Back Nine: The Austin Golf Club Stories

In the event, it turned out that Smokey’s closely distant relative Jehosephat had lost his job as head plumber at Sears Roebuck in Hancock Center (the former site of the lamentedly lost back nine holes of the Austin Golf Club). It seems he had thrice been caught removing spare parts from the workshop, which he was taking home in a vain attempt to combine the various pieces of used automobiles adorning his frontyard to create a new form of hybrid that he referred to alternately as The Studevette or The Vairlane, depending on which version he was tinkering with at the time.

The first time he’d been caught, Jehosephat had expressed his deep remorse and promised from the bottom of his heart that he’d never do it again. With disappointment and with stern warnings, the Sears Human Resources department Chief Engineer had reluctantly decided to give him a second chance.

The next time he’d been caught, Fats had expressed his even more deeper remorse, had stated his surprise that he’d let down the side again, and promised from the deepest nether reaches of his soul that he’d absolutely positively never do it again. This time, the HR Chief Engineer put him on official probation, with written warnings, and, with severe misgivings, had given him one last chance.

The third time he was caught, Fats did not bother to return to work from his lunch that day.

It had been the 644^th time that he’d lifted things from the workshop, so he figured his batting average was still pretty good, and his future continued to look as bright as ever. He actually made less money working for Sears than he could make as an independent contractor. It was a seller’s market for plumbing skills in Austin at that time.

For this reason it was not so easy for Sears to fill the open position of head plumber. Fats’s second-in-command, Rivers, had been second-in-command plumber at Sears for 37 years, and was not considered a candidate to move up into the head plumber role. The HR Chief Engineer posted the position internally, and waited to see if any applicants presented themselves, which they did not. Advertising in the newspaper was considered too costly.

Meanwhile, Rivers and Fats were conducting private conversations about the matter. Rivers was able to fill in for the absent head plumber in the interim, by working overtime and by lowering the expectations of the internal customers, that is, restrooms were out of order longer, and running water was understood to be a luxury at Sears for awhile.

Rivers – who was tangentially related to Smokey though they never let on, owing to their somewhat different racial histories – knew of a certain granddaughter called Trigger who, though lacking any formal education, training, or experience in electronics, had demonstrated remarkable skill making recalcitrant home appliances work, in fact she was something of a savant with hotwiring cable TV access and wireless networks, such that her block in East Austin was the hang-out for the dozen or so most advanced hackers in Austin’s high schools, plus her girlfriends who were addicted to cable reruns of MTV “On the Road” episodes, which they watched from 3 to 6 p.m. each weekday while they did their homework and made fun of the hackers, who ignored the girls out of well-placed fear of being rejected.

It was Rivers’s idea that Trigger could be called upon on an as-needed basis, as a consultant, to come in and help out at Sears by gerry-rigging the plumbing system whenever it went kaput. This plan was enacted, which worked well for all parties: The Chief Engineer saved on his budget by keeping the head plumber position open; and Rivers processed Trigger’s generous invoices for payment, which they split 50/25/25: 50% for Trigger, 25% for Rivers, and 25% for Jehosephat who performed the service of providing official inspection stickers signed by a licensed plumber (his own self).

One clear September afternoon, as Rivers and Trigger sat on boxes in the loading dock behind Sears, idly chatting about the various doings of Rivers’s 23 other grandchildren, Jehosephat rounded the corner and greeted them warmly. He had a proposition to proffer, which usually made for interesting if not always intelligible listening.

“They’s a fella over there, he’s got this idee, to make some improvements to this here property. He’s looking for partners. Says they’s a good profit for the having. Says he just needs a little help with the infrystricture. Wants to know if you’d like to hear a little more about it.”

Trigger and Rivers had to admit that this was accurate. They agreed to meet with the fella, a Mister Paul Bee, that evening at the VFW hall, together with Smokey who also seemed to be in the mix somehow.

Austin’s Post 22 of the Veterans of Foreign Wars was founded shortly after World War I. Its membership had reached over 100 in its heyday following WWII. Nowadays its rolls numbered 7, or 8 if you included Smokey, who had never once paid dues (“Not a joiner. Never been,” he explained if asked).

Post 22’s activities mainly centered around good works, like helping the nearby 7-Eleven sell all the beer in its inventory, or sponsoring a Little League team by paying for its uniforms and throwing an end-of-season party at the Post’s hall, which the mothers all attended because they just didn’t think that the Post 22 VFW hall seemed like a safe place for pre-teens. It had something to do with the fact that the floor had not been mopped since 1948, and that the party balloons had been re-used each year since then, by being re-blown up by the spittle- and tobacco-inflected lips of the veterans.

Smokey, Fats, Rivers, and Trigger sat in the dark hall, waiting for the arrival of Mr. Bee. Smokey had described him as “a big old boy with crazy hair and kinda a funny look about him. Ya don’t wanna say too much, cuz there’s no telling what he might come back at ya with”.

The door flew open and a large, stooped figure staggered in, clutching his face as though injured. The golfhound Geronimo had slipped in with him. The four rushed over to him, Trigger grabbing his arm to support him and Smokey peering up into his face. Suddenly Paul B straightened and rose to full height, pushing Trigger and Smokey away.

“Work! We’ve got work to do!” he announced stentoriously, and strode to the end of the room where an empty table sat. He whirled around to face them, pointed to Smokey and then to Fats and to Rivers, “You! You and you! You’ll be lookouts! And you…” he turned to look at Trigger, “You are the brains of the outfit!”

The four just stared at him, trying to decipher what the lurid purple blotch on his cheek was. Dried blood? Ink? A tattoo? Some kind of disfigurement?

“I’ve been working in the garage, and I think I’m onto something! Does the word bioterrorism mean anything to you?”

There was a pause as the five (including Geronimo) stared at him, wondering what he was talking about. Trigger broke the silence.

“Bioterrorism means bad business to me, that’s what it means. You look like you’ve about poisoned yourself, Mister. What you up to anyway?”

Paul B regarded her carefully. “You don’t want to know. All’s you have to do is to play your part, and you’ll be just fine. Let me worry about the what and the why and the wherefores. Now tell me, what is your plan?”

Smokey sidled over to Jehosephat and whispered something in his ear. Fats took a slow look at Smokes, and then murmured something in Rivers’s ear. Rivers snapped his head back, then slowly began to nod. Rivers stepped over to Trigger and motioned to her to step outside with him. In three minutes they returned. Trigger’s face showed a combination of anxiety and delight.

“Alright team, here’s the plan,” she said.

* * *

That night, around 2 a.m., the five conspirators gathered at the VFW hall. All the preparations had been made. All of the nightwatchmen in Hancock Center had somehow perceived that it would be in the best interests of them and their families if they were a good distance away from Hancock Center for awhile that night. It was a common trait of nightwatchmen to have an uncanny sense of when something was up, and to know whether that which was up was something they should try to get involved with, or was something they should get the heck out of the way of. There was a strangely ineffable quality in the air that night (a tornado was brewing some miles southwest, just outside Utopia, and it would destroy nine RVs and twelve chicken coops that night), which said to these worthies: Out the way.

Trigger sat at her laptop, from which she had established remote control of the Sears electrical system. According to her calculations, a short in the computer-controlled plumbing system would certainly sizzle over into the rest of the Sears circuits, which in turn would frazzle the circuits of the central electrical command system of Hancock Center, which would send an alarmed message to the Austin Police Department, which would first try to diagnose the problem by sending a test message back to the Hancock system, and that test message would be the final overload that would cause a spark to ignite. As it happened, the command center of the Hancock Center electrical system sat just below a gigantic inventory of propane gas that Sears kept on hand for sales to Austin’s burgeoning population of backyard barbies and tailgate kens. The spark and the propane together would lay waste to Hancock Center as we know it.

Trigger had also set up a viewcam so that the team could watch the proceedings from the safety of the VFW hall 15 blocks away from the Center on a second laptop that Trigger had brought along – a Macintosh, which she said offered better visuals. The high school student tapped intently at her keyboard, stroke by stroke taking more and more complete control of the Sears electrical system. Paul B, Rivers, and Jehosephat kept their eyes on the Mac.

“Not there yet. Getting closer,” Trigger murmured. “I’ll let you know when it’s showtime.” Her keystrokes came more slowly now, as she waited for confirmation that each one had brought her to the desired part of the system.

“Hey look, it’s Geronimo!” Rivers exclaimed.

“What?”

Rivers pointed at the screen of the Mac. Sure enough, stepping steadily across the parking lot of Hancock Center was the golfhound extraordinaire Geronimo. Her tail pointed straight out behind, she walked on the tips of her toes, she seemed to be on the trail of prey.

“Damn dog,” muttered Paul B. “When did she get out? I thought she was right here with us. I didn’t know she ever even went to Hancock Center.”

“That’s a problem,” Trigger said.

Her four comrades suddenly tripped to the fact that Geronimo was headed straight for the conflagratory demise of Hancock Center.

“Abort!” Paul B yelped.

Trigger turned back to her keyboard and quickly began tapping. “This is gonna be close,” she said through clenched teeth.

On the Mac, Geronimo continued to advance toward the buildings of the shopping center. Suddenly all of the lights in Hancock Center went off, the Mac showed only lumbering hulks of shapes of buildings.

“Uh oh,” said Trigger as she continued tapping. “That baby gonna blow.”

“Oh man…,” Rivers, Fats, Smokey, and Paul B all breathed.

A bright orange light could be seen travelling through the 3d floor of the Sears building. Trigger kept tapping. Geronimo kept tracking. Hancock Center kept trembling, itching to explode. A flash of yellow in one room. A puff of smoke through the roof.

“Got it!” Trigger leaned back in her chair and turned to look at the Mac, seeing a flash and a travelling spark. “Ohhhhh noooooo…”

The flashes and sparks in Sears went away. All dark again.

“Ha!” Trigger stood up and gave Rivers a hug. “Show’s over for tonight, boys. I’m going home. Got state chess tournament tomorrow, woohoo.” Trigger packed up her laptops and slipped out the back door into the night.

Smokey, Fats, and Rivers glared at each other, breathing hard. They were having a hard time figuring out what just happened. The three bakuninistas sank into chairs and stared off into space.

On the screen of the Mac, dark in Trigger’s backpack, Geronimo had stopped, as the cowardly armadillo she’d been stalking had fallen into a sewer. The golfhound turned and started trotting away from Hancock Center, back toward her Austin Golf Club home, wondering what that odd acrid smell was.

“Damn dog,” Paul B said, and walked over to the fridge to open four Falstaffs. A siren could be heard approaching in the distance.

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).

BACK NINE

THE AUSTIN GOLF CLUB STORIES