PHIL WESTLY ARRIVED at the Benson residence bright and early the next morning. He had learned his lesson during his last visit, so this time the convertible’s roof was secured to protect his car’s interior from the gritty airborne dirt.
Bo plucked a playing card from Jess’s hand and placed it atop the queen of hearts. He took a final sip of coffee, got up from his chair, and ambled to the front window.
“Looks like the vulture has arrived just in time to pick our bones clean.”
Jess jumped up and joined his brother. “At least now we can cash in before we flush this chicken turd and get on with our lives.”
“Not quite ready to sell to that douche bag, and I’m not sure I ever will be.”
“You’re going to end up blowin’ this whole deal if you don’t wise up. We’re finished. Face it.”
Phil tooted his horn and then sat smugly on the fender of his showpiece, cocksure he held a pat hand. “Morning, gentlemen. Hope I didn’t disturb you. Would’ve called, but it seems your phone service is not in order,” he said with a taunting chuckle.
“Come back to finish your round?” Bo inquired.
“Tempting, but I think I’ll pass. No, I came out to convey my condolences on your loss. I mean, there’s not much use in keeping an egg farm without the chickens, now is there?”
Bo yanked his hands out of his pockets and balled both fists. “How the hell would you know about that?”
Phil jumped off the fender and reached into his suit pocket. “Spelled out right here,” he said while holding out a folded newspaper.
Bo snatched the paper from his hand and smoothed out the creases, zeroing in on the front-page article that had been circled. Jess stood close to his side and also read the treatise.
SIGN OF THE TIMES
by Judith Taylor, The Town Crier
An insidious plague has been silently spreading across our great nation. This epidemic might be little noticed by city shoppers as they select bags of uniform, unblemished, often insipid fruits and vegetables produced by large conglomerates, but it does exist.
I dare you to attend a farmers’ market—that is, if you’re fortunate enough to locate one—and find the heirloom tomato grandma picked when she made her award-winning spaghetti sauce. Why is fresh, wholesome food such a rarity these days? I’ll tell you the reason: small farmers are becoming extinct. We have only to look in our own backyard to see this happening.
Iconic Benson Ranch, an integral part of our community since its inception at the turn of the last century, has provided local consumers with eggs and produce for several generations. This family-run enterprise is about to gasp its last breath unless prompt action is taken to save it. The Benson brothers urgently need your ideas and support.
Bo and Jess Benson have endured the same challenges faced by all farmers, but there are far fewer resources available to small, independent agrarians like them when confronted by Mother Nature on her own unforgiving terms. Six straight years of drought, in addition to lower than normal rainfall totals in several preceding seasons, have all but dried up the farm. And to put the final nail in the coffin, a lethal avian virus has recently decimated their stock of laying hens.
The other component of their predicament is the imminent loss of the family’s grassroots movement to perpetuate the grand old game of golf. Without an immediate remedy to their water shortage, public linksters priced out of the game by upscale daily-fee courses will look no more to quaint Chicken Ranch Golf Course for relief. The Benson brothers cannot afford the high cost of bulk water deliveries necessary to keep the course’s grass healthy and green.
So, unless a deep well can be drilled on their property, golf will have lost yet another course—as well as a few more players the game can ill afford to lose. Core golfers, who make up ninety-five percent of rounds played, declined five percent last year alone, to 19.5 million. The number of young people aged eighteen to thirty playing the game has declined nearly thirty-five percent over the last decade. And to make matters worse, more golf courses have closed than opened during that period. There have been, on average, 137 closures every year since 2011, with public courses comprising 97 percent of those shut down. Sad as that may be for the game that dates back centuries, this trend is a sign of the times.
We must band together as a community to brainstorm solutions and preserve our local heritage. Without our assistance, the Benson farm and Chicken Ranch Golf Course will surely vanish like the dodo.
Phil cleared his throat. “Ms. Taylor paints a fairly ugly picture. Guess you could say in golf terms, it’s ‘the rub of the green.’ My offer still stands.”
He procured a briefcase from his backseat and popped it open without further ado. “One million in crisp bills sure is a pretty sight. Don’t you agree?”
Bo’s breath caught in his throat.
Phil hardened his determination. “This much cash for a worthless piece of property sounds like a mighty good deal to me.”
“Thought that offer was for two million.”
“Ask any good realtor, and they’ll confirm that property doesn’t always hold its value. Unfortunate circumstances can certainly decrease a parcel’s worth, as in your case.”
“It’s all in the eye of the beholder. This ‘worthless piece of property,’ as you call it, is priceless to me. It lives, breathes, and bleeds Benson blood. So far as I’m concerned, I think you know what you can do with your one, two, or ten million.”
“Son, I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation. Either accept my offer or you and your brother will lose everything.”
“I’ll take my chances with the wolves at the bank. At least I know where they’re coming from.”
“We know one thing for sure. They’re not coming from a position of money—at least as far as your interests are concerned. I’ve laid all my cards on the table; it’s time to read them and weep. I can preserve the legacy of your family’s good name at the five-star resort that Mr. Housman and I plan to develop. I’ll have various photos of your family farm displayed throughout the property, kind of like ‘before and after’ images with a little history printed beneath each. I’ll even create a cushy position for you as one of our pros if you desire. All you have to do is show up when you feel like it, play a little golf now and then with your friends, and drink piña coladas whenever you wish. Of course, you’ll be so damn rich you won’t really need a so-called job.”
“Mighty big of you, Mr. Westly, but until they pull that deed from my cold, dead hands, I intend to keep that legacy alive through succeeding generations of Bensons. This place is an integral part of our being. Strip this from us and we would die.”
“Bo, now wait a second,” Jess pleaded. “Mr. Westly has some valid points.”
“Really? Are you serious? Where’s the Benson spirit that’s gotten us through all the hard times? The good Lord only knows there’ve been plenty of those.”
Smelling a new angle, Phil turned his attention to the more vulnerable sibling. “Jess, might want to have a heart-to-heart with that brother of yours. Seems like he’s lost touch with reality. But make it quick. Time’s running out.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?” Bo barked angrily.
Phil held up a hand. “I hear you all right, son, but every man has his breaking point. Call me when you reach yours.”
Bo stood in the doorway and watched the Bentley speed away down the dusty driveway.
“I realize he’s probably right,” Bo told Jess, “but that son of a bitch has a way of pressing all my hot buttons. Where does he get off thinking he can manipulate everyone with his cash?”
“I’m sure if you were a billionaire, you’d feel the same.”
“God, I hope not. Like to think there’d still be a shred of decency left in me.”
“Power is money—and we all know that power corrupts.”
“How the hell would you know, considering we’ve never had a pot to piss in?”
“It’s at times such as these, I think you’re just as warped as he is,” Jess said, “only you’re comin’ from the other end of the spectrum.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil, for that quick insight into my psyche.”
“Not tryin’ to bust your balls here, but it’s time to wake up, dude, and admit we’re at the end of our rope. I’m sure, if push came to shove, we could get him up to around two million again. Don’t tell me you couldn’t style with that kind of bread.”
“This isn’t strictly about money, Jess.”
“It sure as hell is. We set ourselves up for either success or failure, and it’s obvious to everyone except you what course of action we need to take.”
BO HEATED SOME water on the single burner of his butane camping stove and procured a sealed packet of generic coffee—the ones found in cheap motel rooms. After searching for an expiration date that didn’t exist, he sniffed the open packet to reassure himself there still remained a semblance of bean aroma. In honor of his mother, he placed a coaster on the stained, warped table and served the dark, pungent cup of brew.
“Would you like sugar or milk?” he asked his guest.
Judy only shook her head.
“That’s good because I don’t have either,” Bo said as he blew on his steaming-hot cup of java. “Read that article you wrote last week. Your writing rivals your golf game.”
“I’ll take that as a backhanded compliment. I’m really not sure which is worse. If I remember correctly, you had a pretty decent game yourself. Didn’t you once receive a scholarship?”
Bo took a gulp of his scalding coffee and winced.
“Yeah, it was only a partial scholarship to State. Had grandiose dreams of turning pro someday and then working my way through the mini-tours in order to reach the big time but . . .” Bo’s voice died in his throat.
“So what happened?”
“Couldn’t afford to go. Still had a working farm back then and dad needed my help. Jess was going to high school and I was needed to pick up the slack. For all practical purposes, we could’ve used a few more hands, to say the least. God bless my dad, but that poor old bastard never did have a day’s rest until the moment he died.”
“Well, I do have some good news.”
“Lord only knows, I could use a little of that.” He laughed wryly.
Judy reached into her purse and retrieved a thick envelope. “Take a look at this.” She opened the flap and tossed down a stack of checks.
Bo leaned forward and nearly fell off his chair. “What’s this?”
“These checks started to pile in the day after my article was published. Pretty sweet, huh? There’s a little over five thousand here. That should keep the wolves at bay for a bit, and I’m sure that’s not the end of it.”
“Unfrickin’ real. I don’t even know these people,” Bo said as he thumbed through the checks.
“Not surprisingly, most of the larger donations came from golf organizations and golfers themselves,” Judy pointed out. “The bad apples usually get all the press, but if you look beyond all the ugliness in the world, there are still a lot of good people out there.”
“Still can’t believe it.”
“That’s not all. Remember Jon Jaffie?”
“The pro golfer? Who could forget our hometown hero who lost in a playoff a few years back at the Players?”
“One and the same. Jon shot me a call after reading the article I wrote and said he’d like to help.”
Bo wagged a finger at her. “If you’re still screwing with me…”
Judy held up both hands in mock surrender. “No, it’s true. Said he’d be willing to hold a pro-am at Condor Country Club where he’s a member. Each foursome would be paired with a touring pro. Afterwards, there’d be an awards ceremony, a barbecue, and a silent auction with donated equipment and artifacts from the pros. A number of local retailers have also offered to donate their products.”
Bo covered his face with both hands and massaged his eyes. “Man, oh man! Who would’ve thunk that at the eleventh hour the cavalry would arrive just in time? Thought that BS only happened in the movies.”
“And one other thing…”
Bo peeked between his fingers.
“Mad Max, the finest well driller this side of the Rockies, has offered to cut you a sweet deal for his services. You’ve become a symbol of rural America. You’re an underdog small farmer fighting to preserve the heritage this country was built upon.”
Bo jumped up and cradled Judy in his arms. He laid his head on her shoulder and held back the surging tide rising in his eyes.
“Ever since I bumped into you at the bank, nothing but good has happened to me. I was a fool for treating you so badly all those years ago.”
Judy pulled him closer. “I’m nothing more than a messenger—the town crier if you will.” She gently sighed. “Besides, everyone knows karma has a way of paying it forward.”
“Call it what you will, but without your intervention I’d be screwing the pooch.”
Judy pushed away, laughing. “You have such an elegant way with words. Maybe you should be the one writing articles.”
“Long as I can keep signing those checks to pay the bills, that’s all the writin’ I ever plan to do.”
“So, how does your golf game stack up nowadays?”
“Hard to say. Still manage to scrape it around this pasture, but how my short game would hold up on real greens is questionable. They always say the short game’s the first to go and the last to return.”
“Might not be a bad idea to spend some time on the practice green down at the Oaks.”
“It’s a good forty-five-minute drive. Both my time and petrol aren’t exactly cheap.”
“In the end, everything boils down to the almighty dollar.”
Bo bowed. “Amen to that, sister. Bring your clubs?”
“Like the TV ad says, ‘Don’t leave home without it.’”
“Up for a little cow pasture pool?”
“How many strokes you spotting me?”
“Come again? Don’t forget, I’ve seen that lethal swing of yours.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. How many?”
“You’re one hard-boiled egg—and you look so sweet and innocent on the surface.”
“How many?”
“Four on the front nine and then we’ll adjust.”
“Five, and then we’ll adjust.”
“Damn, girl! How come I feel I’ve already lost this match before we even tee off?”
“Maybe because you already have. I firmly believe W.C. Fields was spot-on in his advice: ‘Never give a sucker an even break.’”