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

by James Ross

  After stepping the pace up a notch he decided to break into an easy jog just to see what his body could handle. Before his surgery he could barely go forty yards before stopping. He was curious to see if he could jog farther than that. To his own amazement he blew past the forty yard mark and easily surpassed one hundred yards. His breathing was fine and he was not fatigued, so he kept the pace. With every deep breath, he could feel the bounce coming back in his step. He knew that the muscles in his legs would be sore the next day, but he wanted to challenge himself and see what kind of workout he could handle. As he jogged he easily came to the point where he had started. One lap was done and he had plenty of spark left. Yes. We’re going to beat this cancer thing, he thought as he wound the workout down. Rather than stopping he continued walking at a brisk pace.

  “Hey, that was pretty good for an old man,” Justin kidded Curt as the boys came around to lap him. Curt smiled and gave them a thumbs up. Just to be working out and breaking a sweat meant that life was coming back into his body.

  The trio knew the morning routine. The boys finished jogging and Curt drove them back to the clubhouse where they cleaned up and had a small breakfast. “What sort of errands do you want us to do?” Justin asked as he discarded a banana peel into the trash can.

  “It’s going to be a while before the guys get in here to play. Why don’t you guys go out and fill up the ball washers with soap and water, move the tee markers, and empty the trash can on every tee?” Curt suggested. “All you’ll have to do is make one stop on every hole. Strap a trash can on the back of one of the carts and take a few trash bags for the empty cans. We want to recycle those.” He looked at the boys. “We’ve done it before. You guys know the program.”

  “Why aren’t you going to go out with us?” Keith wondered.

  Curt shook his head back and forth. “My head isn’t feeling one hundred percent. I want to take an anti-nausea pill and a long, hot shower. You guys go and we’ll play golf when you get back.”

  Justin reached for some liquid soap behind the counter and handed two plastic trash bags to Keith. The boys headed for the door. “See you later,” Justin said over his shoulder as the boys exited the door. They continued to the cart barn. Justin filled several plastic jugs with water while Keith strapped a trash can onto the back of a golf cart. The straps that were intended for golf bags secured the can.

  “I can’t wait to play golf today!” Justin shouted at Keith as the two boys headed away from the cart barn and onto the golf course. “Let’s hurry up and get this done. I want to get back here!” The duo started at the eighteenth green and traveled backwards. That was the way that Curt had taught them.

  The boys were focused and going about their business as fast as they could go. They had finished nearly three-fourths of what they had to do when they encountered a group of golfers playing on the sixth hole. Rather than drive down the cart path they took a roundabout way to the next tee box. As they came over the crest of a large hill Keith hollered what most innocent teenagers would holler. “Come on! Race ya!” He stepped on the accelerator and drove off down the hill.

  There weren’t any speed controls on the golf cart and the hill provided the perfect locale to pick up momentum. Keith was moving awfully fast when he hit a depressed area that had been caused by the settling of the dirt after a sprinkler line had been installed. The bump sent him skyward off the seat several inches. His grip on the steering wheel kept him from flying out of the cart. The near-miss scared him. He moved his foot from the accelerator to the brake and depressed the pedal in an effort to slow down.

  When pressure to the brake was applied the brakes locked up. The dew that covered the top of the grass caused the rear of the cart to fish-tail. In an instant he was sideways, sliding out of control. The dynamics of the cart couldn’t perform properly under the conditions. The golf cart went into a side-to-side roll hurling Keith into the air. After he landed the trash can tore away from the straps and landed on top of him just seconds before the cart rolled over the top of him.

  In a split second the episode was over. It happened so fast. Keith lay motionless as the cart rolled over a time or two and came to a stop. Justin arrived on the scene within seconds. His friend wasn’t moving. “Keith! Keith! Are you okay?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  One of the golfers in the group that the boys had gone past witnessed the incident from the green that the foursome was putting on. He ran off of the green and grabbed the cell phone that was in his cart. The phone rang in the clubhouse. “Prairie Winds,” Curt answered.

  “There’s been a terrible accident out here on the course. I’ve called 9-1-1! Get out here!” the voice shouted.

  “Who is this?” Curt questioned.

  “Gary Lake,” the voice responded. “I teed off early with some guys. Two kids in a cart had an accident on number six!”

  “What happened?” Curt asked as his mind raced through the possible scenarios.

  “They flipped one of the carts!”

  “Damn!” Curt hung up the phone. Oh my goodness! I hope that nothing has happened to Justin . . . Or Keith for that matter. Dammit! I shouldn’t have let them go out by themselves! I knew the grass was wet! “Julie, keep an eye on things and send the help out to number six when they get here.” He bolted out the door and jumped on the nearest cart.

  Curt’s mind was in a panic mode not knowing exactly what happened or who was hurt. All he knew was that a cart had flipped over. He didn’t know if Justin and Keith were together . . . . or if one was dead . . . or had a broken neck . . . or they both were hurt.

  As he came through some trees and rounded a curve Curt noticed a group huddled around a figure lying on the ground. He squinted, trying to get his eyes focused on the crowd. Damn! I’ve got to get that lasik surgery. I can’t see crap anymore. He peered harder at the group. What was Justin wearing this morning? As Curt got closer and closer to the accident scene he noticed a mangled golf cart lying upside down. Then he saw Justin standing next to one of the men. Thank goodness! Now I hope Keith is okay.

  “How’s the boy?” Curt asked as he drove up. One of the golfers wiggled his hands. “How is . . . ?” Then he caught himself and whispered, “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

  The golfer nodded his head up and down. “He’s complaining about his shoulder and he’s got a pretty good bump on his head. Mostly he’s scared.”

  Curt wedged his way into the other men that were calming Keith down. “Keith, Keith.” He reached down to brush the hair back on the boy’s forehead. “It’s Curt.”

  Keith grimaced. “I’m sorry I wrecked your cart, Curt. You gave us responsibility and I let you down.” Tears welled in his eyes more from the regret of disappointing Curt than from the injury.

  “The heck with the cart,” Curt said. “How are you? That’s the most important thing.”

  One of the men turned to Curt. “He’s hurt his shoulder, but he can move his legs and feet. I don’t think that anything real severe has occurred.”

  Curt turned back to Keith. “Just lay still for a few more minutes. We’ve got help on the way. They’ll get you to the emergency room as soon as they can.” He reached down and squeezed Keith’s hand. “Hang in there a little while longer until they get here. What’s your mom’s number?”

  A few minutes after that the paramedics showed up and administered first aid. Keith was placed into the ambulance and taken to Spilker General Hospital. He was coherent and alert. That was a good sign. The shock and initial surprise had run its course.

  Curt and Justin traveled back to the clubhouse and then continued on to the hospital. They hurried into the waiting area of the emergency room. A haggard, middle-aged woman sat in a chair and nervously twisted a handkerchief in her lap. She had a simple, almost timid look about her. “Are you Keith’s mom?” Curt asked.

  She forced a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, I’m Lisa Pucchio. Is Keith going to be alright?”

  “Hi, I’m Curt Schroeder. I think so.” He
gave her a reassuring nod. “We talked to him on the golf course before the ambulance drove him over here. He was scared and apologetic about wrecking the cart.”

  “I hope he’s okay,” Lisa began. “You’ve been such an influence on him this summer. His whole personality has changed.”

  “We’re just trying to help a couple of good boys out a little,” Curt replied.

  “My husband and I really want to thank you. We would never be able to provide an experience like this for Keith. This is the opportunity that he’ll remember all his life.”

  Curt shrugged. “We’re glad to be in that situation.”

  “No, I really mean it. We would never be able to give him anything like this.” The doctor came out and directed the trio to a cubicle in the emergency room. “Are you okay?” Lisa said as she rushed to Keith’s side.

  Keith shook his head up and down. “My shoulder hurts a little.” He was in better spirits, but apologetic. “I’m sorry, Curt.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Material things can get fixed. It’s not so easy with body parts and lives,” Curt said. He turned to the doctor. “What’s the damage?”

  “He’s got a broken collarbone and a mild concussion. He took a pretty good jolt, but should be as good as ever in a couple of months. He’ll need six to eight weeks for his collarbone to heal,” the doctor detailed.

  Justin looked at his friend. “Well,” he drawled, “I guess you wrapped up your summer vacation this morning.”

  “I guess,” Keith conceded, “but it wasn’t the way that I wanted it to end.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  With the events of the day, Justin missed out on the round of golf that Curt had promised him. The guys were well out on the course by the time he and Curt had returned from the emergency room. The summer was winding down. Curt promised him that they would get out before the cold weather hit. The most important thing was that Curt wanted to make sure that the debt owed to Mr. McCormick had been satisfied. Despite the disappointment of not being able to play, Justin understood the circumstances that surrounded it. Curt assured him that they would have ample time to enjoy a few more fun moments before he had to go back to school.

  Justin didn’t have to wait too long for the next “guys only” event. A few days later he was sitting at the counter munching on a sandwich when all hell broke out at the back table. Captain Jer was getting his butt handed to him in a gin game. The more he drank, the more it happened. Rather than accept his losses and pay the tab, he “accidentally-on-purpose” tipped his can of beer over soaking the cards and covering the table.

  “Dammit, Jerry! You did it again!” Fred screamed as he scurried up from his chair before the beer found its way off the side of the table and into his lap. “That’s about the fourth time you’ve done that this summer.”

  “It was an accident,” Captain Jer cooed. He laughed at Fred. “I didn’t know you could move so fast.”

  Fred was livid. “My ass it was an accident!” Not only was he upset, but he knew that the tactic would save Captain Jer from paying four bucks in debts. Pork Chop, BT, and Paco also jumped up from the table. They reached for some bar rags to soak up the suds.

  “This just in,” the newscaster on the cable sports television network announced over the airwaves. A “News Flash” bulletin splashed across the screen. “Prized thoroughbred race horse SmileFoYoMomma was destroyed earlier this morning after shattering his leg in the Amabala Stakes race in Muscle Shoals, Alabama on Saturday. A syndication owned by NBA star Phenocalvinous Snow decided that euthanasia . . .”

  “Hey, that reminds me,” Pork Chop blurted. “We have to go over to Hoof and Bridle Park next week for their end-of-the-year extravaganza. It’s a lunchtime card with an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

  “I should have known there’d be food involved,” BT added.

  “ . . . And hopefully some beer,” Captain Jer said with a grin.

  “Yeah, but that’s normally the day when they have the jockey’s race,” Pork Chop said.

  “You mean the jockeys run around the track?” Paco inquired.

  “No. No. No. All you foreigners keep getting everything confused,” Pork Chop scowled. “That’s the race where the jockeys fix the race and clean everybody out. We know Alley Cat.”

  “What the heck is an Alley Cat?” Paco asked as his confusion multiplied.

  “I know what the hell an alley cat is,” Pork Chop started, “but this guy’s name is Alley Cat. He’s the star jockey over there. He’s one of your kind, Paco. You know, from south of the border.” Pork Chop grinned at Paco and then gave him a disgusting look. “It’s Alvarez Catamaran. He’s about as big of a crook as the politicians in the state of Illinois.” Pork Chop stopped and reflected. “Thank goodness I live in Missouri. At least they’re not as blatant about it over there.”

  “What day next week is the end-of-the-year event?” Fred asked.

  “I think its Thursday. Let’s play golf bright and early and get to the track by noon,” Pork Chop proposed.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  The next Thursday rolled around before the guys knew what hit them. Everyone showed up and they teed off at six-thirty in the morning. It was a self-declared men’s day for the group. Their goal was to get around the golf course as quickly as they could and make it to the track well before the first race. That would give them ample time to go through the buffet line and spread the racing forms out to figure out their winners.

  Curt explained to Justin what the rules of the game were on this day. He told Justin that he would let him play a few shots on the course, but they would save their round together for a time that was more appropriate. The focus on the round of golf this morning was all about getting done in record time. The main event of the day was going to be centered on going to the race track and he was going to be included in that. Justin understood and was looking forward to his first trip ever to the horse track and doing it with the guys.

  With the early tee time the guys got around the golf course and were finished by ten. Pork Chop gathered everyone in the clubhouse and made an announcement. “I’ve called over to the track and got the general manager to reserve a table for us in the pit on the lower level. It’s right across from the buffet. That will give us the chance to either watch the races on closed circuit television or we can go outside to the picnic tables set up by the finish line. I think we’re better off if we stay in a group. We’ll leave in fifteen minutes.”

  The competition for the gambling dollar in the St. Louis Metro area was fierce. The horse racing industry had taken a back seat to the casinos that had rolled into town. Hoof and Bridle Park was trying to pull out all the stops to keep their doors open. The political route that they were pursuing was trying to get a license for other gaming devices as well as off-track betting licenses that allowed pari-mutuel betting on closed circuit satellite feeds from other tracks around the country.

  In an attempt to attract the African-American bettors, the owners of Hoof and Bridle Park had instructed their marketing department to come up with a catchy slogan to attract minorities and have them develop an interest in horse racing. After weeks and weeks of sending out surveys and getting customer reaction, the marketing geniuses for the track thought that they may have found the answer.

  Set to an inner city gangsta rap tune, Hoof and Bridle Park hit the airwaves and television stations with a local rapper named MiSSuS CuLe BReeZe SiSTa GiNeLLe. Dressed in four-inch diamond studded, high heeled, knee-high crimson-colored velvet boots, and platinum-colored short shorts covered in sequins MiSSuS CuLe BReeZe SiSTa GiNeLLe made out to be quite the spokesperson for Hoof and Bridle Park. Brandishing a revealing, sleeveless blue-jeans vest, the tattooed rapper blared over and over, “Every minute twenty-fo . . . the place goes pho-bic.” The track altered their post times to start a new race every twenty-four minutes.

  The caravan of cars from the golf course showed up about forty-five minutes before the first post time. All the guys had taken Pork Chop�
��s advice and pulled their cars into the valet area. Dr. DV drove Captain Jer in case the obvious occurred. Fred drove his own car in the event he had to leave early to take a nap before the night shift. Curt drove Justin and BowTye over to the track. J Dub turned the pro shop over to Julie and showed up with Paul and BT. Paco and Elia, the two foreigners, drove their own jalopies because the other guys were too scared to get in them.

  They hadn’t been inside the gate two minutes when Fred turned to Pork Chop. “What the hell is going on around here? Is this a federal holiday or something?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s Reverend Theopholus DeShawn Yukon MacIttadande Day,” Pork Chop noted.

  “Who the hell is that?” Fred wondered out loud.

  “That Irish preacher,” Captain Jer quipped. He headed straight for the beer line.

  Fred rolled his eyes as the group made their way to the table by the buffet line that Pork Chop had reserved. It was merely an extended folding table that a person would see in a cafeteria environment. The top was stained. The chairs were nothing more than metal folding chairs. The floor in the pit was concrete. The few ceiling fans didn’t even move the stale, muggy air, let alone the layer of cigarette smoke.

  “Boy, you moved us right to the front of the line, didn’t you?” Fred said as he looked at Pork Chop in disgust. “I feel like I’m in a bingo hall.”

  “Just relax,” Pork Chop urged the group. “We’re here for the fun and friendship. Where else can you come on a ten-cent budget and try to win thousands?”

  “I’m going to get some food,” Fred beamed. He headed for the buffet line and took one look at what was offered. The menu included fried chicken, deep-fried onion rings as well as deep-fried okra, beer-battered scallops, gizzards, macaroni and cheese, creamed green spinach, turnips, beets, pepperoni pizza by the slice, and barbecued pork cutlets. At the other end of the line were offerings of chili, refried beans, tamales, country-fried steak, biscuits and gravy along with popcorn, cornbread, and hush puppies. “If this isn’t a heart attack waiting to happen, then I don’t know what is,” he turned and said to anybody willing to listen.