“I wish you much luck, my friend.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Remember my offer remains open if you need the boost. I think you’re missing a huge opportunity to get Tailburger integrated with the industry and my business.”
“I know you do. Let’s not talk about that. How’s Jenny?”
“Oh Christ, don’t ask.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. She’s great. It’s just that it’s getting harder to keep my chosen career a secret from her. Just last week she asked me if Emily’s Girl Scout troop could come tour the jam plant out on Rush-Henrietta Road.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is that we don’t make jam there anymore. The whole space has been converted to private live performance booths that we broadcast over the Net.”
“Live sex shows?”
“Exactly. You knew that.”
“Do you get to watch?”
“If I want, but I’m pretty numb to the whole thing.”
“Those girls don’t get involved with making the jam, do they?”
“You’re a riot. Of course not. We buy it from a company in California and stick our label on it. It’s all done in a separate warehouse out in Livonia.”
“So what’s the big deal? You bring the troop by as part of a cultural exchange program. The Girl Scouts can spend the whole day learning about the exciting opportunities in the world of porn, and your actresses can try to earn a merit badge in the womanly arts.”
“Hey, you wanna keep it down?” Cal asked, glancing around the restaurant.
“I have to admit, I love having lunch with anyone whose problems are as big as mine.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”
“Cal, there’s one sure way to successfully outfox your daughter’s Girl Scout troop and your wife. Buy a shitload of cookies.”
“When I’m done, there won’t be one Thin Mint left in the city.” I lit a Commodore as a waitress took away my plate.
“You’re still sucking down those coffin nails?”
“I know, I know. It’s bad for my chee.”
“Your chee?”
“Do you know about this chee koong stuff?”
“I may have read something about it. Isn’t it one of those martial arts they practice in China?”
“Basically, yes. Anyway, King’s got me started on it and I’m supposed to be making some kind of progress, you know, spiritually and morally, by breathing differently and meditating.”
“And? Are you making progress?”
“I don’t think so. I seem to be sliding backward.”
“You’re worrying way too much.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll feel better once the launch happens. It’s going to be a success. Just wait.”
“You’re right. My chee will be fine.”
“I have no doubt.”
Talk about your chee-disturbing incidents, I got in my car just in time to catch a call from Trip’s new lawyer and his Long Island accent.
“Sky, Herv Alverson heere. I represent Trip Baden.”
“Herv or Herb? With a ‘v’ or a ‘b’?”
“With a vee, as in victim.”
“What do you want?”
“Trip wants his piece of yoor pension.”
“He doesn’t deserve that money.”
“Shoor he does.”
“Tell Tripperrrr he’ll never see a dime of it.”
“Sky, we can do this the hahrd way or we can do it the Herv way.”
“The Herv way? Who do you think you are? Al fuckin’ Pacino? Listen Herv, tell Trip that if he wants the money he’ll have to drag my ass into court.”
I slammed down the phone and sped up, control over the car’s acceleration my only outlet for anger at the moment. I was dizzy and light-headed, my heart beating too fast for its own good. For a second, I thought I was having a stroke, but after calming down, I made the diagnosis of too much stress and not enough Nordic-Track. Unbowed, I wiped the perspiration from my face and drove on. I didn’t have time to die. There were only two weeks until the launch.
13
In Deep
To my pleasant surprise, a message from Muffet was on my machine when I arrived home from work. It was somewhat shocking to hear that she wanted to come see me. I wasn’t used to such an aggressive approach by a woman, but I didn’t question it and quickly asked King to get lost. Muffet caught a cab from the airport and arrived at my house by 11:30 P.M.
When I opened the door it was awkward for a moment. Although she was dressed in blue jeans and a sexy lavender sweater set, I wasn’t sure how things would go until seconds later when we were buck naked and balling on a piano bench. If she brought as much passion to her lovemaking as she did to her battle against beef, I feared my own hospitalization before the night was through.
Following my recent dry run in the area of female conquest, it felt good to have such satisfying sex. We moved from the piano bench to the staircase to a spot underneath the dining room table. At one point, I looked up and realized I was in a room I didn’t even recognize. Further into the encounter, I started channeling the spirit of Barry White and referring to Muffet as “fuck bunny number one.” She didn’t seem to mind.
Afterward, we sat out on my sunporch and didn’t say anything for a while. The cool night breeze felt good on my face and brought the smell of lilac in from the landscaped yard. Living off of a restricted-access road lent privacy to anything that occurred behind my house. A pool that had once been a second home to Ethan, Sophia and their friends mostly sat empty these days and made me a bit sad to stare at it. I lit a Commodore and sat back on a piece of all-weather furniture I’d owned for fifteen years.
“Would you like something to eat?”
Muffet was somewhat startled by my breach of silence.
“Sure. What were you thinking of?”
I proceeded without fear on the theory that we would have to cross this bridge eventually if this relationship was to go anywhere other than the boning hall of fame.
“I’ve got some steaks I could grill up.”
Muffet smiled at me.
“Are you testing me?”
“Maybe.”
“You want to see what kind of gal I am? See if I’ll balk at your suggestion of steak?”
“Maybe I just feel like a steak.”
“You know what? That actually sounds pretty good to me.”
“Great.”
I was happy that she wanted to eat steak. Mostly, I admit, because I wanted to eat steak, particularly the porterhouse I was hiding from my brother in the back of the freezer. Still, Muffet was willing to make an accommodation for this relationship and that had to count for something. Score one for my little fuck bunny. Eating our late meal together, I reflected on my five favorite hedonistic pleasures in life, listing each in descending order:
A good piss,
A great shit,
A satisfying sleep,
A balldraining orgasm, and
Watching a half-naked woman chew on a piece of bloodred meat.
Yes, I was in the right business. I could never let myself forget that. I loved meat and everything that went with it. Knives, grinders, wrapping supplies, sausage casings, stuffers, jerky shooters, and most of all, the killing floor. To celebrate my existence, I opened a bottle of wine and then another. Pretty soon, we were both drunk.
“You know what your problem is, Sky?” Muffet asked rhetorically.
“What?”
“You don’t know how to have fun.”
Muffet’s grin gave her away, but I played along.
“You say this to a man who just qualified for the carnal olympics?”
“You need to loosen up.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Do you have a video camera?”
Muffet left the next morning on the first flight to D.C., but not before we had memorialized our
attempt to exhaust the Kama Sutra. The phrase “lapse in judgment” popped into my mind a few times during the effort, but I ignored it at my own peril. Man’s power of self-deception is unsurpassed in this world, particularly when it comes to the appearance of his own ass.
A telephone call from Sophia roused me from my dreamy slumber.
“Hello.”
“Daddy, it’s Soph.”
“Hey, Sophia. How are you, pumpkin?”
“I’m okay.”
The key to parenting is language interpretation. Sophia typically responded to the question “how are you?” by saying she was “great.” Thus simple deduction told me her response of “okay” probably meant a life-altering crisis was imminent.
“You don’t sound happy, babe. What’s wrong?”
“Everything. I just found out I’m getting a B-plus in Professor Kellerman’s course.”
“Which one is that?”
“Sex and the Single Female. It’s a total gut. Everybody gets an A-plus.”
“Well, what happened?”
“My end-of-term project bombed. Tweeter and I made this home video for class, but when we got finished we realized the camera’s battery had died halfway through.”
“Who’s Tweeter?”
“Oh, just some guy.”
“Is he a student?”
“No, Daddy. The students are dorks. He’s a townie.”
So much for my dream of her marrying a guy who went to Choate.
“What was the video about?”
“Daddy, what do you think? The course is called Sex and the Single Female. Use your imagination.”
“I’d rather not, if that’s okay with you. Can we talk about something else?”
When I sent Sophia off to college I told her about the importance of getting a broad liberal arts education. Things, however, seemed to be getting a little too broad and a little too liberal. Still, it was difficult to come down too hard on her about the video given my prior night’s activities.
“I got the estimates on the breast augmentation. I think saline is the way to go.”
“Whoa, whoa. What’s the cost?”
“The cheapest would be about thirty-eight hundred dollars, but there’s a guy up in Syracuse who is supposed to be some kind of breast sculptor. He’s a real artist.”
“How much for the artist?”
“Sixty-eight hundred.”
“Jesus Christ. Is this really necessary?”
“Daddy, I was hoping Sex and the Single Female would bring my grade point up, but now with the B-plus, I’m really going to need top-notch cosmetic surgery.”
“It just seems a little extreme. Can’t you do an extra-credit problem or something?”
“Oh, Daddy, be serious. It must have been fun going to school when there wasn’t any pressure.”
After approving her plan with the breast artist, I said good-bye to Sophia and decided to call Ethan to see how he was doing at Macrocock. Perhaps the second-round financing had come through and the IPO would be making him rich in a few days. I didn’t anticipate such news or the pleasure of an encounter with his chatty roommate, Skull, who answered the phone like the respectful young man that he was.
“Yeah, what.”
“Skull, is that you?”
“Yeah, whaddya want?”
“Skull, it’s Mr. Thorne, Ethan’s dad.”
“Oh, hey.”
“Is Ethan around?”
“Who?”
In a candid moment, Ethan had confessed to me Skull’s continuing fondness for what he called “the chronic.” Pot to you and me.
“I’m looking for Ethan. My son. Your roommate.”
“I know who he is.”
“That’s great, Skull. Do you know where he is?”
“Nope.”
“Well, can you tell him I called and ask him to call me?”
“Wait. He said he was going to the store.”
“Just now? Did he go just now?”
“Oh you know what? That was about a week ago. Never mind.”
“All right, Skull. You take care now.”
“Bye, Mr. Thorne.”
“Good-bye, Skull.”
Although I was unable to find my son, the news wasn’t all bad in my life. Jelloteous Junderstack’s heart had stabilized, making the use of our replacement campaign unnecessary. The Link was disappointed, given the dramatic use of t & a, but it was just as well considering all the money we’d spent on the Blatherskite video. Even better, Ship Plankton had found four spots in Dongwood for Dirk Harrington to confront various Tailburger products, yet was still able to maintain the integrity of his film. The movie’s release in two days would coincide with the introduction of our Dongwood Deluxe, available, of course, for a limited time at participating retailers. Order this sandwich and you’d receive an authentic carnival worker’s head lice comb, courtesy of five thousand Beijing workers making fourteen cents a week. There was no denying it anymore. We were ready to launch.
14
Launch
EVERYWHERE
It came on a Friday, the biggest advertising onslaught in the history of Tailburger. Mercilessly repetitious by design, the campaign used every medium available to saturate the American marketplace with commercials touting the Torture ethic. Various catchphrases were employed in the effort, depending upon the target market and demographic. We liked to think we were offering something for everybody.
For those who’d given up on attracting a mate:
Why Just Abuse Your Body
When You Can Torture It?
For the chronically depressed:
There’s a Bit of the Grim Reaper in Every Bag
For the criminally insane:
Torture: Alive and Well Behind Our Prison Walls
We went after the disenchanted, the disaffected, the dispirited and the dispossessed. We went after the self-mutilators, manic-depressives, agoraphobics, crackheads, scoop fiends and redneck trailer trash. We plastered buses, bridges, subway platforms, airport terminals, train stations, halfway houses, police stations and psychiatric hospitals. Tailmobiles (SUVs painted orange and purple) were driven through city streets with hood mounted speakers blaring, “Eat a Little More, You’re a CarNiVore.” By noon, it was impossible to turn on a radio, television or computer without hearing Phat Daddio, whose felony murder charges were still pending, singing Dick Tinglehoff’s catchy jingle set to a hip-hop beat.
BOOM bat, I say boom boom BAT
BOOM bat, I say boom boom BAT
We don’t bake ’em,
We don’t broil ’em
We just grease and fry and oil ’em
BOOM bat I say boom boom BAT
TailBurGer will keep you PHAT
Here at Tailburger
What you’re eatin’
Is a big old piece
Of bloodred meatin’
BOOM bat I say boom boom BELLS
Mama gotta butt like Orson WELLES
Every burger
We just scorch ’er
Every body
We must torture!
From Sunset Boulevard to the New Jersey Turnpike, billboards announced the arrival of the Dongwood Deluxe and our carnival worker lice comb kit. Tailburger workers flooded the streets of New York, Boston, Chicago, L.A. and two dozen other metropolitan areas handing out free Torture T-shirts and complimentary burgers. Blatherskite opened their Tailburger-sponsored Torturing America’s Ears Tour by playing their new hit song “Torture Me” via satellite from San Francisco to over ninety-six countries. Locally, Annette McNabnay, as mayor of Rochester, proclaimed it Tailburger Week and handed out free Tailpipes with cheese at a local female correctional facility. For a fringe player in the burger business, the collective energy was awesome and the initial response was better than expected. Traffic at Tailburger outlets across the U.S. increased nearly 10 percent as a result of the blitz. The Link called me with the overnight numbers, tracked continually by our fearless accountants, to offer his cong
ratulations. We were off to a fantastic start.
That Saturday night I took Sophia to the Hollywood premiere of Dongwood. Sophia’s cosmetic surgery had been successful and I wanted to celebrate her expanded womanhood with a real daddy-daughter evening. Of course, the new dress Sophia needed, one with reinforced underwire to hold up her colossal cleavage, ran $1,700 on Rodeo Drive. “What the hell,” I thought while handing over my credit card. “It’s not every day that your child gets a boob job. May as well live a little.”
Once we were dressed in our finery, we drank a few martinis, all of them up with olives, in the cocktail lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel and waited for our limousine to arrive. With my weekend dad parenting guilt ever-present, I desperately wanted to show Sophia the time of her life. Looking over at my baby, I realized she was all grown-up. Whatever value system I’d instilled in her would soon be tested in the real world. Naturally, the whole ride over she talked about the stars she hoped to see, only A-list types like Arnold and Maria, Tom and Rita, maybe Bruce and Demi if they’d gotten back together. Unfortunately Dongwood drew a strictly B-list crowd composed of such luminaries as Penn and Teller, Siegfried and Roy and of course, the Captain and Tennille. Although Sophia wanted to show off her new breasts to a better breed of celebrity, I eased her pain with extra butter on the popcorn and a promise to introduce her to Ship Plankton.
Ship was resplendent in all black from his beret to his Jamaican walking stick. This was his night and he strutted into the Westwood Theatre with the confidence of a man who had just scaled the sheer face of a mountain. A small pack of paparazzi, a group whose personal hygiene was begging for some attention, snapped their shutters at him and anyone else they thought was exploitable. Suffice it to say, none of them took my photo, although a few did take shots of Sophia’s rather remarkable chest. Ship waved at me from across the lobby while talking to reporters from Entertainment Nightly and Accent Hollywood, who clamored for his attention.
“Ship, Paul O’Reilly from Entertainment Nightly.”
Red Meat Cures Cancer Page 10
