The Perfectly Good Lie Read online

“You’re going to carry my bag.”

  “Why can’t you carry it yourself?”

  “I mean when I’m in a tournament. Your job will be to take care of the bag and my clubs.”

  “See, you need me.”

  “There’s lot of other guys I could hire. But you’re it because I’m not letting you sit on your butt doing nothing. You have to pay your way now.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  “It’ll be good for you,” Buck said.

  After eating, Buck directed Art to a nearby municipal course. During summers in high school, Buck worked as a gofer, collecting range balls and doing odd jobs. He’d take the city bus with a handful of clubs; he didn’t have a bag at the beginning. Not a big deal though. There’d been only one transfer on the bus route between their apartment and the course.

  Art parked the van and Buck bought a large bucket of range balls, easing into the familiar surroundings, more of a homecoming than the apartment ever would be.

  He placed the bucket in an open slot and then returned to the van. He grabbed Leon’s 1-iron. Seemed appropriate.

  Buck was nine or ten when Leon handed him the 1-iron. It was meant as a joke since the club was hard to handle, even for an experienced player. But when Buck popped a whiffle ball out of the heavy St. Augustine grass and over the fence, Leon began to teach him the game in earnest.

  Once Leon was gone for good, they subsisted on what Ruthie could earn as a dental hygienist. She never brought home a decent salary because most dentists wouldn’t hire a hygienist with tobacco-stained fingers and a breath mint in her cheek. So, there was never money to pay for team sports. Not with all the uniforms, special shoes, and expensive equipment. And Buck’s needs weren’t on Ruthie’s priority list anyway.

  So he latched onto golf—and fell in love.

  Swinging the club became an obsession and the driving range a safe haven where he spent hours searching for the exact trigger-point at the top of his backswing, feeling the sweep of his arms, the delicate turn of his wrist, and the reckless abandon of a complete follow-through. A well-played stroke was an indescribable physical alchemy that triggered all the pleasure zones. The thrill of contact with the sweet spot, a magical ping vibrating through his body, especially as a teenager torqued up on hormones, would stick with Buck like an afterglow. It would hang on during the bus ride home, through a bland meal in their drab apartment and follow him into bed, where he would fall asleep believing that if he could win at golf, he could win at life.

  Buck walked to the rear of the van again and called to Art, “Get out here.”

  Art climbed from the driver’s seat.

  “Put down that game.”

  Art left the device in the van and took the 7-iron from Buck. They walked out to the tee slot together.

  Buck tipped the bucket of balls over and moved one into position with the 1-iron.

  “We’ll start you off with short, easy strokes,” he said.

  It didn’t take long. Art had a surprisingly natural swing. Like a farmer, he plowed the ball straight for two hundred yards without much effort. After a dozen strokes, he lost interest and returned to the van.

  Buck didn’t push it. It was a good start.

  With the 1-iron in his palm, even the loose binding on the grip didn’t bother Buck. Just thinking about hitting with Leon’s old club brought a measure of satisfaction.

  But the question remained. Could he really whip Art into shape before the Phoenix Open? A caddie’s job was pretty damn easy and the tournament was eight weeks away. That should give Buck enough time, right?

  #

  They returned to the apartment late afternoon. Buck went to the kitchen and grabbed the trashcan from under the sink. In one quick motion, he swiped all the pill bottles off the dinette and into the can. The pile of mail dropped in next.

  “Why are you doing that?” Art stood with arms across his chest.

  “The medicine is useless and I’m not paying any of these.” Buck pointed at the stack of papers in the trashcan. “Are you?”

  “We might be able to if we tried.”

  “Bullshit. We don’t owe it and we’re not sticking around to find out otherwise.”

  Ruthie’s purse hung on a chair. In her wallet, Buck found a couple of department store credit cards and thirty-five dollars in cash. “See, this is all Ruthie left us.”

  “Why can’t you call her Momma?”

  There had been an exact moment when Buck decided to stop calling his mother “Mom”. He’d been walking up the stairs to their apartment after his first day at the new junior high, dreading going inside. With Leon gone, Buck was increasingly the odd man out. It was obvious that Ruthie favored Art. She’d have the little shit sit in her lap while they watched television, stroking his hair and hugging him as though he was some sort of teddy bear. Ruthie had never been that sort of mother with Buck.

  Leon had called her Ruthie and from that day on, so did Buck. He knew it pissed her off. That was the point, of course. But then it stuck and he couldn’t go back.

  Buck marched into the bathroom and opened the drawers near the sink.

  Art poked his head through the door. “What are you looking for now?”

  “This.” Buck held up a tube of lipstick. He pushed his way past Art, saying, “If your precious mother had just quit smoking and not bought all this crap, maybe we could have kept the house.”

  “Momma worked hard,” Art said.

  “On her hair and nails maybe.”

  “Don’t say mean things about her.” Art’s brows pressed together.

  “I’m being honest.”

  Buck stomped outside and went to Ruthie’s car parked on the street. Art tagged along. It was dusk, and the streetlight above highlighted the accumulated filth on the windshield of Ruthie’s car. It was messy, but Buck managed to write $1000 OBO in bright pink lipstick across the windshield.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  Buck wrote his phone number on the driver’s side window. “We need the cash.”

  “You should have cleaned it first,” Art said.

  “Then you do the rear window.”

  The kid ran inside and came back with a spray bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels. Buck held the lipstick as Art meticulously wiped down the rear window. He had to admit that Art did a much better job, getting the offer and the phone number on the same window.

  The car was sold the next day, but it took a week before the apartment was empty, prolonged by Art’s periodic crying jags and his sentimental attachment to useless stuff. Every last item Ruthie owned was scrutinized by Art and became the source of an argument.

  Finally Buck found a small box and said, “Whatever fits in here you can keep. The rest is going to the dumpster.”

  Art chose a couple of photos in frames and two small troll dolls.

  “Why keep these?” Buck asked. “They’re ugly.”

  Art held one in each hand, a blond and a redhead.

  “Momma said they were like us.”

  The fiercest battle erupted over the video equipment. Art had a closet full of games and attachments and cords and controllers and black boxes.

  “I can’t leave them,” Art whined.

  “We don’t have room for all that junk.”

  “I’m not leaving without them.” Art sat down on his bed. He crossed his arms and his body seemed to harden into a monolithic boulder that wasn’t going to move.

  “Why?” Buck asked.

  “I have to take care of Gigi. I can’t let her die too.” Art lifted his head and wobbled his chin, harder and more violently than normal.

  “Okay, okay. I get it. We can find an overhead carrier. But it’s coming out of your money.”

  Art jumped up and ran to Buck, hugging him around the waist.

  That night in the apartment, Art cooked fish sticks with a box of mac and cheese and a can of green beans. He spooned out large helpings onto plastic plates faded from years of use.

 
; Buck ate a few bites. “This isn’t too bad. A lot better than the crap Ruthie used to feed us.”

  “Momma didn’t like to cook.” Art stabbed a fish stick with his fork. He held it up and methodically coated it with a thin layer of ketchup.

  They ate in silence except for the loud smacking noises from Art.

  “I’ve found us a house on the beach,” Buck said.

  “But it’s not summer. We can’t go swimming.”

  “It’s cheap and we need a place to stay.”

  “We could stay here,” Art mumbled.

  “No. We have to get out of the lease while we can.” Buck pushed the plate away. “It’s not going to be fancy, but it’s good enough for the two of us.”

  “Does this mean we’re friends now?”

  “More like cell mates.” Buck rose from the table and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. He leaned against the wall.

  Art spread ketchup on another fish stick with the same devoted attention he’d shown cleaning the window on Ruthie’s car. Without looking up, he said, “Brothers are supposed to love each other, you know.”

  “Don’t push your luck on that one.”

  Game of CHAmPions

  They packed the van to the gills and Buck climbed behind the wheel. He pulled a small gray booklet from the glove compartment and dropped it in Art’s lap.

  “I want you to read this cover-to-cover.”

  Art read the title out loud, “The Rules of Golf.”

  Buck’s phone buzzed. It was Josh Laird.

  “Is this a good time to talk?” Josh asked.

  “Uh, yeah. For a minute.”

  “Listen, I’m meeting with a company looking for a fresh face, an-up-and-comer. They’re launching a phenomenal new product. I thought of you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Well, we’d need a contract before I can start talking specifics, but I think this group would be very interested in Buck Buchanan.”

  “Yeah, but what if I’m not interested in them?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I need something in writing before I can go pitching sponsors to you or you to them. I have to be sure you’re not working with another agent.”

  Buck remembered the offer from Keith. “I’m about to hit the road. Can I call you later?”

  “That’s cool,” Josh said.

  Buck hung up and then turned to Art.

  “Why aren’t you reading?”

  “I can’t read in the car.” Art concentrated on the flashing screen in his lap.

  “We’re not moving yet.”

  Art ignored him.

  They rode in silence, except for the irritating chirps and grunting noises from the video game.

  Within thirty minutes they’d left the inner-city traffic.

  “Hey, put that game away now.”

  Art continued playing until Buck grabbed his shoulder.

  “Ouch.” Art looked over and then exposed his throat when he said, “I was just about to reach the next level.”

  “Well, that’s what I want to talk about. I leveled up myself.”

  “Angry Birds?”

  “No. I’m talking about the PGA. I have two exemptions for tour events. I have to make each one count and earn enough points to keep my card.”

  “How many points?”

  “It’s all based on how much money you earn as compared to others.”

  “So how much money do we need?”

  “I don’t know exactly and I don’t want to know either.”

  “How can we do it if we don’t know?”

  “Because it fucks with my head to be too precise about it. Whether I need to earn a hundred thousand or a hundred and three thousand doesn’t matter. If I play to my potential, my best, then I’m sure to blow by the number. That’s all you need to know. Okay? So, learn those rules. One mistake could cost me a penalty, or worse, a disqualification.”

  Art thumbed through the booklet. “There’s not any pictures.”

  “Put it down,” Buck said. “Do this. Pull up the PGA site and go to the tournament schedule. Find the Phoenix Open. It’s in late January.”

  The tournament was actually played in Scottsdale on the Tournament Players Course. It was the most affordable event on the West Coast swing. There was a respectable purse, and it didn’t require a plane ticket, like the Aloha Open in Hawaii.

  In Phoenix, the field of competitors filled up with more journeymen, no-name-has-beens and never-heard-of-newbies than celebrity faces. With a few notable exceptions, the name players were more apt to skip the trip to Arizona in order to focus on the Riviera or Pebble Beach, tournaments with more tradition and gravitas than the desert upstart.

  “How are we going to get to Phoenix?” Art asked.

  “We’re driving,” Buck said.

  “Can we buy a motorcycle?”

  “Not a chance.” Buck glanced at Art. “Our number one, near-term goal is to make the cut in Phoenix.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s kind of like musical chairs. After two rounds, they rank all the scores. If a player isn’t above a certain line, then they’re out.”

  “What’s the line?”

  “They don’t tell you until everyone has finished. Sometimes you can guess, but it all depends on the scores.”

  “What happens if we don’t make it?”

  Buck’s stomach lurched into this throat and he took a long deep breath. “Don’t ever say that again.” He looked at Art. The kid had his chin to his chest. “Always assume the positive,” Buck said.

  They rolled into Surfside, a small beach town southwest of Houston. A quick stop at the rental office to pick up the keys and soon they were pulling onto Crab Drive. The beach house looked like someone had hoisted a doublewide trailer up on stilts. Buck drove onto the crushed shell driveway and parked the van under the house.

  A weather-beaten staircase led to the door. The siding was badly in need of a paint job and the windows were rusted and showed signs of mildew.

  “I don’t like this,” Art said.

  “Then find your own place.”

  Besides being inexpensive, the rental was only a thirty-minute drive from a championship golf course.

  Inside, the beach house was clean and updated although the bedrooms were small.

  “Not too bad,” Buck said.

  As soon as Art saw the flat screen television, he dropped his bag to check it out.

  Buck placed his duffle in the room with the queen-sized bed, leaving Art with the bunk beds in the smaller room.

  Buck went outside for his clubs. A mild breeze blew and the sun was out. It was cool and he could taste the salty air.

  Art followed him and began to unload his video equipment from the luggage carrier on the roof. Before long there was a clunky animation of a woman in a kitchen on the television screen in the den.

  “What game is that?” Buck asked.

  “It’s not a game,” Art said. “It’s a simulation.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Don’t bother me now.”

  “I don’t know how you can waste your time on that shit.”

  Buck knew what being obsessed with video games could do to an athlete. The gamers on the golf team at Baylor were never the best players. They couldn’t be, burning so much time and energy staring into a screen instead of practicing or playing.

  The gamers ended up out of golf altogether, or worse, settled for being a golf pro, giving lessons and managing the pro shop. It’s what Ruthie had begged him to do when she heard how much a teaching pro could charge per hour. Three times what she made.

  But to Buck, the quickest way to ruin golf was to try to teach it to housewives and uncoordinated corporate types.

  “Let’s take a run on the beach. You need the exercise.”

  “No. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Buck moved to stand in front of the screen. “Seriously, you have to get in shape to be my caddie. That bag weighs close to forty pounds and
every round is about five miles of walking.”

  Art leaned to the side to see the screen.

  Buck moved in closer. Art lifted his head, his throat quivering. “Gigi will die if I don’t take care of her.”

  “Dude, you can’t be living your life through a simulation.”

  “But I like it.”

  “All right, all right.” Buck held up his palms. “Here’s the deal.” He snapped his fingers in front of Art’s face.

  “What?”

  “For every hour of screen time you have to spend an hour getting in shape.”

  Art’s eyes drifted toward the screen.

  “When I come back, you better be studying that book I gave you.”

  There were only a few people out, fishing and walking. One guy scanned the beach with a metal detector. It was mid afternoon when Buck returned and Art was still glued to the screen with the animated Gigi.

  “Get up.” Buck grabbed his sand wedge and stuffed his jacket pockets with a half-dozen whiffle golf balls. “C’mon.”

  Art reluctantly stood. They walked to the beach, where Buck popped balls into the surf. Art ran along the water line, fetching balls as they floated to shore. He made a game out of not getting his shoes wet. They did that until the sun disappeared. It was probably the first time Buck and Art had played together in years, maybe ever.

  As they walked to the house, Art said, “I wish Momma was here.”

  “She hated the beach.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t like the sand in her eyes.”

  “How do you know?”

  It brought back a time when Leon had taken them to Galveston for the day. It was the summer before Art’s accident. For most of the afternoon, Art played in the sand by Ruthie’s feet while she read a book under an umbrella. Leon took Buck fishing off the pier. Leon wasn’t much of a fisherman. The small hardhead catfish ate their bait and they went home empty-handed.

  “Anyway,” Buck said. “Don’t wish for things that can’t happen.”

  #

  Buck couldn’t start Art off on the championship course, so early the next morning, they headed to a municipal pitch-and-putt about an hour away. Art drove the van. The bright morning sun lit up the hoarfrost on the salt grass flats.