NOTE: I'm not fond of this chapter, just so y'all know. It felt awkward, took me too long to write, and it doesn't flow. But nonetheless, I can't leave it out because it has far too many important issues that begin here. So…read it, not for the horrible writing, but for the important facts that tie into the rest f the story.
Public service announcement over.
Chas was out the door in ten minutes, leaving John to find a different cab to take to the tournament. He got there exactly three minutes before his tee time, and his partner for the day raised an eyebrow.
"Another three minutes and you would've been one down from the start," the man huffed as Chas yanked on his golf shoes.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry."
The man shrugged. "Not my problem."
A tournament official approached them, curiously staring at Chas as he yanked on his golf glove and tried to catch his breath.
"Your caddies, gentlemen," the man said, introducing two teenage boys- in fact, Chas's caddy looked about the same age as him.
"Are you kidding me?" The caddy asked, circling Chas like a vulture. "This guy is gonna compete?"
Chas felt his fists clench, and he shot the caddy a glare. "If you have a problem carrying my clubs, then don't bother," he snapped.
"How much are you gonna pay me?"
"Depends on how well you do your job."
The caddy snorted. "Screw this. You can carry your own damn bag, I'll spring for someone a little higher on the food chain," he said, looking to the tournament official.
The tournament official looked at his watch, and then shrugged. "Mr. Kramer, you have one minute to find a new caddy or you're disqualified."
Shit. Shit shit shit, Chas thought, turning around. If only Damon weren't competing too…he'd caddy for you.
As if sent by Lady Luck herself, a taxi pulled up and Constantine stepped out, dropping his cigarette and stamping it out. He walked up to Chas and started to say something, but was interrupted by Chas's golf bag getting shoved into his arms.
"John, John Constantine. He'll do it," Chas said to the official about thirty seconds before the time. The tournament official looked bored as he scribbled down John's name and scurried away, muttering something about Chas getting a move-on or he'd be penalized.
John blinked a few times, looking down at the clubs in his arms- he'd quite obviously downed a good sized glass of whiskey in a very quick fashion before leaving the apartment.
"Do what?" he asked, looking up at Chas.
"No time, I'll explain later. Carry those."
John's eyes narrowed. "Me? Carry your clubs? What do I look like, a fuckin' caddy?"
Chas had already yanked the driver from the bag and was headed for the first tee. "You are my caddy, John."
John hesitated a few moments in surprise before rushing to catch up, setting the bag down to the side of the tee box and walking over to Chas as the teenager set up his tee and ball and did a quick practice swing.
"No way. No fuckin' way. I'm not lugging around your damn clubs all day. It's hot out here!"
Chas sighed, looking out at the flag before looking over at John.
"My caddy just snubbed me because I'm the youngest guy in this tournament. Judging by the general attitude of the people here, there's no way I'll find a caddy willing and able in the ten seconds before my tee time. So, if you don't do it, I'll have to step off this course. You'll lose your petty little chance at revenge," he said, his voice fast and to-the-point.
Not that there's much of a chance even if I do play…but being able to pay the rent for this month would be nice.
John grumbled, muttered, cursed, and then shook his head and stepped back.
"What the hell are you waiting on, kid? Hit that thing."
Chas was beyond thought. The day was only an hour old and already too frustrating to take. He was suffering through a hangover and other aches and pains, his emotions were in turmoil from last night's events, he could tell that no one thought he should be in this tournament, and quite suddenly he didn't want to be in this tournament.
All his frustration, all his anger, every bottled up emotion slammed through that first swing like a released catalyst.
Everyone who'd been watching the young man with idle amusement was suddenly struck dumb by the flaming shot down the center of the fairway. More than a few jaws dropped as the ball hit the green ten feet past the hole, and a backspin brought it six feet closer.
"Well…I'll be darned," his partner said, staring at the shot for a few moments. Then he shook his head, walked over to Chas, and extended his hand.
"I'm Arthur Faraday. I own this club."
Chas's eyes widened, and he shook the man's hand with fervor. "It's an honor to meet you, sir. You do a wonderful job of taking care of this place."
John rolled his eyes at the obvious sucking-up, but Mr. Faraday seemed quite pleased by Chas's show of respect.
"I've seen you out here a lot, but no one told me you could pull off shots like that. What do you say to a private wager, just between you and I?"
"No, sir, I couldn't. I mean, I would, if I had any money to place the bet…"
"I'll take that bet," John said, stepping forward. "Five hundred on the kid."
Mr. Faraday laughed heartily. "Five hundred it is," he said before driving his own ball down the fairway.
The bet was won by the ninth tee- Chas was five strokes up on Faraday when they decided to sit down and have a drink to get out of the scorching sun for a few moments.
"Mr. Kramer…what are you doing right now? College? A job?" Mr. Faraday asked as John smoked a cigarette a little distance away.
Chas's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I'm a cab driver, sir."
Mr. Faraday nodded, taking a sip of his lemonade. "And your golfing?"
"Just a hobby, really. I caddied when I was younger because I needed a day job, and I just liked the game."
"If it's just a hobby, then what the hell are you doing trying out for a statewide tournament?"
Chas hesitated, keeping his gaze averted. "My day job doesn't always cover the rent. I'm a little behind."
"A little?"
"…A lot."
Mr. Faraday nodded again. None of this seemed to be affecting him. "Who's your caddy?"
"That's my boss. John Constantine. He agreed to help me out for the day."
"Right, right. And how much does he pay you?"
Geez, can this guy get any more instrusive? Chas thought, but he wasn't about to blow off the guy running the competition.
"Depends on how busy the day is. Usually $6.50 an hour."
"How would you like to make $5000 for every shot you take?"
Chas blinked, and then he realized what Mr. Faraday was talking about. Going professional.
"I…uh…"
Mr. Faraday smiled. "Just think about it, Chas. You've got the raw talent…imagine what it would be like to never have to worry about the rent again. With enough work, you could make it to that level in no time."
But then I'd have to leave John behind.
Chas didn't articulate that thought- he didn't get a chance to. Mr. Faraday had already stood and was headed on to the tenth tee.
"Hope you had a nice sucking-up fest," John muttered as Chas walked over to him.
"Well, John, he kinda owns the place. I can't exactly blow him off."
"I don't know…you're pretty good at blowing things in general."
Chas shot John a glare, his jaw set. "Now is not the time, John. And as far as I'm concerned, that never happened."
"Oh, so that pain in your ass really did come from a traffic cone."
"Fuck you, John. Fuck you," Chas said angrily. Maybe it would be okay to just walk away from him for Q-school after all. Then maybe, just maybe you could figure out your own life without hinging it on a self absorbed egotistical maniac.
Chas stormed away to the tee, and John sighed heavily, watching him for a few moments. His eyes traveled up and down the teenager's body, and he swallowed hard.
It was just a drunken fuck, Constantine. Don't get attached. You never have, and you never will.
"John, my driver! I kinda need it!"
But would you carry anyone else's golf clubs all over the damn course?
…Fuck. This whole 'don't get attached' thing is not working.
