Synopsis

Chapter 1.

Drake Bauer was a glad-hander, a backslapper with a ready smile and a well-rehearsed repertoire of clichés. He was everybody’s buddy. He also cheated at golf.

The 9th hole of the Lakeside Municipal Golf Course had one pine tree in the middle of the fairway. For the arid sand-hills of the Nebraska Panhandle, it was considered heavily wooded. Drake’s drive was a bounding scuff that rolled well on the dry fairway and snuggled up at the base of the pine. It was only his second drive that day that had stayed in the fairway. The other two guys in the three-some were young unmarried railroaders who played without their shirts, wore jogging shoes and consistently sliced their drives. They were also lucky.

Bingo-bango-bongo for $20 a mark, low hole for $20 and low total for $50 were the stakes. Drake had to suppress a giggle when the wager was suggested. Candy from a baby, he thought. He almost felt guilty, but what the hell, if they wanted to give it away, he would certainly take it.

On the lst and 3rd holes he shanked his drive, on the 2nd and 7th his approach shot hooked into a sand trap, and he missed short putts on 4, 5 and 8. His par on 6 was the only hole that had gone right all day. He mentally added and re-added the scores as he walked quickly to his drive on 9. If he won the hole, and got a couple marks, and they played like they should instead of like they were, he could escape losing $250, maybe $300. If not, he could drop $500, easy. That was too much, too damn much. He couldn’t afford it. But then, he couldn’t afford not to play for whatever those bums suggested. I mean, after all, he was the high school principal, he wore ties to work and damn it, he wasn’t going to have those punks snicker behind his back because he couldn’t afford a couple bucks on a golf game. He wasn’t going to have it said that Drake Bauer was a cheapskate, no siree. Drake Bauer was in the fast lane. High School principal at the age of 29. All right, so he’d been there for 15 years; that wasn’t his fault. He would have moved, should have moved, but it never seemed to be the right time, never seemed to be to the right place, what with the kids and all.

Drake made it to his Dunlop x-out well before the other two guys reached their balls in the barren sandy rough. He always walked quickly, drove fast, and washed half-chewed cheeseburgers down with a chug of beer rather than waste all that time chewing. He acted like a man with a purpose, a man with responsibility.

He knew he was professionally stagnant, but he refused to accept the fact. If you act like you’re somebody, you are somebody. If you act like you’re moving, you are moving. So he lifted his knees high as he jostled along on the treadmill. It was an act all right, but one he needed, and needed badly.

Not again, he thought as he approached the ball. Another three inches to the left and he’d have a clear shot at the green. Three lousy inches. “Lady luck finally smiled on me,” he shouted to the railroaders as he flashed an OK sign. He watched them carefully. Then, just as the tall one took his backswing, Drake nudged his ball. Just right. Clear shot at the green.

“Nice shot,” Drake yelled as the guy’s ball hopped and bounced toward the green, stopping just on the fringe. The other kid’s 4-wood sliced off further to the right and 20 yards short of the green.

Lucky suckers, Drake thought as he addressed his ball.

He swung quickly, before he had time to think about how important the shot was. It worked. The ball landed and stuck 10 feet above the pin.

The railroaders complimented the shot. “Knew it was in the bag somewhere,” Drake replied. That was bingo, first on the green. Probably not much of a chance for bango, closest to the hole, but good shot at bongo, first in the hole. A birdie, which was worth double money, with two marks, and he could hold the losses to $200. But 200? It was a bad month for that. Seemed like any month was a bad month anymore – mortgage, taxes, kids writing home for money, car bills, medical bills, country club and golf club dues. Just never seemed to end. Wouldn’t be so bad but the damn school board thought that painted window sills and student lockers with combination locks were more important than salaries. Easy for them, hell yes. Two of them were railroaders and the two women had railroad husbands, and between them they had only one kid in high school. I mean, what the hell is really important, educating the youth of this country or riding nowhere and back on a coal train.

The guy who had sliced to the right chunked his next shot, then scuffed one onto the green about a yard further away from the flag than Drake’s ball.

“Nice shot,” Drake acknowledged. Great, now if the other guy muffs, I could get bango. Make the putt and I get bingo, bango, bongo and double low hole. Finally. Now we’re distributing the income the way it’s supposed to be. For Drake, losing a dollar to a railroader was worse than losing $100 to a lawyer. They came to Lakeside like kids to candy after ‘74 when the coal companies went back into Wyoming and Montana for cheap fuel. The miners dug it, the railroaders moved it and Lakeside was made divisional headquarters of the Burlington Northern Railroad.

It was bad that the school board didn’t increase his already low salary. It was worse that the young, unskilled, dope-smoking railroaders earned more in one year than he earned in two, and it was enraging that they flaunted it.

The kid on the fringe stood awkwardly over his ball as smoke from a dangling cigarette curled past his squinted eyes.

He wagged his wedge back and forth stiffly, then chopped down hard at the ball. It darted across the green, headed for the far fringe. Drake’s jaw dropped simultaneously with the ball as it slammed into the pin and plopped down into the cup.

The railroaders whooped and jumped. Drake shook his head in disbelief. Ain’t fair, just ain’t damn fair, he thought. “Nice shot,” he said enthusiastically.

He surveyed the green. It was a straight downhill putt.  A touch shot. A $100 touch shot. A minute ago it was a $200 touch shot, Though he didn’t actually think about the fact that he couldn’t afford to miss the putt, he felt it, down in his churning, twitching gut.

Just a tap, that’s all. Body steady, wrists stiff, just the arms, just tap it easy, an easy little tap. Drake’s backswing was smooth, his head steady, the green was smooth and fast. The ball rolled lazily toward the center of the cup – and teetered, then stopped on the lip, like a gawking tourist on the edge of a canyon.

“Win some, lose some,” Drake offered philosophically as the rage and disappointment boiled within him like piss and vinegar. “Maybe they’ll fall for me next nine.”

“Sorry, man. We’re going out on #47. Gotta grab the lunch pail and get down to the yard,” said the tall kid.

“No problem,” said Drake casually. They added up the totals in the clubhouse and Drake’s hand shook slightly as he wrote out the check. Luckily there was no one around to watch. Hopefully Maralou wouldn’t need any money till the first of the month.

Drake slapped them both on the back and congratulated them on their game as they left, then sulked back to the Panhandle Men’s Clubroom for a much-needed beer. Thankfully the room was empty. He clunked his two quarters in the beer machine and slouched onto a vinyl couch. It just keeps getting worse, he thought. Every time I turn around I get smacked. I’ve been waiting for my luck to change for a long time now. Too damn long. What the hell is the world coming to when a high school principal gets ulcers cause his checkbook has more red in it than black and 21 year old railroaders who hit nothing but banana balls can afford to play bingo-bango-bongo for $20 a mark. Priorities in this town just aren’t right. Aren’t right at all. I shouldn’t have to count my pennies, damn it, and that’s all there is to it. Something has got to change around here. If it doesn’t change, I’m going to change it. Can’t take this much longer. Not much longer at all. But what the hell do I do about it? What do I do?

Five minutes later Eldon “Jack” Hammer had a suggestion.

The Texas Trail Open was being played in Lusk, Wyoming that weekend and why not drive on over. Jack had won the Calcutta, an auction-wager on hi and low score combinations of championship players, two out of the last three years. Hell yes it was easy. “Just watch ‘em putt, that’s all. Drive for show, putt for dough. Besides, there’s a whorehouse there I’m real fond of,” Jack added. “Real fond.”

“Hey, Alvie, you can ride along. Glad to have you,” Jack said to the young fellow watching golfers come in on 18.

“Say, have you gotten a letter from that son of mine lately?” Drake asked. “You have? Bring it over sometime and we’ll show you some pictures he sent not long ago.” Split gas three ways, instead of two, Drake thought happily.

So Friday afternoon, Drake Bauer anxiously drove off to Lusk, Wyoming to try and win a few hundred dollars betting on a golf tournament. Young Alvie Kincaid went for a blowjob and Jack Hammer went for both.

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