BACK NINE THE AUSTIN GOLF CLUB STORIES

RED GREENS, PART 2

Sputnik Ludlow, revived by the shower and sandwich provided by the staff of the Austin Golf Club, retreated to his lair at Hancock Shopping Center. He paced among the stores that sold sewer-fishing gear and used dentures, thinking of ways to take over the golf course and establish a people’s republic, a place where the common folk could set the rules and live in dignity and mutual respect.             His buddy, Hap Penis, not recognizing Ludlow because of the new clothes rescued from the golf course’s lost and found, came up from behind and hit his friend on the head with a brick. As he rifled through the pockets of the face-down figure, Hap was knocked over by a pair of women wearing stockings over their heads. One sat on his back while the other stole his shoes. Job completed, they kicked him in the ribs a few times and took off.             Ludlow slowly rolled over and sat up, checking the back of his head successfully for blood. He saw his groaning friend next to him. “Hap, what happened?”             Hap, confused by the recognition of Sputnik, was speechless for a moment. “Uh, I was just about to catch up with you and say hello when these two broads jumped us. They stole my shoes.” They both then noticed Hap had a couple of wadded up bills in his hand and Sputnik’s pocket was inside-out. “Uh, here. I got this away from them during the fight. They were tough old hags, but I scared them off finally.” He handed the money to Sputnik. “Hey, where’d you get those ugly clothes?”             Sputnik thought a second. Did he want to tell Hap about being given a shower, clothes, sandwich, and beer by the Austin Golf Club staff? Wouldn’t Hap say “Didn’t I tell you golfers aren’t any worse than anyone else?” Sputnik stood up and said, “I got in a fight with an arrogant golfer who was looking in our parking lot for a lost ball. I told him to get back to his plantation and leave us slaves alone. He ended up without his stupid golf clothes.”             “You’re crazy, man. They’re gonna come after us.”             “Bring it on.”             *     *     *   Reggie Penworthy had just purchased a series of eighteen sculptures made from manhole covers and fire hydrants at the annual “Art from the Streets” festival that consisted entirely of works done by the homeless. Reggie hadn’t had one of his Tee Parties in several months. What had once been monthly parties where the Austin Golf Club’s owner had artworks installed as the front and back tee markers on each of the nine holes had become boring to Penworthy, a man given to whim and caprice. But seeing these sculptures inspired him. A vision of hosting a Tee Party that included the wayfarers who haunted Hancock Center, an occasion where all met on an equal playing field and shared life’s bounty, filled Penworthy with a sense of self-beatification. He would make it so.             *     *     *   “The first Hancock slime mold that slithers across Red River I’ll shoot between the eyes…or maybe legs,” opined Major Saul, sipping his afternoon gin and vinegar on the verandah overlooking the ninth green.             Paul B, enjoying the first of his Falstaffs from a table as far away from Major Saul as he could get, began to point out that although slime molds were more intelligent than the major, they had neither eyes nor legs. But he thought better of it.             When the word went out about the impending Tee Party, the club went into predictable camps of support, opposition, fear, denial, and—in Paul B’s case—boredom. Most would have dismissed his reaction as the crotchetiness of an aging crank or perhaps the ennui of a jaundiced intellectual. But it was Paul B simply seeing the great wheel of life’s next flat tire. There would be arguing, false compromise, some sort of event where people acted stupidly and cowardly and—with luck—kindly. And then nothing would change. Or, more properly, the change, whether for good or evil, would be so incremental that Paul B couldn’t stand the minuteness. It was an insult. He had better things to do, like play golf.   *     *     *   The varied reactions of the members of the Austin Golf Club to the Tee Party were fun-house mirrored by the habitués of Hancock Center. Whipped up by Sputnik Ludlow to see it as the first battle of the revolution, some felt warlike, others fearful. Some saw it as a chance to mingle with the swells and felt nervous and prom-nightish. A few saw it as the safe swinging open and felt rapacious. The many who were simply hungry saw it as a cartoon roast rabbit floating just ahead.   Reggie Penworthy remained deaf to the cacophony of emotions and planned for an evening of finger food, varietal wines, bagpipes, flaming torch juggling, and laser skywriting.             Major Saul remained ballistic. He tried unsuccessfully to round up those who had formed his militia in the earlier Tee Party kerfuffle, even going so far as to ask Paul B, whom he knew had served in the Army as a file clerk. In the end, Major Saul decided it was he and he alone who could be counted on. Thus he would need significant firepower. A Gatling gun would be perfect, but his had been taken away by the ATF after the unsuccessful invasion of College Station. He would have to settle for his homemade flame thrower and hand grenades and land mines and cluster bombs and mortars.             Paul B remained bored. But tiny cracks began opening in his ponderings about the event. He hated to think big, but a very large idea was eating at his pococurantism.   *     *     *   The setting sun highlighted the flapping flags of the nine holes at the Austin Golf Club. Caterers zipped among the nine tee boxes setting up buffets. A bagpiper began to inflate.         A line of Hancock Centrists gathered along Red River Street, ready to cross as a group. Sputnik Ludlow’s cadre held a red flag (actually a burgundy Snuggie) aloft. The social climbers balanced on mismatched high heels. The hungry drooled.             Major Saul began to pack up his cache of munitions in preparation for his attack. He was surprised by how light the cases were.             Paul B circled behind the now-empty Hancock Center and began placing stacks of munitions at crucial points. He surveyed the shuttered shops and empty walkways. Nary a soul. He brought together the fuses from the half-dozen stacks and began attaching them to the detonator. That stack would crumple Sears; that one the doormat factory; that one the loading docks that served as the dormitory for hundreds; that one the glue-sniffing emporium; that one the shoe cafeteria; that one the blood plasma pub. Perhaps the rubble could be used to build an interesting hazard for the new/old back nine.             As he raised the plunger, Paul B, in spite of himself, foresaw a much-changed future: criminal investigations, endless tasks associated with reacquiring the back nine and rebuilding, displaced sad sacks. He tried to envision a verdant golf course but saw the worst kind of work and, in puny irony, less time to golf and to lounge.             In the distance he heard the screech of a bagpipe playing “Satisfaction.”             “Maybe I’ll go blow him up instead.”             © Red Wassenich May 2009 Back Nine home page | Back Nine table of contents | Next story If you would like to be notified when a new story appears, send us an email at backninestories@gmail.com. Back Nine: The Austin Golf Club Stories Web site founded April 2008 All stories copyright of the authors. May not be reproduced without permission (the stories, not the authors).