Man of the Year

by Lou Cove

  “Can I help you guys?” A man asks, his face hidden behind a stack of beer cases.

  “Let me help you out, pal,” says Howie, pulling a case away to reveal a man whose mustache and bourbon-hued aviator glasses are so comically oversized they look like they come from a Serpico Halloween costume.

  “Hey there,” Howie says as I pull the door open and we all walk in. “Ever heard of Playgirl magazine?”

  “Yup. We sell it behind the counter if you want a copy. Just give me a sec.”

  “No, that’s OK. I don’t need it—I actually have about a hundred and fifty copies.”

  The man drops the cases with a thud at the end of the aisle and walks back to join us at the front of the store, the smile fading from his face. “Well, I ain’t buying. And I’m not sure I like the idea of you and him together,” he adds, tone shifting darkly as he stares at me.

  “It’s not like that,” Howie corrects him. “This is Alexander von Snugglepuss, my attaché. He’s helping me with my campaign to be Playgirl Man of the Year. Still have November’s centerfold hanging around?”

  “You’re shitting me,” Serpico says.

  “I shit you not, Mr. Bung.” The man frowns. “I mean Mr. Hole.” The expression remains, rigid. “Hole … lotta love, that’s what I got for you. Really, check it out.” Howie hands him a copy of the November issue. “That’s the boring stuff up front,” Howie nudges him along. “I’m dead center.”

  “I know, I know,” Serpico chafes. “Whoa! Shit, man, that is you.” His face twists, impressed yet appalled, and he shuts the magazine. “So? Great. Everybody gets a peek at your kielbasa. What’s the point?”

  “The point, my good man, is this.” Howie pulls a few fliers from the bag with a flourish. “Would you consider hanging one of these…”

  “Ix-nay on the oster-pay, chief. There’s a guy in town trying to stop all the stores from selling nudie mags altogether. I put up your poster, I’m just asking to get shut down.” Serpico hands the Playgirl back and crosses his arms definitively.

  “Who’s this mysterious guy trying to stamp out free speech?”

  “Acting city marshal,” Serpico says.

  “Acting?”

  I tug at Howie: it’s time to go. We’ve been turned down enough for one day.

  “Hey. Good luck to you,” Serpico yells as we move to the door. “And buy some pants.”

  Out on the street, Howie lights a cigarette and looks thoughtfully at the rippling in the wharf, ice cold and bereft of ships. His face turns downward, taking on a pall I’ve never seen before.

  “I like your pants,” I assure him.

  He grunts then chuckles and puts an arm around me. “It’s not the wardrobe that’s holding us up, hombre. It’s the story. We need to make it less freak show, more hero’s journey, you know what I mean? More Rocky, less Man Who Fell to Earth.”

  “But Rocky doesn’t win in the end,” I remind him.

  “He wins your heart. And that’s what we need to do. Rocky’s not that smart, and he’s not that lucky. But then he gets this break and he just kills himself to make the most of it.” Howie tosses the cigarette in the gutter and starts walking up Derby Street. “Salem doesn’t want Bowie. Salem wants Balboa.”

  The Rocky Campaign

  Who’s that teenager in the shower? Plastic curtain threaded under his arm, covering the right half of his chest and the wet white of his blubbery belly, a man boob hanging free. Hard Day’s Night hair. Big smile. How could this tubby kid grow up to be Howie?

  I flip to the next photo. Same kid. Younger. Hair parted to the side and greasy. He’s wearing a jacket and tie and he has virtually no neck. Even fatter than in the shower.

  “That’s Rocky,” Howie says. “That’s the Italian Stallion. The Jewish Jaguar. He doesn’t look the part, but he’s the kid next door, so you want to root for him.”

  “I’m with you,” Papa nods. He’s come home early from work, a rarity, and we’re gathered around the pool table playing a quick round of eight ball.

  “Of course you’re with me,” Howie sniffs. “You were a fat kid, too. We need the rest of the country with me. How do you go from having the biggest boobs in the seventh grade to being a male centerfold on every news rack in America? Hard work! Millions of sit-ups! That’s what I’ve been doing. But if you look at my photos in the magazine you only get one part of the story: just another good-looking guy with no tan line and a flat stomach. Someone you can’t be. But then you see these,” he flaps the eight by tens, one in each hand, “and your whole view changes. Suddenly you can get behind this horse. Because that’s the whole American Dream thing. Rags. Riches. Fat. Thin. Same thing.”

  “Still with you,” Papa nods. “Two in the corner.” Sunk.

  “Terrific. One down, twenty million to go. Thanks, Chubby.”

  “Hey, don’t alienate your base, pal. First rule of politics.” Papa lights his dormant cigar and smoothes his mustache as he hunts his next conquest on the felt.

  “Point taken,” Howie concedes. “Now here’s how you can really help me, because this whole self-promotion thing is not me. I may have been born Jewish, but I didn’t get the memo on how to succeed in business without really trying.”

  “Step one,” Papa says, “is try.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Ten in the side.” Bang. “Step two, get those photos out there. You hit on just the right thing—a narrative. Fat boy makes good. Universal appeal. Now sell it. Have you shared these photos with Playgirl yet?”

  “Nope.” Howie looks pensively at the glossies, his old self staring back at him.

  “Don’t they have a PR office? Let them do some of the legwork.”

  “They’re not going to do bupkes. Can’t pick favorites. Besides, they don’t get what I’m up to here. This takes the idea of men’s sexuality beyond John Wayne. Past the unattainable falsehood…”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  Howie jumps up, spreads his arms: “Look at me! I’m five foot eight, one hundred fifty pounds. Not what your average steak-and-potato-eating American thinks of as a man’s man. Dustin Hoffman with muscles, that’s me. The fact that I could be Man of the Year could mean a lot, to a lot of guys. And women. I can’t compete at that ‘put up your dukes’ bar brawl level. I’m not a that. I’m a this. It’s a different way of being sexy.”

  Papa huffs. “Too lofty. Listen, it’s about the competition and how you distinguish yourself from them, not from John Wayne. Right now, the Playgirl folks need a guy they can put in front of the press. A guy who makes them look good. They’ve got a new publisher facing an uphill climb, right? A million-plus subscribers a few years ago, down thirty percent this year.”

  “How the hell do you even know that?” Howie laughs.

  “I read.” He points at the six ball, the far corner, and buries it. “But ask yourself: Why are the readers bolting?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Simple. People think it’s just a cover for a gay magazine. No one really believes that women are buying it. And if the women won’t buy, the advertisers won’t buy. The whole business goes splat. But if the women really like you, which they seem to if my secretary is any indication, then maybe you can change Playgirl’s story from homoerotic to Homo superior. You were a blob. Now you’re not. A guy like me can get behind that kind of thing, but so can my mother. That’s your competitive edge.”

  Howie sparks a roach, takes a hit, stares out the window, then stares back at my father for a long, silent moment. “This?” Howie says to me, but he’s pointing at Pa, “this is one strategic motherfucker right here. Your dad. They don’t call him El Jefe for nothing.”

  “You’re the only one who calls him El Jefe,” I say.

  “Fat kid made good,” Papa sinks the eight and ends the game before either of us get a chance to draw a cue. He crosses his arms, satisfied, and Howie grabs us both up in a bear hug.

  “A-fucking-men!” he shouts. “Let’s do this.”

  “You two can d
o this,” Papa says, breaking the huddle. “I’ve got to go make a living.”

  *

  The next day our new campaign strategy begins in earnest. Fat Howie versus Thin Howie. He lets me write the new tag line above the photos: “Would you vote for this boy?”

  Below my headline Howie pleads his case in his wiry pencil scrawl.

  I’ve been given a ONE IN A MILLION chance! But I can’t claim the title without your help. It’s the 15th round, I’m on the ropes but fighting back. I’m no gym rat—I’m just like you. I needed to put a roof over my head so I broke concrete with a sledgehammer sixty hours a week for $5 an hour. It made me strong and it made me skinny and finally SOMEONE noticed!

  If you were ever the chubby kid, or you felt like one inside, you know what this would mean to me and to all the other fat kids out there. If you think I’m worthy of the title of Playgirl Man of the Year, PLEASE VOTE!

  Your Pal and Salem Transplant,

  Howie Gordon

  “Better be careful they don’t find out that the ‘someone’ who noticed you was in a hot tub with you,” Papa says, reviewing the new poster.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Sounds too lazy. Goes against the sledgehammer story. Nice touch with that, by the way.”

  “Half true.”

  “Oh, my God, that is the cutest thing!” Mama joins us at the table, grabbing the new flier in her hand and smiling. “You were such a soft little plum.”

  “Ripe for the picking, Hunan Princess.”

  “How come you never call Mama the Hunan Princess?” Amanda slips into Papa’s lap.

  “It never really occurred to me,” Papa says slowly. “It’s more Howie and Carly’s nickname for her than mine.”

  “What is your nickname for her?” Amanda reaches absentmindedly to his cheek to stroke the weekend stubble.

  “I don’t know. Phyl, I guess.”

  “Even though he knows I hate Phyl.” Mama sighs.

  “It’s just easy. Like an abbreviation. Try this smoked salmon. Had it shipped in from the promised land. Zabar’s.” Papa holds out the sliver of oily fish he’s carved himself.

  I shake my head and slide back away from him. It smells like low tide at Devereux Beach.

  “You need a nickname for Mama,” Amanda stays on point. “You should call her the Hunan Princess, too.”

  “The last thing we need is royalty in this country. And there’s a lot of negative association with Jewish American princesses, Poopie. It’s a meritocracy and it should stay that way.”

  “I don’t like you calling me Poopie for a nickname, either. I told you a million times.”

  Howie says, “I know you’ve been married a lot longer than I have, Jefe, but I’m not so sure that political theory should be applied to the boudoir.” He takes a slug of coffee.

  “I agree with Howie,” Mama says.

  “Of course you do,” Papa shrugs dismissively. “And Poopie is a term of endearment, my love,” he says to Amanda.

  “A little more reverence couldn’t hurt, you know?” Mama poses this as a question, looking lovingly at Papa, urging him to change his tune, which has become sharp and off-key.

  “Great news!” Carly sweeps into the dining room, a wave of india ink hair streaming behind her. “I just sold out my first group!”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mama says, hugging Carly lightly.

  “My wife! My life! I am a fountain of pride, shining with the awesome alrightness of being with this beautiful human being.” Howie takes Mama’s place, lifting Carly off her toes.

  Papa delicately separates a thin film of salmon from the orange-pink slab, and glazes it with a spritz of lemon juice before popping it into his mouth. “Well, we just hit the Salem erotica trifecta,” he laughs. “Frank’s organizing an army of gay activists in the back. Howie’s running the city flag up his pole, and now Carly’s going to be hosting little-lady tea-and-crumpet sex sessions in our living room. They’re bound to resuscitate that anonymous Chestnut Street gossip rag just to cover the goings-on at number 31.”

  “About time,” Howie slaps Papa on the back. “It was a little dull around here before we arrived.”

  *

  Our campaign relaunch seems to be working. When we canvass the town this time, shop owners and store managers laugh more, scowl less. Many still refuse to post, but at least they smile. And more than a few take a flier as a souvenir.

  “Come on,” the Dunkin’ Donuts girl says, her jaw dropping. “That’s not really you.”

  Howie nods, flashing a pitiful, pouting face.

  “Well, I still can’t put it up here, but if you give me a bunch I can put them in the girls’ bathrooms at the high school.”

  I look at Howie, electrified.

  “That,” he says, “would be the equivalent of a triple lutz in my book.”

  “That’s ice skating,” Pretty Unpretty scowls sweetly. “I do gymnastics.”

  “Triple backflip?”

  “Better,” she says approvingly, reaching out and grabbing a small stack of fliers.

  Howie buys a half dozen éclairs—a thank-you and a reward—and we step out into a brightening Salem morning.

  “Well, my young campaign manager, the battle is on. Time for reinforcements.” Howie takes a deep draught of the winter sea breeze, nostrils widening. He pauses dramatically, then marches to the pay phone in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. “What’s Grandma Wini’s number?”

  Brisket, Herring, and Pinched Cheeks

  Howie asks if I want to drive the bus as we approach the Salem-Marblehead border on Lafayette Street. I try to contain my excitement, my favorite action fantasies playing in my head as he pulls me out of my seat.

  It looks good, NASA One!

  “Your legs are a little short, so sit in my lap,” he says at the stoplight. I shimmy over the tall stem of the gearshift to settle against him in the driver’s seat. The wheel is huge. I take it in my hands, ten and two, and turn to and fro happily.

  We have separation.

  “Keep it straight,” Howie charges. “This isn’t a toy. Can you reach the gas pedal?”

  “Which is it?” I ask, feeling around with the cracked rubber toe of my sneaker.

  “On the right. The light’s changing! Do you feel it? Press down. Not too hard. Harder. I’ll shift. Move a little. I need my left foot for the clutch.”

  OK, Victor. Landing rocket arm switch is on.

  We lurch through the green light, bucking along Lafayette Street at a modest clip.

  “What’s this picture of?” I ask, looking down at the steering wheel emblem between my hands: a castle with a dog atop it, water flowing beneath.

  “Eyes on the road, hombre,” Howie bumps against me from behind, setting me to attention in my seat. “Driving’s a big responsibility. Takes concentration. Focus.”

  We cruise gently along after that, making the uncrowded lights and following a tight course. Howie gives instructions now and then, but for the most part he lets me navigate the winding road.

  Here comes the throttle. Circuit breakers in.

  I like the feel of the hard plastic steering wheel in my hands, arms spread wide to hold it all. It could be a submarine or an eighteen-wheeler in a convoy. It’s everything I ever wanted to drive, all wrapped up in a funky white and blue tin package. I look back over my shoulder to see that the curtains are pulled open, the road whizzing by on every side, receding from behind. The foldout camper table rattles faintly between the yellow seats.

  “Eyes!” Howie says again, bouncing me in his lap. “Right on Maple. And ease up on the gas when you do.”

  I turn the wheel, but not hard enough. Howie has to reach forward and grab it to compensate before we hop the curb into the scrub on the right shoulder.

  “Where’s my weed?” he asks as we settle back into a straight cruise.

  “The light at the bottom of the hill is turning red,” I say as we pick up speed.

  “Tap the brake,” Howie calls, b
ody twisted, rummaging behind the seat.

  “Which one’s the brake?” I ask, knowing it must be near my foot. There’s a red knob by the gearbox diagram, rimmed in rugged gray rubber and white, all-caps: EMERGENCY.

  Pitch is out! I can’t hold altitude!

  “The brake. The brake. In the middle. Come on,” he turns back, scans ahead, and screams: “Hit the fucking brake!”

  The bottom of the hill shoots up at us so fast I can’t imagine stopping in time. We fly past Glover elementary school, hurtling toward the red light. Cars putter in either direction ahead, where Humphrey and Tedesco converge at the bottom of Maple. I imagine the minibus smashing through them.

  Correction, Alpha Hold is off … Threat selector is emergency!

  Howie wedges his hands under my butt and shoves me off his lap back into the passenger seat.

  “We’re not going to make it!” he shouts as we fly under the red light, into a swarm of veering, honking cars. Howie jerks right and squeals onto Humphrey.

  Flight Con! I can’t hold it! She’s breaking up, she’s break—

  Neither of us speaks until Howie turns left on Rockaway and pulls over. “Put on your seatbelt,” he whispers, looking at his trembling palms.

  We can rebuild him. We have the technology.

  “But Grandma Wini’s house is two blocks down.”

  “Put … on … your fucking seatbelt,” he says again, even more softly, if that’s possible.

  I buckle up and stare at him but he won’t look at me.

  Better than he was before …

  “Sorry,” I offer.

  “Not your fault.”

  “Can I try driving again?”

  “Not with me you can’t,” he says as he throws the minibus into first, gently negotiating the rest of the block and pulling to a stop in front of my grandmother’s house.

  *

  “You don’t need my help!” Grandma Wini dismisses the idea with a shake of her blonde beehive, pulls a bowl of grapes from the refrigerator, and adds it to the mix crowding her round, white Formica kitchen table. We graze from a casserole dish of shag carpet brisket, carrots and prunes, a crystal container of walnuts, a platter of rocky roads, a jug of ginger ale, and the remains of the banana bread Gramps left after his late-night fridge raid.