Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 13
“I want that Mr. Green on the next plane outta Tulsa!” yelled the coach. “Run that devil outta town. Now!”
“Coach, coach, calm down,” said Vern.
“Did you hear the news?” said Hayes while turning towards the barbeque master. His face was beet red. “Old Bubba caught our guest reporter snooping around summer camp last night. Seems he snuck onto the island.”
“What?” Clint immediately looked at Lester Bailey. The state trooper had a bemused look on his face.
“Was anyone else with him?” asked the skinny Texan.
“Apparently an unidentified woman,” said Foster. “Bubba had never seen her before. She was dressed kinda skimpy, and had a pistol.”
“Maybe she was a gator hunter,” said Clint. “Lost or something.” The brisket was starting to smoke heavily.
“Oh no. My Emma!” screamed the coach. “If they touched my Emma so help me Lord, someone is going to pay.”
Lester Bailey immediately knew the identity of the unidentified woman. He held his tongue.
“What in tarnation were they doing in our camp?” barked the coach. “That there is private property. Lester, take control here. We need an arrest for trespassing. Get on the radio. Call out some policemen!”
“Um, I’ll have to gather some information,” stammered the officer. “I mean, was there any legitimate reason for him being there?”
“Yea,” said the coach. “They were probably trying to find an old playbook lying around. I think he’s a spy from Southern State! We’ve been infiltrated boys!”
“Did the school approve the visit?” asked the trooper.
“No,” said Vern Foster. “Not to my knowledge.”
Just then a black Porsche SUV pulled up into the driveway. Two men dressed in off white linen suits exited the vehicle. While looking up towards the party deck, they each donned a pair of sunglasses.
“Oh, here they come,” said Clint Benson nervously. “The Ganoga team. You have to meet them coach. Please? They want to meet you.”
“Are you stupid or something Clint?” howled the coach. “Did you hear what Vern just said? The Badlands have been violated. We got a mole among us. No way am I going to hobnob it with some company bigwigs. Holy Moses!” The coach stormed away yet continued to growl. “I’m shakin’ like a hound dog trying to shit a peach pit, and he wants me to schmooze some suits from up north!” He howled all the way to his car, occasionally lofting a profanity into the air. Twenty minutes later, the distraught coach sat at his wife’s side, tending to her podagra.
The Ganoga salesmen were named Wilton Stec and Ralph Virdon. After introducing them to a few dignitaries, Clint escorted the guests down to the poolside bar. After pouring some drinks, he began to discuss business. From past experience, he knew alcohol was the key lubricant in any schmooze job.
“This cider is going to be big,” said Clint. “Really big. Especially after we win the championship. I’m going to have the name emblazoned on the water cooler used to douse Coach Hayes after the game. We can plaster the logo all over the stadium. Any television shot will capture the brand name.”
“We noticed sales are through the roof locally,” said Wilton. He had an eye on a waitress making the rounds.
“The local market is hot,” said Benson with confidence. “Tulsa Valley football is religion down here. The fans are zealots. When Coach Hayes speaks, they listen.
“Where is the coach?” asked Wilt. He looked around noticing a surprising number of young women in bikinis.
“You just missed him,” replied the host. Clint already had Wilton pegged, based upon his wandering eye. A waiter refilled the guest’s scotch glass. “He wanted to meet you but his wife took a bit ill. Unfortunately, he had to go home.”
“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” said Ralph. “Our marketing team asked if he could possibly be in one of the commercials during the big game.”
“Coach Hayes – in a commercial? You don’t say?” Clint was having a harder time trying to figure out Ralph’s passion.
“You bet Mr. Benson. Marketing loves his face and quirky humor. They’ve already tested his persona, and it sells well.”
“He’s a natural,” added Wilt. “Whether he knows it or not. He scored high in all the major demographics. Even the soccer moms trust him!”
“He’s definitely hip with the young generation,” continued Ralph. “We need the coach on board. Let me make that point perfectly clear.”
“Well I can tell you right now gentlemen, the coach is in. You can count on that. He and I go way back.”
“What a wonderful spread you have here Mr. Benson,” said Wilton as he took a hors d’oeuvre from a scantly clad waitress. His eyes were fixated on the young lady’s upper torso, which was about to burst out into full public display. “Does everyone in town work for you?”
“Well yes,” said Clinton, noticing a shiny ring on the company man’s finger. From past experience he knew it meant nothing. “Daisy has been working for me for ten years or so. She’s one of my most valued employees.”
“I see,” said Wilton, chomping on an asparagus sprig. “Daisy, what a nice name.”
“Would you like her to show you around a bit?” asked the host. “The grounds are vast, including a little cottage area we have down the road. It’s a most pastoral setting. Perfect for any businessman wanting to relax and take a load off his mind.”
“Sure,” snapped Wilt with a slug of scotch. “That would be great.” He winked at the businessman. “But promise me Clint, we have to talk business later.” While speaking he pointed his index finger at Clint. “O.K.?”
“Yes, yes,” said Clint. “There’s always time for business. You two boys are staying the night, right? I do insist.”
“Sure,” said Wilton. “We had reservations in town, but can easily cancel out.” He already had a hand on the employee.
“Perfect. My home is your home. Relax. I’m sure you will enjoy your stay here. Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” responded Wilton, as he was escorted away by the woman. From past experience, Clint knew the opening pitch was already in the bag.
“What about you Ralph Virdon? What’s your poison?”
“Poison? I don’t understand?”
“What’s your passion young man?” asked Clint. “Every man has an inner devotion. Something that makes waking up in the morning tolerable. What makes you happy?” He sensed a dullard before him.
“Well, I guess golf,” said Ralph.
“Golf,” said Benson. “Of course. I knew there was something special about you.”
“Golf and occasional sex with my wife, but that’s a distant second.”
Benson laughed. “A man after my own heart. Can you strike the ball well?”
“Pretty well,” said Ralph. “I played in college.”
“Where?”
“Just down the road, at Southern State.”
“Whoa, whoa,” said Clint in jest. “That’s a curse word around these parts boy. Easy now.” The host slowly looked over his shoulder for effect. “Never mention that name around the coach, or he’ll go into a war dance.”
“So I hear,” said Ralph. “I love the rivalry.”
“So golf it is,” said Benson. “Well you’re in luck young man. I just happen to have a driving range down the lane. How about Melissa here takes you down to hit a few balls? Maybe work on your short game? Help you with the yips?” On cue, a red headed woman in a pink bikini stepped forward. The contrast between her milky white skin and swimwear was strangely enticing. “What do you say?”
“Ah, well sure,” said Ralph. “I mean you can never hit enough balls in your life. Right?”
“That’s right,” said Clint with a grin. The mogul had it down to a science. In golf slang, the affair was turning into a chip shot.
“Hit as many as you want,” laughed Clint. “We won’t run out. I own the ball factory in town.”
“Thanks Mr. Benson.”
“Please, call me Clint.”
“All right. Thanks Clint.”
“Tomorrow morning we tee off at 8 A.M. on the old Hickory Course. It’s the number one ranked course in the state.”
“Really! I’ve always dreamed of playing there. Thank you.”
“It’s a date,” said Clint. He patted the man’s shoulder as a golf cart pulled up beside him. “Enjoy yourself,” said Clint. “Any questions, just ask Melissa. I’m sure she can help you with your up and down game too. There are a lot of bunkers on ole Hickory.” Benson waved as the second young guest was escorted away. He headed back to the brisket pit where dinner was now being served.
Later in the evening, Clint Benson held court in his study. One by one he met with a list of local dignitaries, all involved in some sort of symbiotic relationship with the host, centered upon money. A county commissioner stopped in to reassure his coin-operated washing machines remained in Clint’s Laundromats, in exchange for a favorable property reassessment. Next, Tulsa’s mayor stumbled in, full of brisket and booze, to make sure his cantankerous mother-in-law stayed on the host’s payroll, despite rarely showing up for work. Clint reassured him, while thanking the politician for some discounted advertising on the city’s billboards. The state’s highway czar stopped by to make sure Daisy and Melissa would be available for an upcoming weekend retreat. In return, he guaranteed a favorable look at Clint’s bloated bid for an upcoming road project. It was business as usual in the world of Clint Benson.
The final guest however mattered the most, since she was family. Pansy Benson-Harper was the only daughter of Clint’s deceased younger brother, Will. Like Clint, she was born and raised in the bayou, a tomboy sandwiched between five brothers. Her athleticism earned her a full track scholarship out west, where she met a young sports medicine fellow named Jordan Harper. They married two years later, and Uncle Clint was responsible for enticing the young surgeon to settle in Louisiana. The promise of becoming the team physician for Tulsa Valley was too good an offer to pass up and the newlyweds settled in Tulsa, under the watchful eye of their proud uncle. At first, it took some time for Jordan Harper to adjust to Tulsa, yet thanks to his skill set and personality, he ultimately fit right in. Within ten years his face became synonymous with Tulsa Valley football and Coach Hayes. Yet his wife never kept up with his progress, growing more uncomfortable with his fame. Slowly they grew apart, him becoming more popular, and she more reclusive.
“Pansy, good evening,” said Clint. “How was the brisket?”
“Wonderful as usual, Uncle Clint.”
“Pansy, you’ve always been my favorite,” said Clint while leaning back in his chair. “You do know that?”
“Sure I do Uncle Clint. You tell it to me all the time.”
“I promised your father I’d take care of you.”
“For heaven’s sake Uncle Clint, I’m living in your home. You take real good care of me.”
“Yes,” said Clint as he stood up. “Pansy, I’m going to be blunt. Is there any possible chance of you and Jordan patching things up? You know, getting back together?” He slowly walked towards his niece.
“No,” said Pansy without hesitation, her smile evaporating. “It’s over. I’m sorry to say that Uncle Clint. I tried my best, but it’s definitely over.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons,” said Pansy while staring at the floor. Her uncle had asked this question several times before, but now the answer was certain. There would be no more tears.
“What’s the main reason Pansy? You can tell me. I’m obviously close with Jordan, but you’re family. What we discuss tonight stays here, between you and me.”
“It’s kind of a man and wife thing,” said Pansy. “It’s just not working. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Why Pansy? I need to know?”
“He’s cheating on me Uncle Clint,” said Pansy with a shake of her head. “I know it. I darn well know it.”
“Cheating? Are you sure? I’ve heard of no rumors.”
“Oh I’m sure. He’s just different. Over the past two years, he’s just been a different man.”
“How so?”
“Uncle Clint, it’s kind of uncomfortable to discuss marital details with you. I’m sure you know that.” A tear was now appearing in her eye. “Let’s just say it’s not working anymore. Our relationship that is.”
“Sure I do Pansy. I’m sorry.” Clint sat down next to his niece and put his hand on her shoulder. “But I made a promise to your daddy to watch over you, and protect you. So if someone is hurting you, I need to know.” Clint paused, somewhat caught off guard by the allegation. “Are you sure Pansy? Jordan? I would have never suspected it.”
“He hasn’t been intimate with me for over a year,” cried out Pansy, tears now rolling down her eyes. “One whole year Uncle Clint! How do you think that makes me feel? He doesn’t love me any more!”
“Ah Pansy my girl, it’s all right,” said Clint with a hug. “I understand. You don’t have to tell me anymore. I get it. There, there. We’re family and there is no stronger bond than that.”
“He’s so different anymore,” said Pansy. “Something strange is going on in his life.”
“It’s all right.”
“He shut me out. I tried to please him.”
“That’s O.K. young lady. We’ll keep you here on the estate until the hurting stops. O.K.? No more personal questions from Uncle Clint.”
“Thank you Uncle Clint,” said Pansy as she stood up, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I sure do miss daddy.”
“So do I,” said Clint. “So do I. He was a good man.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No young lady. I’m sorry to have upset you. Have a good evening.”
She turned to walk away but Clint called out.
“I spoke to the casino manager,” said Pansy’s favorite uncle. “You’re good to get back in on a limited basis – two nights a week. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve set aside an account for each night,” said Clint. “It tapers over time, so get used to it.”
“I will Uncle Clint. I promise.”
“If you continue to lose, it will be exhausted in two months. All right?”
“I’m not going to lose this time Uncle Clint,” said Pansy, her broad smile now returning. “I just know it. My luck has got to change.” She walked back towards her uncle and hugged him, followed by a kiss on the cheek. “I love you Uncle Clint. Thank you.”
Over the next thirty minutes Clint Benson finished his last scotch of the night alone, trying to digest the news. Through his mind the Tarpon Cider deal was running wild, and Jordan Harper was his partner. The deal was big, real big. He just had to get it through – for the sake of everyone.
Chapter Fourteen
LMNOP
Pete held breasts in his hands before, but these were different. They were like two mosquito bites, slightly raised and a bit irregular. While softly rolling his hands back and forth over the lumps, the words “cup cakes” came to mind. Their texture triggered memories of a rainy afternoon back in junior high, when inexplicably, he found himself alone with his neighbor, the promiscuous sophomore. Her mom was briefly away, running a tray of lasagna over to an infirmed church member, while her dad was still at work. For some odd reason she wore her varsity cheerleading uniform, perhaps for effect, made of an uncomfortable 50-50 cotton-polyester blend. The young hostess was well ahead of her time, and after taking a slug of booze from the liquor cabinet, introduced Pete to her so called “cup cakes.” The highly anticipated encounter was awkward, and reeked of peppermint schnapps. Pete recalled the pitter-patter of rain and her lips tasting like bologna, with a touch of spicy mustard. For five minutes the two students exchanged hands until the harsh sound of a garage door broke off the engagement. Pete jumped up so quickly his head shattered the bulb on an overhead chandelier. He couldn’t recall the lame excuse given to her mother, but he did recall the look on her face. His neighbor’s mom was hot, in a middle-aged kind of way, a hint of chardonnay always on her breath. Sadly, it was the only romantic encounter he ever had with his neighbor. Two months later, they abruptly moved out west. He wondered how she was doing? Maybe he could find her on Facebook?
“Hey! What the hell are you doing? Are you some kind of a pervert?”
Pete looked into the mirror with his breasts still in hand. Behind him stood a stunned Jamal, waiting for an answer. His trip down adolescent memory lane was over.
“What the hell?” asked Jamal. “At least close the door if you’re going to be pleasuring yourself Pete. Show some manners.”
“No, no. It’s not that Jamal,” said Pete while still staring into the mirror. “Look at my breasts. Something is happening to them.” He turned towards his roommate. “I’m turning into a woman!”
“Holy cow,” said Jamal. He was staring directly at Pete’s bosom. “You’re hatching some headlights bro. What the…”
“I know. I know,” said Pete. “They’re kind of sensitive too. What’s going on Jamal?”
“I don’t know Pete. Maybe it’s the heat. Are you retaining water?”
“I’m not kidding Jamal. Something weird is going on. First my testicles, now this.”
“You’re like in a time warp Pete. I remember my boobs hurting when I was a teenager. Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re breaking out with acne man. Tell me, are you having any nocturnal emissions? Don’t be shy, I’m a doctor.”
Pete just stared back into the mirror. Jamal was right. His body was in some sort of transformation. His breasts ached.
“You’re like all hormonal man,” added Jamal. “Have you been binge watching chick flicks?”
“No, no,” said Pete. “The opposite. Remember, I just lived with a bunch of sculpted men in a large prison setting. If anything I should be swinging the other way.”
“The Great Swagner!” shouted Jamal. “Soft enough for a man, but made for a woman!”
“Jamal! It’s not funny…”
The next morning Pete visited the office of Dr. Frank Wong, a local endocrinologist. The middle-aged physician was five foot four inches tall and a tad overweight. He wore thick glasses and an oversized white lab coat. While talking, he had the peculiar habit of looking towards the ceiling. Harper claimed he was a nationally known expert in the field of endocrinology.
