Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (38 page)

He licked the left.

“Now the other one."

He complied. He felt his penis jerking and could hear her breathing harder.

“Now push your tongue deep inside. Start at the bottom and go quickly to the top."

The syrup was gone. In its place was a fountain of another type of nectar, sweeter than the syrup. She moaned and his penis continued its frenzied movement.

After a few minutes she cried out, “There!"

His tongue froze in mid-motion.

“That's the spot, Bo."

He felt it—a little knob. He was certain it hadn't been there before. He worked furiously. She moaned louder—longer. Her fingers tightened in his hair.

“Boooooooooo!"

She pulled his head to her so tightly she almost smothered him and then pushed him away forcefully.

“Lie down, damn it,” she commanded.

A little bewildered he lay back in the tub, sloshing water over its side.

She forced on a condom, concealed under her wig, impaled herself on him and began moving up and down. “Fuck me, Bo. Pump that big thing deep inside me."

Shit, he thought. She has my butt pinned to the porcelain. He forced his hips upward and grasped her breasts roughly.

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah, Bo. Squeeze ’em harder."

“Betty. Oh God, Betty."

“You're so big, Bo. You feel so good. Screw me, baby. Harder. Harder. Oh yeah, Booooooooo!"

She collapsed on top of him. He didn't want it to end. He tightened his buttock muscles, but it was too late.

When at last their breathing approached normal he muttered, “There
is
something to be said for experience, all right."

“What did you say?"

“Nothing, honey."

She rubbed her flushed cheek against his and thought, Now I know why they use audio-visual aids in school.

The first six weeks of married life was reasonably smooth for two young people as ill prepared as were Bo and Betty. Some things just fell into place and others they created by design. Betty became the cook, dish washer, housekeeper, laundress, and grocery shopper by default. Bo took over lawn care, though Betty often assisted. Bo became the vegetable gardener while Betty tended two flowerbeds. Bo serviced the car, but Betty became the primary chauffeur. Betty made weekly selections of their reading material at the Clemmons library. Together they carefully planned a budget. Betty kept daily expense records and Bo wrote the checks when bill payments were due.

Two major problems confronted them during those first weeks, and Bo was careful to hide one of them from his bride.

Although their schedules at Tanglewood Park were the same—Wednesday through Sunday, 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.—Bo often wanted to arrive early, always worked late, and sometimes worked either on Monday or Tuesday as well. This made transportation a significant problem. Their immediate solution was to have a telephone installed in the doublewide. Betty would go to work early to accommodate Bo, although there was nothing for her to do, and would pick Bo up when he called at the end of his day. Both knew that somehow they needed to buy a second car.

Betty's job turned out to be almost as boring as she feared. At first, she filled idle moments reading, but then the first lesson arrived from the mail-order cartoon school. Suddenly her time in the entrance hut became a greatly anticipated joy and she genuinely missed it on her days off.

Bo found his job anything but boring. He discovered that driving a tractor, which pulled twenty reel type mowers that could cut a fifteen-foot path of grass on a fairway in a single pass, required a skill he did not possess and was not easy to master. Greens, he discovered, were not mowed, but manicured, and the hole on the greens had to be skillfully moved at least twice a day to keep the golfer's spiked shoes from wearing out the grass. Tee markers needed frequent relocation for the same reason. Sand traps required raking and more sand added from time to time. Care of the so-called rough areas beside each fairway required a special skill. Golf carts must be cleaned daily, batteries checked, charged and sometime replaced. Big Willie required machinery thoroughly cleaned and greased at the end of each day's work, and mower blades ground to a razor sharp edge.

There were three championship courses, one par three course and a driving range to be maintained, and a careful eye must be kept on the various types of grasses growing in order to detect disease in its earliest stage.

Bo worked hard. He put in long hours. He went home dejected nearly every day, for Big Willie never seemed pleased with his efforts. Bo carefully studied the books and magazines Big Willie provided him. He scrupulously followed Big Willie's instructions, asking questions whenever he was unsure of a procedure. He worked all the hours Big Willie required without protest and frequently worked off the clock, but there had not been one word of praise from his boss.

The one luxury Betty and Bo allowed themselves was a subscription to the
Winston-Salem Journal
. Bo began to search the classified ads for a new job. He chose not to discuss his discontent and fear of being fired with Betty. She seemed to be so happy; he did not want to do anything to bring her down.

“Your boss wants to see you in his office, Token,” jeered the club pro, Tad Ryder, who called Bo “Token” because Bo was the only white man Big Willie had ever hired. Sensing that Bo didn't like the nickname, Tad used it at every opportunity.

Bo nodded and continued through the clubhouse to the small office in the rear that he had visited only once before—the day Big Willie hired him. I get here thirty minutes, sometimes an hour before he does most days, Bo thought as he hesitated before the office door. The one day I oversleep, he calls me on the carpet. If he's gonna fire me, I can't stop him, but by God I'm not gonna take it lying down.

Big Willie looked up from the chart on his desk and motioned Bo to the only chair not cluttered with papers, machine parts, books or magazines.

Bo refused the offered chair. “Big Willie,” he said, positioning himself across from the desk. “I've worked my ass off for you. I've read the manuals, I've memorized everything you've told me, I've put in the long hours you wanted and I've put in plenty of time off the clock. You knew I didn't know anything about this stuff when you hired me. I can't stop you from firing me, but by God, you'll never find anybody who'll try harder than I have."

Big Willie put down his pencil, slowly raised his head and made contact with Bo's blazing eyes. “Turn around,” he said.

“What?"

“I said turn around, damn it. You deaf?"

Bo turned his back to the big man, then again faced the desk.

“Your ass is right where it's supposed to be. Now put it in that chair like I told you."

Bo backed up and sat down, still glaring defiantly at the man he so longed to please.

“When have you worked off the clock?"

“Yesterday, for one."

“Don't do it again. It's against the law. I can get fired for letting you work off the clock. Who rammed a pine cone up your ass this morning?"

“You're always pissed off with me, no matter how hard I try. When Tad said you wanted to see me in your office, I figured you were going to cut me loose."

“Shit, boy. Your ass ain't worth firing. Catch.” Big Willie tossed a clipboard across the room, which Bo managed to grab without papers flying everywhere. “That's today's work schedule. You see to it. Josh probably won't show up today. He was pretending to be sick yesterday afternoon. That'll leave just Stick and Beanpole to work with you."

“Who do you want to do what?” Bo asked, studying the chart.

“Damn it, son. Do I have to tell you everything?"

“No sir."

“Some people are coming in from a little hick town called Dot, somewhere down near Charlotte I think. They're planning to build a golf course and I'm supposed to give them a guided tour today."

“Which course you gonna show them?"

“Ain't none of your business, but we're gonna play the white course. We got that one in good shape yesterday. That's why I've scheduled you to work on the red and blue courses today."

As he stood up, Bo said, “If it was me, I'd want them to see course maintenance in progress. I'd show them the red or blue course."

“I ain't said you could go yet."

Bo stopped at the door and turned around.

“What else would you show them?"

“Well, I think I would want them to see the nursery where we grow the replacement grass, and I'd want them to see the mowers when they come in after a day's use. I'd want them to see the condition of the golf carts after the fancy boys have turned them in. I'd want to take them back over just one course and show them all the trash the golfers leave on the course during the day. I'd want them to know that running a golf course is hard work that never ends."

“Maybe I'll do that."

Bo opened the office door.

“Did you hear me say I was through with you?"

“No sir."

“I want you to meet me at the driving range at 6:00 p.m. Can you handle that?"

“Yes sir."

“Well don't just stand there, boy. You've got work to do."

Bo slammed the door behind him. He did not see the toothy smile on Big Willie's face as the huge man clamped a fresh cigar between his teeth.

“I don't want to learn to play golf. I don't see much point to the game. I don't have time to play, and I couldn't afford it if I did,” Bo protested.

“You gonna work on a golf course, you gonna learn to play the game. It's your job to please the customer. Our customers are golfers. You can't understand what they want in terms of maintenance and course conditions unless you walk in their footsteps."

Big Willie placed a ball on the rubber tee, swung his driver a couple of times, assumed a stance that Bo thought must be painful, swung the club and popped the ball straight out onto the range. When the ball stopped rolling he handed the club to Bo. “Now you do that."

Bo took the club and assumed a position that he thought was similar to the one Big Willie used. He watched Big Willie balance a striped ball on the tee, waggled the club a couple of times and took a mighty swing. The club head sailed over the ball by at least six inches and flew out of Bo's hands, coming to rest fifteen yards away. Big Willie roared with laughter.

After retrieving the club, Big Willie pushed Bo away from the tee. “Watch a little closer this time. Watch me, not the ball. See how I have my feet spread apart? Notice how I am holding the club handle? See how my knees are slightly bent? Pay attention to how I keep my wrists rigid and my left elbow locked when I swing the club.” He took a couple of practice swings.

“Golf must be what keeps chiropractors in business,” Bo joked.

“Hey, that's not bad. One more thing. Notice that I lock my eyes on the ball and keep them there as long as possible after hitting it."

“If you keep your eyes down, how do you know where the ball goes?"

“Sometimes you don't. If you hit the ball right, you already know where it's going, but you depend on your buddies to watch the flight of the ball for you.” Again Big Willie drove the ball deep into the range. “Your turn,” he said, handing the club to Bo. “See that sign out there that says ‘300'? I want you to hit it."

Bo tried to mimic Big Willie's stance. “This isn't comfortable."

“Then you've probably have it about right. Now, don't try to kill the ball."

Bo started to swing; then stopped. “I can't get the club back over my head like you do without bending my wrists and left elbow."

“It's okay to bend a little at the top of the swing. Just lock them as you bring the club head down."

Bo forced his eyes to lock on the ball, turning his head slightly to the right as he had observed Big Willie doing. On the back swing he decided if he was going to get the ball to the 300 sign he would have to kill it. He sensed his wrists and elbows locking on the downswing. He heard the click as the club head met the ball. He forced himself to keep looking at the spot where the ball once rested and continued to grip the club tightly on the follow-through.

“Holy cow."

Bo looked up, saw the ball as it began its descent, watched it bounce twenty yards short and to the left of the sign. “I can't do it, Big Willie. That's as hard as I can hit it and you saw how short of the sign it was."

“You funnin’ me boy?"

“No sir."

“Can't nobody hit one 300 yards in the air. Most pros average about 270 yards. Your ball rolled well beyond the 300-yard marker. That was a hell of a golf shot. Do it again."

He did, with similar results.

“All right,” Big Willie grinned.

“But I'm way left of the sign."

“Close enough, but let me show you something. Get up there like you were getting ready for a drive."

Bo complied and Big Willie laid another club on the ground, touching the toe of each of Bo's shoes.

“Now see where that club's pointing?” Big Willie asked. “That's where your ball is going to go if you stroke it right."

Bo lined up his next shot, using the extra club as a guide for his feet. He rehearsed the procedure silently, swung, heard the click, kept his eyes down a moment longer, watched the ball descend, bounce once, twice, three times. The fourth bounce was off the post holding the 300-yard marker.

“Man-o-man-o-man,” the big man shouted, grabbing Bo in a bear hug and shaking him vigorously. “I always knew I'd make a great teaching pro."

“Nothing to it,” Bo bragged.

“Come on in, Sandy,” Tim said as he held his wife's chair at the end of the conference table. “We're about ready to begin.”

“Sorry I'm a little late, folks. This is the first time I've experienced morning sickness, and I hope it's the last,” she laughed. “I'm afraid I didn't have time to make myself presentable. Try not to look at me."

“Mrs. Dollar, my daddy used to say that the most beautiful women in the world are pregnant ladies. Seeing you this morning makes me agree with him."

“Come on, Vic. You're doing a good job as our Business Manager. You don't have to butter me up like that,” Sandra laughed.