The Bar-B-Que Circuit

By Eddie L. Barnes

Golf, alcohol, and lusty women, an amateur tournament, in one town then another, every weekend from early spring to late fall. Every golf club in every town always served the same thing on Saturday night, Texas style barbecue, beans, and potato salad or coleslaw. And there was also never a lack of spirits to help dampen the pain of a poorly played game. Set in the Texas Panhandle in 1980 its the racy, raunchy, irrelevant story of struggles with the game of golf, the alcohol that contributes to that struggle, and of the women that surround the main characters Eloy Baines, R.T. Deacon, Benny Jaymen and Himey Wilkinson. Its a hilarious look at how the men, and the women, go about life as they tour each city on The Bar-B-Que Circuit.

Eddie L. Barnes grew up in the Texas Panhandle. He has lived in various towns in West Texas and the Texas Panhandle for the past 53 years. He currently resides in Horseshoe Bay, Texas. He still sells computers and plays golf every day possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 15, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469793276

Eddie L. Barnes

Eddie L. Barnes grew up in the Texas Panhandle. He has lived in various towns in West Texas and the Texas Panhandle for the past 53 years. He currently resides in Horseshoe Bay, Texas He still sells computers and plays golf every day possible.

Book preview

The

Bar-B-Que

Circuit

Eddie L. Barnes

Writer’s Showcase presented by Writer’s Digest

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Bar-B-Que Circuit

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Eddie L. Barnes

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Writer’s Showcase presented by Writer’s Digest

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

620 North 48th Street Suite 201

Lincoln, NE 68504-3467

www.iuniverse.com

Cover designed by Eddie L. Barnes illustrated by Etienne Etcheverry 1998 Association of Western Artist—Artist of the Year. Joke design by Eddie L. Barnes, illustrated by Etienne Etchverry

ISBN: 0-595-00955-7

ISBN: 978-1-4697-9327-6 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all those Bar-B-Que Circuit guys and girls in West Texas and the Texas Panhandle who like to live high, run hard, be fast and stay loose. And to beer so cold it has ice crystals in it, and to barbecue brisket and pork ribs. And last but absolutely the most important, to hard liquor, soft women, and to finding the hole every time you make a stroke.

Introduction

Every year, beginning in late February and running through October, some city, from the Oklahoma Panhandle, to Eastern New Mexico, across the Texas Panhandle and down to what is called West Texas, has some kind of amateur golf tournament each weekend. I started playing those tournaments in 1970 and still continue to do so, some thirty years later. We always referred to the events as the Bar-B-Que Circuit.

I’m quite certain there are other Bar-B-Que Circuit’s in many other parts of Texas and probably in many other states as well. There are thousands of stories about the Panhandle/West Texas Bar-B-Que Circuit; this is just one describing a few weeks in the summer of 1980.

The golf events described are mostly true. Any representation to any real person is merely coincidental. The rest of the tale is merely the figment of a deranged mind, with nothing to do and all day to do it, and nowhere to go and all day to get there.

I did not change the names to protect the innocent—on the Bar-B-Que Circuit there was no innocence.

ONE

It was one of those summer days in the Texas Panhandle when you could see the heat rising from the blacktop highway. Three golfers stood on the first tee waiting on the fourth player of the group to arrive. They had just decided to begin without him when, in the distance, they heard the hum of a car engine, the kind of hum an engine makes when it’s wound up tight and pushed to the limit. Gradually the hum became louder and louder. Finally it turned into a roar. They all seemed to look up at the same time and see the two toned, rust and rose colored, nineteen seventy-nine, Cadillac Seville appear over the horizon. Eloy Baines was running late for his tee time and had the Cadillac running wide open. Normally a player late for his tee time in a tournament would be disqualified, but this was the Bar-B-Que Circuit and sometimes the rules were relaxed. They were relaxed especially for the championship flight players and more especially for the player who happened to be the defending champion.

One player, the most agitated of the group and the biggest asshole north of Lubbock, Texas spoke up. Why don’t we just go on and go. He shouldn’t be allowed to play anyway. He’s over ten minutes late.

Aw hell, another few minutes won’t hurt. Besides, he probably laid out all night drunk. Nothing to be afraid of, the sum-bitch ain’t gonna beat nobody here, said Bonner Bennet.

I ain’t afraid, that’s bullshit, the agitated asshole replied. Drunks don’t scare me at all.

Bonner said, Well you better hope he’s still drunk. If not you’ll be playing for fourth.

Yeah. Well, we’ll see.

Hell, Bonner said, I’ll bet you fifty he can beat you drunk and hung over. And I’ll bet you another hundred I can do the same. Bonner didn’t like Monty Bishop—not one bit.

I’ve paid my money. Let’s just play.

Bonner, under his breath, muttered ‘Chicken-shit.’

The red taillights of the two toned, rust and rose colored, nineteen seventy-nine, Cadillac Seville, flashed on and Eloy Baines turned, skid, slid, the car into the gravel and caliche parking lot. The skid, slide, created a huge dust cloud, throwing gravel up against the sides of the other cars in the lot and against the side of the building. He stopped the car next to the trash dumpster, got out, opened the trunk, quickly put on some golf shoes, grabbed his clubs, then half walked, half staggered to the first tee. As he half walked, half staggered to where the other players were waiting, he put on his golf glove and his golf glasses. He would have straightened his hat but he didn’t realize it was on half-cocked.

Nice fuckin’ shoes, spoke Bonner.

Eloy looked down at his shoes. It took him a minute to focus. He was so hung over that even his hair hurt, and the hot Texas sun beating down on his head didn’t help either. When his eyes focused he saw that he had put on one black and white shoe and one brown and white shoe. In a rough gravely voice, made of too many cigarettes and too much Scotch whisky, he answered. Yeah, I think I got another pair just like ‘em in the fucking car.

Have y’all all hit? He asked.

Yeah we all hit, spoke the agitated asshole. Could you hurry up we don’t have all day?

Get you shorts outta your crack Bishop. I’m fixin’ to get there, said Eloy. Eloy took one step toward Bishop then stopped. He thought about slapping the shit out of Bishop—but didn’t, this time. He would save that for later. He didn’t like Bishop either.

Eloy had once beaten Bishop in a match play event and after the match Bishop wouldn’t shake his hand. The next day Eloy went to where Bishop worked. He took him outside and told him if he ever beat him again, and he didn’t shake his hand, he would beat the shit out of him.

Eloy teed up his ball, settled into his stance, took a swing that could only be described as short and tight and ugly. He hit the ball out-of-bounds over the barbed wire fence that separated the golf course from the black top highway. That was fuckin’ nice, he said to no one in particular. The force of the swing and the impact of the ball made his head hurt even more. He took out another ball, teed it up and hit it right next to where he had hit the first ball. Eloy spit on the ground, and without saying another word picked up his golf bag, and half-walked, half-stumbled, back to his car.

The other three players watched him leave. The dust cloud he created when he drove in had not had time to settle. Eloy got to his car. He had left the trunk open and the engine was still running—an omen. Hell, it wasn’t meant for him to play. Worked for him. He threw his clubs in the trunk, took off his shoes and placed them next to the matching pair in the trunk. In an instant he had the Cadillac in motion, spewing dust and gravel against the sides of the other cars in the parking lot and against the trash dumpster on his way back to the highway. As quickly as he came, he left.

Good riddance, said Bishop.

You’re probably glad he wasn’t chewing tobacco, huh, Bishop? Said Bonner.

One time, in Clarendon, Texas, Bishop and his partner came dressed in all white. They wore white shoes, white socks, white shorts, and white shirts. They looked like either Captain Sperm or the Pillsbury Dough Boy. They even had on matching white baseball caps. Looked like fucking tennis players to Eloy. Eloy and his partner, R.T. Deacon, were actually approached by Bishop and his partner for a bet. R.T. was chewing tobacco; the wind was blowing hard, like it usually did in the Texas Panhandle and when Eloy and R.T. agreed to the bet, R.T. spit out some tobacco juice. His aim was the ground—the tobacco juice never got there. The hard blowing Texas Panhandle wind carried the juice, not to the ground, but onto the pure white clothes of Bishop and his partner making them look like spotted dogs. Eloy laughed and said Goddamn Bishop, maybe you two fruit flies should have worn all brown today.

As the three golfers walked down the first fairway they again heard the roar of the Cadillac engine as Eloy headed south.

The third member of the group said, Don’t believe I’ve ever seen that before.

What’s that? Asked Bonner.

He slides into the parking lot, doesn’t pay his entry fee, hits two out of bounds, and leaves, and the dust hasn’t even settled!

Well, you just ain’t hung around Baines much then. The boy has power to all fields.

Looks like all his power is staying out late and drinking, said the third member of the group.

And throw in some bimbos somewhere, said Bishop.

Well, responded Bonner, as they walked down the first fairway. Every man has to have his priorities, now don’t they?

Eloy set the Cadillac on eighty and put on the cruise control. His head hurt like hell, he needed another beer. The three beers with tomato juice and the two Seven-Eleven chimichangas he had consumed while driving from Amarillo, Texas to Perryton, Texas had not cured his hangover. He knew just where to go. He rolled back the sunroof on the Cadillac, lit a Marlboro, and headed for Pampa, Texas. He’d stop in Dad’s and refuel, both on gasoline and alcohol. A little poem came to mind.

Once upon a golf course dreary

Wandered Eloy tired and weary

Hunting for the two Titleist threes

That he hit right and knocked O.B.

He hunted and hunted till he could hunt no more

Quoth the Eloy, shit, fuck, whore.

As he drove, he listened to the radio, and thought about the night before and the events that had got him into this condition.

He had left Midland, Texas on Thursday and drove to Lubbock to see his friend R.T. Deacon. They had played golf at Lubbock Country Club on Friday morning at the invitation of another friend, and then Eloy had driven to Amarillo. He was on his way to Perryton for the Perryton Invitational. He hadn’t wanted to go, but then, he really didn’t have anything else to do with his spare time. And, he did win the tournament the year before, so, he felt he at least owed it to the tournament and to himself to play again.

When he got to Amarillo, the two toned, rust and rose colored, nineteen seventy-nine, Cadillac Seville automatically turned into the parking lot of the Sixteenth Avenue Lounge. Eloy parked the car underneath the tree behind the lounge, next to the back door. It was the best place to park, especially when the fights started. Eloy didn’t mind a scuffle now and then but he preferred to pick his own battles.

When he pulled in the parking lot he knew he would find two of his friends would be in the bar. He recognized their cars in the parking lot. One man belonged to the bright yellow Pontiac Firebird with the black stripe running down the center and with the air scoop on the hood. The other car was a 1949 Mercedes Touring Sedan. Bonner Bennet belonged to the bright yellow Pontiac. The Mercedes was Spook Thompson’s.

Spook Thompson’s real name was Daniel Thompson. Eloy had given him the name Spook a few years back during a gambling game at Ross Rogers Municipal Golf Course in Amarillo. It was the same day that Eloy out hustled Jesse Jack, Jr., the biggest hustler in the Texas Panhandle. Jesse Jack, Jr. hustled everything, from golf to booze to women to dope. Every one called Jesse Jack, Jr. Triple J. Thompson was a sixteenth-handicap. He, Eloy, and Bonner were playing three of the local black players. The blacks had arranged the game so Thompson wouldn’t get any of his handicap strokes. Eloy and Bonner took the bet anyway—thinking they could carry Thompson. Eloy had driven in that morning from Midland, a four-hour trip, and was tired and semi-hung over. On the front nine Eloy shot a forty-two. It was on the front nine where Thompson got his name. For each hole that Thompson hit it in the water, hit up next to a tree, over the out of bounds fence or some other god-awful place, the next hole he would hit it right next to the pin, making a birdie or par. Some of those shots he hit next to the pin came from places you wouldn’t think you could hit a ball to the green. More than one shot came from out of the trees. The ball would go under one tree, over another, then around a tree and land on the green. The black players started following him into the trees to make sure he wasn’t somehow cheating them. He told one of them. If you could hit shots like this you wouldn’t have to sell drugs to make a living.

Eloy said to Bonner, He’s a spooky mother-fucker ain’t he?

Yeah, he’s got those black boys jackin’ off. They don’t know what he’s going to do next. They don’t know if they’re washing or hanging out.

Look at ‘em. They don’t even know when to press. The boy has done gone and spooked ‘em.

Bonner replied, Yeah, now why don’t you get off your ass and do something spooky and let’s beat these sum-bitches.

After the front nine was when Triple J. approached Eloy.

You know, it looks like I could have a fair game with a persons like you.

Eloy, sensing a hustle, opened a beer and took a drink. What you got in mind?

Triple J.: If you could give me one a side, I’d try ya for fifty.

Eloy: That’s such a good deal you’re damn near turning white. I just shot forty-two. Make it even and I’ll give it a go.

Triple J., thinking for sure that he had the upper hand said, Even for fifty is nifty.

Eloy shot 31 on the back nine beating Triple J. out of three hundred dollars. Eloy, Bonner and the newly named Spook beat the three blacks out of another two hundred.

Triple J. hip hopped his way over to Eloy and paid him the money. You tricked on me didn’t you, E man?

Eloy: Pot shouldn’t call the kettle black, or something like that.

Triple J.: Saw me coming at ya didn’t ya E man?

Eloy took the money, put it in his pocket and then shook hands with Triple J. You had your head-lights on early Trip.

The Sixteenth Avenue Lounge was a typical Texas bar. It was L shaped with the long, tall bar in the rear of the building with the pool tables and small dance floor toward the front. Normally you could cut the cigarette smoke with a knife. And if you hung around long enough someone would probably try to use a knife on you or someone else over some skanky, sleaze kitten—or over whose quarter was up next on the pool table. The pool tables always drew the trouble. It was amazing how many fights, and dismemberment’s of various appendages, took place over a game of pool. Eloy once witnessed a hell of a brawl over a quarter and who got to play the next game. The smell of the bar was always the same. The musky smell of beer, cigarettes, and whatever it was the last person had had to eat.

Eloy walked in the back door and recognized both of the men sitting at the bar. It was Spook and Bonner. Eloy could recognize Bonner anywhere. He always wore prescription, dark glasses with a strap attached to each earpiece, so he could take them off, lay them on his chest, and not lose them. For as long as Eloy could remember, as long as he had known Bonner, he never had seen him without the prescription, dark glasses.

The two men on the barstools saw him come in. Bonner Bennet poked Spook Thompson in the side. Look here Spook, look at this mangy mother-fucker comin’ in.

Spook replied. No shit, reckon a cat drug him up here?

Some form of pussy I’m sure is close by, answered Bonner.

Eloy approached Bonner and Spook, stood behind them and put an arm around each of the men’s shoulders. Hi boys, what the fuck—over?

Bonner said, Hey Big E, what’s happening? You up for Perryton?

Just being fast and loose. I thought I’d give them another run. You and Spook going up?

I’m going. Spook ain’t going.

Nope, I ain’t lost nothin’ in Perryton. Ain’t nothin’ but a gaw-damned goat ranch with holes punched in the ground. They shouldn’t even call that guy that runs it a pro. They ought to call him a Shepherd.

That must mean he’s got honey-do’s and can’t get a kitchen pass, said Eloy.

No shit, I never seen him pass up golf even if it was played in Shamrock in the fuckin’ street! Bonner laughed and so did Eloy.

Just fuck both of you, said Spook.

Tell you what, said Eloy. Let’s have a drink and think about it?

Eloy motioned to the bartender, a good-looking woman in her late twenties. She had on a tee shirt lettered on the front with, I’M EASY & I’M CHEAP TOO. On the back it read, LET’S GET IT ON.

You two having the same? She asked directing her attention to Spook and Bonner. She had one of those husky, feminine, southern drawl voices. It was so good it gave Eloy goose bumps. He shook his shoulders like he had a chill.

Both Bonner and Spook nodded their heads.

And what about you? She asked Eloy. When she looked at Eloy he noticed her eyes, he always thought the eyes of a woman made her face. Second to that were the lips. And this one had a nice round set that he knew would feel good everywhere they touched a man.

Dewars and water, and hold the water.

Straight or on the rocks?

That voice of hers again gave him goose bumps. Eloy loved that type of voice and made a mental note to hear a lot more of it before the night was finished. Rocks, he answered.

Bonner asked Eloy, You need a place for the night?

Eloy: No, I think I’ll slide over to Pampa and stay with my sister. Won’t be as much of a drive tomorrow, plus it’ll keep me out of trouble. Hell I might just show up half sober for once.

Bonner laughed then asked, How ya playing?

Eloy: I played good in Tucson last week. But you know how it goes Bennet. When the putter works, top of the world. When it don’t, break the son-of-a-bitch, get a new one and start over.

Seen R.T. lately? Spook asked Eloy.

Stayed with his sorry ass last night. Played golf with him this morning. The boy’s got problems though. He told me he’s thinking about getting married.

The husky voiced lady bartender brought the beer and the scotch and set them down. Eloy finished his before she could sit the two beers down. He motioned for another. She gave him a weird look. Eloy thought, guess she hasn’t ever seen a MAN drink before.

Oh shit, he must have fallen out of a tall window backwards, said Spook.

Yeah, said Bonner, and fell on his goddamn head! Now what would make a good looking young man want to go and fuck up the rest of his life?

I’m working on him, said Eloy. Hell, he’s already been married more times than Jack Nicklaus has won the U.S. Open! I’m going back Monday and try to work him over some more. I mean, hell, what are friends for, right?

Spook spoke up. Well, I hope the bitch ain’t like my first wife.

Spook turned up his beer and drank almost all of it in one large drink. Bitch ran off with a fuckin’ nigger.

Eloy took the bait. Damn son, I been knowing you all these years and I never knew that.

Spook started laughing, Should have known better than to marry the black bitch in the first place!

They all started laughing, including the husky voiced, lady bartender. Eloy realized he had been had and he laughed like hell too. He finished his second drink and motioned for another round.

The husky voiced lady bartender shook her shoulders like a wet dog shaking off water. She said, I wish you wouldn’t use that word around me, it gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Bonner replied, You mean fuck or nigger?

No, I mean marriage. It just makes my skin crawl.

Yeah that’s right, said Spook to Eloy. She has the knack for picking out the REAL mangy mother-fuckers when they come waltzing in, then for some stupid reason wants to marry the sum-bitches. Her record is worse than R.T.’s

Well, she replied, it ain’t that bad but I have gotten a hold of my share of jack-offs and preemies.

Okay, enlighten me, said Eloy. What the hell is a jack-off and a preemie?

Wait a minute spoke Bonner. You can’t know a girls inner most secrets without first being introduced. Eloy meet Cassie Mae Baker. Cassie meet Eloy, notorious, not famous, Eloy Baines.

Cassie Baker, the husky voiced, lady bartender extended her hand to Eloy. Eloy felt the smoothness and firmness of her hand. He thought ‘I bet her breast feel the same way.’ Sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. The look on his face almost gave him away, almost betrayed his thoughts.

Nice to meet you, said Cassie.

I think it will be, replied Eloy. "Now tell me, what kind of name is Cassie for a bartender? I thought women bartenders were all Rhonda, or Reba’s or Diane’s or something?

Well, this bartender is Cassie, with a C. She seemed annoyed at his tone. Anyway what the hell kind of name is Eloy for a white man? Sounds Mexican to me.

No, right after my mama had me they asked her for a name. She tried to say Ely but she was still doped up and she sort of slurred it. It came out Eloy.

Spook: I ain’t ever seen no blonde headed Mexican before.

Bonner: There’s blonde headed Mexicans.

Spook: Why there ain’t either.

Bonner: "Sure there is. There are plenty of ‘em in Mexico and Spain. ve seen em.

Spook: If they’re in Spain they’re Spaniards, not Mexicans

Bonner: They’re in Mexico too you stupid fuck. They’re the pure bred Spanish.

Spook: If they’re pure bred Spanish, how can they be Mexicans?

Bonner: ’Cause they’re born in Mexico you dumb shit.

Eloy: I thought the Mexicans were a cross between the Mexico Indians and the Spanish?

Cassie finally broke up the conversation. Do any of you professors know what the hell you are talking about?

Hell no, Eloy said. Now tell me. Just what the hell is a jack-off and a preemie?

Well it seems I have this penchant for choosing good looking perverts she started. I dated this one guy who just couldn’t seem to get off when we’d try to have sex. Then one night, after another failure, I got up to go to the bathroom and found him in the tub jerking off. He said it was the only way he could get off. I told him he could save a lot of money on dates—just buy some good Jergens Hand Lotion and he’d have it made.

Eloy laughed as he motioned for another round. Bonner and Spook were on the edge of their stools laughing, even though they had heard this before. Cassie continued as she got the beer and mixed Eloy another Dewars and water, hold the water.

Then there was this really gorgeous man, best looking, best built male specimen ever. But he couldn’t last long enough to give a woman a really good time. Hell, sometimes he’d start squirtin’ just looking at a ladies panties.

Spook interrupted. No shit! I bet the Sears catalogue would have driven the sum-bitch crazy.

She sat the drinks down. She noticed that Eloy was starting to sip now instead of gulp.

You think the Sears catalogue was bad, she continued. I had to hide any Victoria’s Secrets I got. He went really crazy on those.

They were all laughing hard by now.

How long did it take you to dump him? Asked Eloy.

Didn’t get the chance. I forgot one day and left a Victoria’s Secret on the dresser. By the time they found him he’d cum so much that he died from dehydration!

That brought a big laugh from everyone and sent Eloy reeling off of his stool.

Cassie, spoke Eloy, it sounds to me like you just ain’t ever fucked a grown-up before.

Got to meet one first! She said. Then she turned away to get some drinks for some of the other customers she had been ignoring while she told her story.

Eloy raised his glass to salute Cassie, drank down what remained, then signaled for another.

Cassie took some cold beers and drinks to one of the tables in the corner. When she returned she walked past Spook, Bonner and Eloy. She stopped in mid stride, backed up and then touched Eloy on the shoulder. Her touch was like a bolt of lightning. It sent a tingle all the way to Eloy’s groin. Damn you smell good. What’s that you got on? She said.

Before Eloy could answer Bonner jumped in the conversation. He’s got a hard-on, but we didn’t know you could smell it. Then he stuck out his tongue as far as it would go, sat as far back on the barstool as he could, and laughed like hell.

Cassie replied, You two boys are just plain nasty.

Why do you even put up with them then? Asked Eloy.

Well, a girl’s got to learn to be nasty from someone, replied Cassie. Then she disappeared into the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Amen, pass the crackers and wine, said Spook.

R.T. still playing good? Asked Bonner, changing the subject.

Yeah, he’s still got one of the best wedges and putters I have ever seen.

I’m tellin’ ya pal, said Bonner, "his touch is so good he could jack-off a sleeping wild cat with a wire brush