to a stop at his feet.
Kelly, of course, makes a hole in one. To be honest the Minotaur would willingly miss every shot to prolong the game. Kelly talks as she happily wins almost every hole. By the fourth hole she’s talking about what she wants to do with her life.
“I’d like to be a physical therapist someday,” she says. “But I don’t do so well with tests.”
“Hmnnn,” the Minotaur says, and tells her he knows what she means.
“I’ve got a friend in Savannah who’s getting a massage license.”
Honeycutt’s Putt-Putt advertises itself as FAMILY FUN on the sign by the entrance. Most nights, however, the place is overrun by delinquents who aren’t old enough to get into the bars. On the eighth hole, as Kelly is about to putt across a narrow arching bridge over a pool of murky green water, out of which rise two very plastic shark fins, a disturbing noise comes from behind them.
“Mooo.”
The call is soft and tentative at first but definitely audible.
“Mooooooo.”
It’s happened before. Without looking the Minotaur knows it’s a group of boys. Usually he is alone and just ignores the taunting.
“Moooo.”
There are four, maybe five of them, playing three holes behind Kelly and the Minotaur. He truly understands the herd mentality of young men. Without being able to name it he could probably go so far as to guess that testosterone plays a major role; the drive itself is as old as he is. Long ago the Minotaur realized that taunting has less to with him than with those who feel the need to belittle others in public, and that the best recourse is to ignore it, which he can do without difficulty when alone.
They play the Statue of Liberty hole and the Frankenstein hole, which are equally monstrous.
“Moo.”
One of the boys makes the sound, then they all giggle as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. But their laughter isn’t any more painful than the animal noises. What disturbs the Minotaur about the boys taunting him tonight is that they’re obviously embarrassing Kelly. He watches a flush of red climb from beneath the collar of her shirt.
“Moo.”
Kelly misses her next putt; the ball ricochets off a rail and gets stuck under the shingled wall of a miniature windmill that is supposed to turn but is broken, so it only makes turning noises.
“Stupid little boys,” she says, and turns to look.
“Mmm,” the Minotaur says, shaking his head. He tells her that, if ignored, they’ll soon be bored with the game. When he kneels to fish her ball out with the head of his putter the tip of his horn gets hung momentarily beneath the large wooden shoe that guards the hole. Kelly takes his arm to help him stand. The Minotaur is right, of course. A couple of holes later the boys are laughing at something else.
The other problem with all these bored kids is that their mischief isn’t confined to rude comments and jokes. Holes one through eight, sixteen, seventeen and eighteen at Honeycutt’s Putt-Putt lie behind and in the shadow of the huge screen of the Fox Triple-X Drive-In. The rest of the holes are situated along a high evergreen hedge backed here and there by a fence made of corrugated tin—neither of which is without gaps—running the length of the drive-in, designed to prevent one set of customers from interfering with the enjoyment of the other.
Early on someone discovered that it was possible to sneak through the fence after dark, to crawl out of the incongruous semi-mechanized disarray of the miniature golf course and into the domain of the Fox Triple-X—where squat steel posts rise out of the ground to bear their twin loads of heavy ovoid speakers with hooks to hang on the car windows, rise in perfect rows and mark space with unswerving regularity—to creep in after sundown and turn up the volume on all the unused speakers bordering the fence.
The Minotaur notices it first. Or maybe Kelly does but pretends not to. She is on thirteen, about to putt up an absurdly steep incline. The hole lies in the center of a fake bird nest at the top of the hill. When the ball goes in the hole an even more fake crow, hanging sideways in a tree overhead, lights up and quacks twice. It’s impossible to see the screen from anywhere on the Putt-Putt course, but to the perceptive there is a feeling in the air of something huge and pornographic flickering nearby, or overhead, or behind the back.
The projected images are captured and contained by the big white screen, but the accompanying soundtrack is a different story.
“Oh. Yes. Oh. Yes. Oh. Yes.”
Kelly whistles as they play.
“Ummph … uckme. Ummph … uckme.”
Kelly looks at the Minotaur and rolls her eyes, feigning nonchalance. The Minotaur wins the hole by one stroke. There is music—insipid waiting-room music—playing behind the tape loop of dialogue. As they move from hole to hole, still unable to see what actions the dialogue accompanies, things begin to work in concert.
“Suck it. Oh, yes, suck my honeypot.”
“In the ass. Now! In the ass.”
The grunts and throaty utterances swell.
“Faster harder faster harder faster.”
Kelly becomes more flustered as the pitch rises, tripping over her feet, unable to keep score.
“Fat cock in my mouth.”
“Yes. Oh, yes. My tits.”
The Minotaur grows more and more self-conscious. Compared to these superhuman feats of endurance—it’s been half an hour at least—and, most likely, this rich endowment, he is no match. The Minotaur has enough sense to realize that, in this area, he is at best a mediocre performer.
“Fill that cunt! Fill it with your ramrod!”
“Auk! Auk! Gnu! Mmmm!”
At least as embarrassing, if not more so, are the wet, slapping, sometimes flatulent sounds of body against body and of things moving in and out of orifices. These are easily enough imagined. Without being able to see what is happening on the screen, when you divide the number of acts, requests and orifices by the number of voices, it seems that some basic laws of nature are being challenged.
“Come! Come! I’m gonna come.”
“Arghh. Squirt, baby.”
“Aaaaa. Eeeee.”
“Iiiiiiiii.”
“Ooooooooo.”
“Uuuuuuuuuuuu.”
It all culminates just as Kelly sinks her orange ball in the cup on the final hole.
“Let’s figure the score in the car,” she says.
When they put their clubs back on the counter the skinny kid doesn’t even look up. The Minotaur puts the ball he was using into his pocket, to keep as a remembrance. Neither of them mentions what they just heard.
Sitting in the Vega with the doors open, Kelly leans on the dash to tally the strokes. “Still,” s
he says. “I’m still the reigning Queen of Putt-Putt.”
Kelly looks at her watch. “I should probably go home, M.”
They ride in an almost comfortable silence. Despite everything it’s been a good evening. The Minotaur pulls the car to a stop in front of Kelly’s house. Feeling more bold than he has in centuries the Minotaur asks the question he’s been thinking about all the way home.
“Again?”
“Soon,” Kelly answers.
She leans close and kisses him on the snout, then quickly gets out of the car. It happens so fast that he has no time to respond. Long after she is inside the house the touch of her lips radiates warmth over the Minotaur’s muzzle.
Back at Lucky-U the Minotaur pulls the candy from under the Vega’s front seat, thinking that maybe next time he will give it to Kelly. Then he notices that the lid of the box is punctured. When he opens it all the candy smells of exhaust fumes. The Minotaur puts a piece in his mouth. It tastes of motor oil. He chews it slowly, then swallows.
CHAPTER 24
Reprieve. Into the Minotaur’s life there occasionally comes a reprieve from the inevitable loneliness, relentless and exhausting, that is endured by those who live forever. These moments of reprieve are dangerous times, though. When looking out at eternity it’s easy to lose sight of the past, to repeat the same mistakes. If not careful the Minotaur can be seduced by a turn of luck—can be blinded, so to speak. In these sweet and rare moods he’s prone to acting hastily.
“What is that thing?” J. C. Crews asks the Minotaur. He’s standing by his truck with an oily brown lunch bag clutched in one hand, waiting for his brothers and looking out at the road.
“Corn dogs,” the Minotaur says of the concession trailer, trying out the words in his mouth, hoping that they will be explanation enough.
“Oh,” J. C. says, apparently satisfied.
Last night the Minotaur dreamed he was washing the Vega. When he woke his palms were damp. This morning he has a hose stretched from the spigot at the back of Sweeny’s house and is filling a bucket with soapy water. It’s early, and he wants to finish the job before the day heats up.
D. W. and A. J. come out of the trailer together. They’re arguing loudly. Something about a half-gallon of curdled milk, but the Minotaur isn’t sure what.
“What’s that?” D. W. asks, looking at the trailer.
“Corn dogs,” J. C. says.
“Oh.”
“Morning, M,” A. J. says. “Washing your car?”
Creamy white foam swells and begins to spill over the side of the bucket; an imitation-lemon scent fills the air. The Minotaur labors through an explanation of going after the concession trailer with Sweeny. The Crewses are, if anything, patient at listening.
“You ought to buy that thing, M,” D. W. says before climbing into the truck. “Being a chef and all.”
“Hmm.”
“You’d be your own boss,” A. J. says.
“And get to do a lot of traveling,” J. C. adds.
They drive away. The Minotaur waits for the dust to settle before hosing down the Vega—roof first, hood and hatchback, both sides, then some extra time on the wheels and tires. He fishes a rag, a piece cut from an old apron, out of the soapy water and begins washing the roof with big figure-eight motions. A pair of hummingbirds circles around and feeds in the mimosa blooms overhead, their wing beats impossibly frantic. The Minotaur washes the hood and hatchback, then squirts off all the soap. He has forgotten a brush for the wheels and goes to find one in his trailer.
Jules and Marvin are playing on their front porch when he comes back. They take turns hitting a little metal car with a hammer. The Minotaur kneels to scrub the Vega’s tires. By the time he finishes washing the car the boys, drawn by the spraying water, the potential for mud, have moved closer to him. Wearing only cutoff shorts, their skinny trunks and limbs brown from half a summer of sun, they chase each other around and around the nandina bushes. Marvin pelts Jules with handful after handful of the small round berries.
Josie’s car is parked behind the Vega. The hose will reach, and the Minotaur feels generous. It takes him only a few minutes to wash her car. As the Minotaur rinses the soapy water from the roof Jules runs under the cascading spray, then Marvin. And again. The soap is long gone, but the Minotaur continues to spray, overshooting the car each time the boys run by. In no time the pretense of rinsing the car is abandoned, and Jules and his brother race around as eager giggling targets while the Minotaur chases them with a stream of water.
“Marvin!”
It’s Josie, yelling from inside the trailer.
“Jules!”
It’s hard to say whether she sounds any angrier than usual.
“Stop bothering M!” she says. “Get back on the porch.”
Reluctantly the kids return, dripping, and resume the destruction of their toy. The Minotaur empties the soapy water in the side yard and washes the bucket out. He disconnects the hose and loops it around his elbow and extended thumb. After putting everything away the Minotaur goes back to the Vega, where the box of chocolates, minus one, sits on the seat. He picks a piece randomly and eats it, decides they’re good enough, then takes the candy to Jules and Marvin.
The Minotaur is about to go into the trailer when he hears the squeal of braking tires out on the road, then a rattling muffler and the whine of a car in reverse. It’s pulling into the driveway, the car he can’t see. He hears a flurry of slamming doors—one, maybe two from the car, then Sweeny’s front door. Not wanting to seem nosy, the Minotaur waits a few minutes. To give the illusion of purpose he takes a large monkey wrench from the toolbox in the back of the Vega, then ambles up the driveway and around the house.
It’s hard to be unobtrusive with a pair of horns, but Sweeny is so busy talking to the three men who circle the concession trailer, opening and closing the door and crawling underneath, that no one notices the Minotaur. By moving close to the trees and bushes he’s able to get within earshot.
Exactly what the relationships among the three men are is unclear. They don’t look enough alike to be brothers, but there are similarities in demeanor and dress. All three favor a plaid short-sleeve shirt, a little too small, a pocket on each breast, buttoned to the neck. And cowboy boots. One of the men does most of the talking.
“We come up and down this road all the time,” he says.
“That so?” Sweeny responds. He’s a natural salesman who always lets the customer lead the conversation and never gives a hard pitch.
“Seen this thing sitting here yesterday,” the man says.
“Just brought it up from Florida,” Sweeny says.
“Y’all handle some pretty good merchandise.”
“It ain’t hard,” Sweeny says. “Folks is always stopping to sell me something. Had a fella come by here the other day trying to sell me a old waterlogged church bus.”
The man looks around Sweeny’s yard.
“I weren’t interested,” Sweeny says.
The other two men scrutinize the trailer carefully—so carefully that it makes the Minotaur anxious. They talk mostly to each other, and although he hears only snatches of it the seriousness of their conversation adds to the Minotaur’s anxiety.
“… have to hang a rack right here.”
“That’d be no problem.”
“Yeah, but if we had …”
The Minotaur is not one to impudently abuse his position, that position being one of a creature half man and half bull, a creature potentially frightening to anyone unprepared for him. To the contrary he would much rather go unseen or unnoticed most of the time. But as each moment passes and Sweeny still talks to the three men, the possibility of a deal being struck grows.
“Twenty-five hundred,” Sweeny says.
It takes the Minotaur’s breath. He has no definite plan. He doesn’t have anywhere near that kind of money. But the mere mention of a price makes him act.
“Unngh.” It’s a grunt more than anything else, and louder tha
n he intended. The man talking to Sweeny looks up and catches the Minotaur’s eye, which leaves the Minotaur no choice. He inhales deeply, from the belly up, filling his chest. He holds his head erect, horns straight, then walks toward them.
“Morning, M,” Sweeny says.
If fear is what he hopes for, the Minotaur is disappointed. The men acknowledge his presence with little more than nods and furrowed brows. There is a noticeable sag to the Minotaur’s shoulders. The man talking with Sweeny joins his friends. The three of them look the concession trailer over again from top to bottom. They speak in hushed tones, but their gestures make some disagreement apparent.
“What you need, bud?” Sweeny asks.
“Unnh,” the Minotaur says. Nothing.
He and Sweeny watch the three men. After a few minutes the talker comes over.
“We got to chew on this thing for a little bit,” he says, looking Sweeny in the eye.
“She’ll set there until she sells,” Sweeny says.
“Fair enough.”
All three of the men climb into the front seat of their car from the passenger side. When they back out on to the road the Minotaur notices that the driver’s door is tied shut with twine.
“Hmm,” Sweeny says, and goes back into his house.
CHAPTER 25
I got killed this weekend,” David says. He’s balancing a stack of clean ashtrays in his hands and watching the Minotaur fillet a three-foot salmon that hangs off the cutting board at both ends.
“Took a load of grapeshot in the belly.”
“Mmm,” the Minotaur says. If the blade is good and you’re sensitive enough you can feel it riding over each of the ribs coming down the spine. The Minotaur pulls the flesh away from the bones, and the redness of the meat fairly screams against the white plastic cutting board.
David takes the ashtrays out to the smoking section, then comes back with more details.
The Minotaur: Takes a Cigarette Break Page 21
