Hitch turned away from the window and looked directly at me.
“Hitch, you have nothing to feel bad about. Believe me, the Stampede hasn’t cornered the market on shady science. Those guttersnipes at SERMON put out false information about our industry every week. We have to band together and battle back. We’ve got to restore beef to its rightful place as the king of meats!”
“Maybe you’re right, son.”
“Of course I’m right. This is our red scare. Don’t go soft on me now, Hitch.”
The key to successful fishing is picking the right bait. I figured a veiled reference to Communism would do the trick.
“Soft? Are you calling me soft? Goddamnit, there isn’t a soft bone in my body! Tell Frank he can count me and the Stampede in on this fight!”
“Are you serious?”
“Would a mule skip a kickin’ contest? I’m serious as a summer drought.”
“That’s great.”
Hitch, suddenly energized, slowly let a smile come across his face.
“We’re gonna whup some ass, son.”
“There’s no acceptable alternative.”
“Whaddya say we go get a burger?”
“That would hit the spot.”
Hitch slapped me on the back and out we went into the waiting warmth and humidity.
“Do you know how many people the Dallas Po-lice shot last year?”
“No.”
“Forty-eight. That’s down from seventy-five the year before. And a hundred and twenty the year before that. (Pause) It’s a damn shame.”
10
Soft Batch Burgers
TAILBURGER HEADQUARTERS
Jelloteous Junderstack’s heart condition flared up during a game in Sacramento, and suddenly a major piece of Tailburger’s impending Torture campaign was in jeopardy. No good news had ever come from the 2:00 A.M. airing of ESPN’s Sportscenter, and this was no exception. I walked into headquarters, hat in hand. The Link didn’t take bad news well.
“Belgians in body bags don’t sell burgers, Thorne.”
“I know that, Frank. I’m talking with Junderstack’s doctor this afternoon to see how serious it is.”
“I hated this Torture campaign from the start. I have half a mind to pull the plug right now.”
“Frank, you can’t do that. We’ve already invested a ton of time and money. Look, we’ll work up a supplemental campaign to buy some time and scout a replacement player. If something happens to Jelloteous, we’ll just reshoot the ads and the video, and push the Torture launch back a month.”
“Did you put a death clause in that clod’s contract? I don’t want to pay one red cent to some freakish Eurostiff. If he’s in a casket, he’s seen his last dime.”
“I’ll have to check the wording, Frank. If I recall, Satan Manchow sought some concessions in that area.”
Translation: he took me to the cleaners.
“Well, what’s this supplemental campaign you’re talking about?”
“We’re working on it right now.”
“What’s this ‘we’re’ bullshit? What are you doing?”
I had done nothing at this point.
“I’m helping to fine-tune the campaign. It’s not exactly fully developed.”
“Aw shit, Thorne! Do we have something or not?”
“Yes. Yes we do.”
“Good. Let me hear it.”
I was afraid he was going to say that, but giving the Link what he wanted wasn’t hard.
“Okay. Picture a group of high school girls.”
“Got it. Are they in bikinis?”
“Exactly. Very scantily clad. In fact, nothing but thongs.”
“Good. Skin sells burgers. Just make sure there aren’t any fat ones. Use that agency that specializes in anorexics.”
“Right. So anyway we’ve got these young girls in bikinis riding in a convoy of Jeeps. A red one. A blue one and a yellow one. All on their way to the beach.”
“I can see it. Keep going.”
“They pull onto the beach and they’re all eating Tailburgers, and our new jingle is playing in the background.”
“Sing it for me.”
“Trust me, it’s good.”
“Sing it for me.”
“Do you think that’s necessary?”
“Sing the goddamn song or I’ll kick your ass from here to Hattiesburg.”
“Okay. It’s got a real heavy bass bottom to it. Sort of a Sam and Dave knockoff. Screaming organs, the whole deal. ‘Gotta get some tail. Gotta get some tail. Gotta get some Tailburgers.’ ”
“Good. Go on.”
“So the song’s building when suddenly an armada of surfer stud boys, thirty or forty of them, come surfing in from the ocean.”
“Are they built?”
“They’re monsters. Real steroid abusers, straight from our heavy users profile. And when they see these girls with the Tailburgers, they come riding in on the waves to get some tail.”
“I love it! It’s perfect! Why do we even need Junderboob? Cut him loose.”
“But, Frank, he’s a central part of the Torture campaign. Plus, we do have a contract with him.”
“What about the morals clause? You know he’s been bangin’ half the Laker girls. That ought to be enough to get us out.”
“Satan insisted we remove the morals clause.”
“That bastard.”
The Link could have ended the Torture campaign right then and there, but he didn’t. He knew it was my baby, that I would succeed or fail along with it, and that I had more to lose than he did. If my pet project didn’t propel Tailburger’s market share up to a full 5 percent of the fast-food industry, I was gone. And at some level, the Link didn’t want to see that.
“I need to run one more thing by you.”
“Uh-oh. What now?” I wondered as the Link shut the door to his office.
“Thorne, I know I’ve got you under a lot of pressure to improve sales.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, wanting to project confidence.
“I’m sure. But I’d never leave you out there twisting in the wind.”
“That sentiment is appreciated, Frank.”
Was this going to be a genuinely kind gesture on the part of the Link? Devoid of self-interest? Unprecedented. Maybe the man had a heart after all.
“So anyway, I’ve come up with a new way to light the sales mortar. Guaranteed. Just in case this whole Torture thing doesn’t go so well.”
“What is it?” I replied optimistically, hoping to hear something come out of his mouth that, for once, made sense.
“Do you know who Ralph Nader is?”
“Sure. From the Green party. The guy who ran for president.”
“No. Not that guy. I’m talking about the consumer rights advocate.”
“It’s the same guy.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I’m certain it is.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, whatever. (Pause) Do you remember his book Unsafe at Any Speed? The one about the Corvair?”
The Link didn’t give me a chance to respond.
“Actually, let me ask you another question. Do you like chocolate chip cookies?”
Where the Link was going with all of this was beyond me.
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“And how do you like those cookies? Real gooey in the middle? Am I right?”
“I plead guilty.”
“Do you know what makes ’em soft?”
“They’re undercooked.”
“Exactly. Which is just what I want to do with our burgers. From now on, they’re going to be crunchy on the outside and one big mushball in the middle. We’ve got to get back to what makes a Tailburger so good.”
“Frank, we’re not talking about chocolate chip cookies here. We’re talking about raw meat. The risk is different.”
“No, it’s not. Salmonella poisoning from the eggs in the cookie dough is every bit as
big a danger as the E. coli bacteria. Maybe bigger.”
Logical progressions were not the Link’s thing, but he was on a roll.
“What about federal law? It says we have to cook every patty until the temperature inside hits a hundred and fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit.”
“That’s where our friend Mr. Nader comes in. Do you know what he did? He found the smoking gun on the Corvair. There was this internal GM memorandum that said the cost of installing a three-dollar-and-fifty-cent part over the manufacturing lifetime of the automobile would be more expensive than paying for the deaths and subsequent lawsuits that resulted from the failure to install it. It was a business decision. Don’t you understand? It’s the same thing for us. Undercooking our burgers is a business decision. The increase in sales will more than cover any liability costs.”
“Are you crazy? That was one of the biggest mistakes in the history of GM!” I protested, flabbergasted by my boss’s stupidity. “It cost them millions in bad publicity alone.”
“Yes, but here’s the difference. We’re not going to get caught. We’ve never lost a kid to E. coli, and we’re never going to a lose a kid to E. coli. You know why . . . ?”
I slowly shook my head.
“. . . I’ll tell you why. Because the whole thing is a public scare campaign. I don’t even believe E. coli exists.”
Any previous notion I was dealing with a human being evaporated as the Link continued to talk.
“Don’t you get it? Even in a worst-case scenario, the cost of a lawsuit or settlement will be less than the increase in sales. It’s a business decision. Plain and simple. Pure economics.”
“Why don’t we get irradiated beef to protect ourselves? The USDA approved it last year.”
“I know that, but have you ever tasted irradiated beef?”
“Yes. And I couldn’t tell the difference.”
“Well, I could. My hamburger tasted like a microwaved burrito. Plus I don’t like the whole idea of running our meat under those gamma rays or whatever the hell they are. Some kid in Omaha will go radioactive on us and start glowing like the local power plant. Then we’ll really have problems.”
“Irradiation doesn’t make the meat radioactive.”
“I just don’t think the process has been tested enough.”
“They’ve been testing it for years. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention fully endorses it.”
“What do those fools know? You ever see the movie Outbreak ? They couldn’t control one monkey.”
By the blank look on my face, the Link knew I wasn’t on board with his idea.
“Now don’t get squirrelly on me, Thorne. I’m trying to help you, but you need to help yourself by taking this news to the front.”
Taking news to the front meant telling our managers and franchise owners to change standard operating procedure. Morally objectionable? Yes. Difficult to do? No. Not since the Link instituted his annual “Chain of Command” retreats. Held at a back-woods compound in Idaho next to what the Link referred to as Reverend Moon’s Rolls-Royce dealership, these sessions qualified as low-grade brainwashing for all personnel and assured the Link that his orders would be followed.
“No more kowtowing to special interests anymore, Thorne. We’re going to take some calculated risks and help save your job. Can’t you see that?”
“Sure, I can see it, Frank.”
All I could see was us, and in particular, me, ordering others to break the law. Of course, it wasn’t worth raising the ethical implications with the Link because I knew it would be a nonstarter. The man felt no guilt when it came to business. “When you’ve got the will of the maker on your side,” he once told me, “you throw out the rule book.” This wasn’t a direct quote from Honest Abe but, according to the Link, a modern interpretation. Religion was now used if expedient, and invoking the Lord’s name had become an all-purpose salve for the wounds inflicted by our company’s moral transgressions. Across the top of our corporate stationery it read, GOD IS A TAILBURGER FANATIC. I wasn’t sure who had surveyed him, but what the hell; it certainly had panache.
I went home, poured myself an Ultra Slim-Fast and put on Van Morrison’s Back on Top, the perfect panacea for my sorry condition, since every song was about a man in transition or at a cross-roads or . . . well, whatever they were about, they were pretty damn introspective, which is just what I needed. Deep into the pathos of the fifth track was the last time I expected Annette McNabnay to call me.
“This is Sky.”
“Sky, it’s Annette.”
“Annette?”
“Annette McNabnay, from the board.”
“Annette, of course. How are you?”
Ordinarily Mayor Annette McNabnay, my fellow Tailburger director, would have referred to herself by her full name. And her tone of voice would have been cordial but businesslike, and very calm. For some unknown reason, she was nervous.
“Sky, I was wondering if you’d like to tour City Hall sometime?”
“Oh, Annette, that’s awful nice of you to ask, but I did that way back in elementary school. I assume it hasn’t changed too much.”
“Well, probably not, but perhaps I could show you some things you’ve never seen before.”
There was nothing overly coquettish or come-hither in her voice.
“I doubt it. We walked all over that place. I remember it like yesterday. My teacher, Mrs. Richardson, was . . .”
“Sky, I’m trying to ask you out in a subtle and clever way, but I’m failing miserably.”
“Oh,” I said. Now I felt like an idiot. I wasn’t sure how to respond.
The thought of going on a date with Mayor McNabnay had significant appeal. For starters, I’d never gone out with a mayor. Walking around with her, I’d be the cobeneficiary of all the adulation she received, as well as lots of free stuff like frozen yogurts and lapel pins, two things you could never have enough of.
If this had been the old Sky, I would have accepted Annette’s invitation immediately. Why not? I was a man. She was a mayor. You can’t fight biology. But I couldn’t say yes. I was smitten with Muffet. And for me, that was enough.
“Annette, I’m very flattered, but I’m sort of getting involved with someone right now, and I don’t think it would be fair to her.”
I was amazed by the words running off my tongue, but it had been years since I’d been physically attracted to someone the way I was with Muffet Meaney.
“I see. Well, that’s all right. I understand. I thought it might be fun. Maybe another time.”
“Yeah, sure. I mean, I’m sure it would be fun. I just . . . well . . . you understand.”
“I do. I’ll see you at the next meeting.”
“Right. I’ll see you then. I’m sorry, Annette.”
“Good-bye, Sky.”
I pressed the End button on my Motorola and momentarily questioned my refusal. Annette was a beautiful, accomplished woman who apparently saw something in me, and here I’d turned her away. Was I acting too hastily? I didn’t know what, if anything, would happen with Muffet. In the back of my mind, I thought she might be the woman who would help me finally get over Jess, my beloved, but decidedly deceased, ex-wife, but I didn’t know that for certain. Still, the thought of her made my knees weak, and that had to be a good sign. I’d grown tired of chasing a ghost. And so it was settled. No Annette.
11
East Meets West
With my unpredictable work schedule, King quickly became frustrated about my Qigong training and felt the need to speed my progress along by alternative means. When I got home from work the next day, I found a kitchen full of carob-flavored soy milk, tempeh hot dogs, tofu cereal and other unidentifiable soybean products.
“What the hell is all this crap?”
“This crap is part of the road to wellness,” King informed me.
I opened the freezer and saw what appeared to be hamburger patties.
“Well, at least you had the good sense to get burgers.”
“I should’ve known. (Pause) How do they taste? And break it to me gently.”
“Awful at first, but you’ll grow to tolerate it.”
“I won’t grow to love it?”
“No. (Pause) Look what else I’ve got for you.”
King moved toward the counter and pulled a small, plastic-wrapped box from a brown grocery bag.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Nicorette, that nicotine gum you see on TV. It’ll help you quit smoking.”
“What if I don’t want to quit smoking?”
“Think about Sophia. Don’t you want to dance at your own daughter’s wedding?”
“I’d love to dance at her wedding. I just don’t want to pay for it. Cigarettes may get me out of that obligation.”
“All right, funny guy, just try it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll get you the patch. C’mon, it’s minty and good,” King teased while waving the box.
“Okay, I’ll try it. But only because I heard the patch can kill you.”
“True, if administered improperly. It’s very, very rare. Kills mostly blind people who forget they’ve got a few stuck on already.”
“I’ll stick to the gum, thank you. What happened to Qigong? I thought that was going to cure me of everything.”
“It will. But it takes a while to kick in.”
“How long?”
“Well, at the rate you’re going, it’ll be two years before you feel your chi and five years before you believe it. In the meantime, we’ve got to get you some good old-fashioned pharmaceuticals.”
“I don’t need any damn medication. I’m fine. Can’t we speed up my chee?”
“No. Not with your schedule. Your chi gets flabby if you don’t work on it.”
“Then it’ll look like the rest of my body, all right? Give me a break.”
“Sky, I’ve made a list of the dangerous health conditions we have to attack, but you’ve got to be willing to make changes. Are you willing?”
“No, I’m not willing. I know I’m not in Olympic shape, but fortunately I don’t have a decathlon next week. Why should I make any changes?”
Red Meat Cures Cancer Page 8
