“I’m going to punt my foot into your ass. Can you grasp that?”
“Sky, I think that’s fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness.”
“Stop making those stupid football analogies. Nobody wants to hear them. You know, I hope you and Meaney both rot in hell. I really do. And by the way, I’m voting for Puma!”
I pounded the telephone back into its cradle and just like that, Tailburger was doomed to endure a long legal battle. The odds of changing anybody’s mind about the inclusion of my employer in the SERMON lawsuit were not good, and the implications for me were worse. Lawsuits cost money, lots of money, and were absolute poison for earnings. They also caused bad publicity, which was murder for market share. I could see my pension sailing off into the sea toward Tahiti on a boat I had not boarded.
21
Threats
Within two weeks of its start, Tailburger’s involvement with Cal Perkins began to pay dividends. According to his Lust Ranch experts, among contests combining food and legalized prostitution, our Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes was drawing entries at a record pace. Sales were up at every store in the Tailburger chain, and with that came more money to spend on advertising.
With the SERMON boycott still in effect and the announcement of the class action lawsuit, all indicators should have been down, but they weren’t. This meant I could keep pushing the Torture campaign, claim credit for the company’s turnaround and watch our stock price and market share rise. It was the perfect plan. The Link, however, had other ideas about where credit was due.
“Did you see this month’s numbers, Thorne?”
“Yes, I did. Pretty impressive, huh? I knew the Torture campaign would just take a little while to kick in.”
“No offense, Thorne, but I really don’t think it’s the campaign that’s producing these results.”
Did he know something about the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes? Suddenly, I was feeling very nervous.
“You don’t?”
“Hell, no. Let’s not kid each other. It’s the soft batch burgers we’ve been serving up. The undercooking on the inside. That’s what’s bringing them into the stores in droves.”
So relieved was I to hear his conclusion, I had no motive to contradict him.
“That’s probably playing a big part, Frank.”
“Damn right it is. Now we go after Muffet Meaney. And we go after her hard, Thorne. I’m talking Stonewall Jackson hard. I take it you’re out of the saddle.”
“Yeah. The Larry King appearance sort of ended things.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve asked Ned, Ted and Fred to arrange for some high-level surveillance work under Operation Tenderize. We’re going to tap her phones and put a tracer on her car. We need something we can nail her with. Something so embarrassing she’ll beg us to back off. I’d love to get some raunchy footage of her with Plot Thickens. We could sink both of them at the same time. You still think they’re doin’ it?”
“I think so,” I answered painfully.
The Link leaned back and lit a cigar, pulled from his desk drawer. His pursed his lips and inhaled before blowing a billowing cloud of smoke out in my general direction and reflecting on the quality of the tobacco.
“Smooth as a prom queen’s thighs, Thorne. Just not as dangerous. (Pause) Hey, how are things looking out at Crooked Creek? My name has to be coming up on the membership waiting list, eh?”
“I’ll have to check again, Frank. You know I’d love to get you in there,” I lied.
“You do that.”
Through the haze of the Link’s cigar smoke, I suddenly saw something clearly. Why hadn’t it occurred to me before? How could I have been so stupid? I was already in possession of the only thing necessary to destroy Muffet Meaney: the videotape of us having sex at my house. I simply forgot I had it.
The delicate balance of undercooked burgers, the Torture campaign and Cal, mysteriously causing our increased sales, wouldn’t last forever. To ensure myself of lasting growth in Tailburger market share, I needed to remove the SERMON lawsuit as a threat to the financial condition of the company. The videotape was the key. All of my incentives were aligned. I could assure myself of a rising market share and receipt of my beloved pension while exacting a bit of sweet revenge against a woman who had not only attacked me on national television, but had also slept with half the adult population. So why wasn’t I immediately offering up the tape to the Link? Easy. I didn’t trust him with my insurance policy. I needed to think this whole thing through first. After all, there was another person on that tape, and its contents could prove quite embarrassing to someone other than Ms. Meaney.
“You know what’s a fuckin’ shame, Thorne?”
“What, Frank?”
“You can’t even get a medium-rare hamburger in this country anymore. Goddamn government has everybody scared out of their goddamn minds about this goddamn E. coli shit.”
“It is a shame.”
“We’re showin ’em though, aren’t we? Our undercooked insides have people flocking to Tailburger like vultures to a corpse.”
“It is remarkable.”
“I remember working in my uncle’s butcher shop when I was six years old. We used to eat gobs of ground beef by the handful as an afternoon snack. Raw right out of the fridge. Never got sick once.”
“That’s amazing.”
“We did lose my brother from a mysterious digestive illness around the same time, but I’m certain it had nothing to do with the meat. Anyway, the point is that this country is going right the hell downhill because of too much regulatory interference. Christ, you can’t scratch your ass these days without a permit. Slowly but surely all the pleasures of life are being taken away. Can’t drink. Can’t smoke. Can’t pay women less than men. Can’t discriminate because of race or religion. Can’t carry a concealed weapon to the grocery store. I mean, really, what’s left worth living for?”
“Times have changed, Frank. Look at my life. I encourage Sophia to join the Young Republicans at Cornell. So what does she do? She moves out of her dorm room and into a VW bus with a guy named Tweeter. The world’s slipping away on us.”
“You’re right. The whole thing is just slipping away. Religion. That’s all that’s left. That’s why I’m embracing Sister Ancilla and building the gym for the convent. Those nuns are the only women you can trust.”
The Link became increasingly agitated as he spoke.
“The only women who won’t run around on you, won’t ring up huge credit card bills, won’t call you in the middle of the night, reverse the charges and then tell you they’re leaving you for the fencing coach at an all-girls junior college in Missouri. IT JUST ISN’T FAIR!”
Silence passed between us for a few seconds.
“You all right?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Did I tell you that the Tailburger Health and Life Fitness Center is nearing completion?”
“No. That’s great.”
“Sister Ancilla wants me to speak at the ribbon cutting. I’d like you to be there.”
“I’ll be there. That’ll be a proud moment for you, Frank.”
“Maybe my proudest.”
The mild poignancy of the moment made the Link anxious to change the topic.
“Hey, have you seen the Stampede’s ‘Got Meat?’ ads?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Strong work by Hitch, don’t you think?”
“Very inventive. No question about it.”
“I think he’s up for a Clio award this year.”
“No kidding?”
I returned to my office, determined to make the most of my videotape with Muffet. A piece of evidence so potent had to be used at the proper time or it could backfire on me. I decided to call Muffet at SERMON and try to broker a deal. With both feet up on my desk, I bargained from a position of strength.
“What do you want, Sky?”
“Hello to you, too. Guess what I’m holding in my hands right now.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You
r penis?”
“I’m afraid not, although you would’ve been right an hour ago. (Pause) No, I’ve got something that, believe it or not, is even more powerful.”
“Sky, peashooters are for children. When are you going to grow up?”
“Never, if I can help it. Muffet, have you ever dreamed of being a movie star?”
“Can’t say that I have. Look, what do you want? You’re wasting my time.”
“Do you remember our little rendezvous up in Rochester? The one we so boldly committed to celluloid?”
Silence could be heard on the other end of the line.
“Muffet, are you there?”
Still silence.
“You know, I can think of only one other instance where you’ve been unable to speak, and I think that’s on the tape.”
Muffet’s icy response finally came.
“Sky, if you ever release that tape, I promise I’ll make your life miserable.”
“Well, I think it’s a little premature to talk about marriage, but I’m flattered that you feel so strongly.”
“You go public with that video and you’ll look just as bad, if not worse, than me. And you can kiss your career good-bye. Nobody’ll touch you after that.”
“As long as I’ve got you, I think I can make it.”
Muffet didn’t seem to appreciate my sarcastic charms. “Muffet, all you need to do is pull Tailburger out of the SERMON suit. We’ll even settle for a small sum.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” she threatened before violently hanging up.
With my work done for the day, I drove home to get ready for love. For the first time in my life, a woman would be picking me up for a date. I didn’t really mind when Annette said she’d drive, although my antenna would be up for other signs of emasculation. When I suggested dinner, she said she had tickets to a show and told me to be ready at 7:00 P.M. Yes, ma’am.
Her choice of transportation, a black Volvo sedan, was just about what I expected: something sleek but solid, a bit practical and not too flashy—as much car as a public servant could get away with without being subjected to scorn.
“So where are we going?” I asked, getting into the passenger side.
“The Blue Cross Arena.”
Rochester’s Blue Cross Arena, formerly called the War Memorial, was the city’s closest facsimile to a major venue for concerts and sports, and did lure a Tom Petty or a Janet Jackson on occasion. It also saw its share of high school wrestling championships and BMX bike rallies.
“Great. Are you going to tell me who or what is playing there?”
“No. It’s a surprise,” Annette said playfully.
“I see. Well, at least give me a hint.”
“No.”
“C’mon. Give me something.”
“Okay,” she relented. “Here’s your hint.” She grinned. “We’re going to see something you’ve never seen before.”
“A monster truck rally?”
“No.”
“A cockfight?”
“No, Sky.”
“An all-lesbian circus?”
“Close.”
“I’m getting warm.”
“Just wait, all right? You’re out of guesses.”
The underground parking garage was full of families and a scattering of people dressed like greasers and bobby-soxers, many of whom recognized Annette from television and called out to her.
“Madame Mayor,” shouted one man, a dead ringer for Sha Na Na’s Bowser. “How ya doin’ tonight? Keep up the good work,” he encouraged her without waiting for a reply to his original question. As we encountered our fellow Rochestarians, mothers pointed Annette out to their daughters and everyone nodded and acknowledged her one way or another. Inside the arena, a makeshift marquee gave away my date’s surprise in large red letters.
NOW APPEARING: GREASE ON ICE
“Are you ready to rock and roll, Sky?” Annette coyly inquired.
Despite her position of enormous responsibility and authority, Annette had retained all of her femininity. She’d grown up in Chicago, gone to a local private school and spent most of her childhood playing the cello. After college she earned a fellowship to the prestigious Eastman School of Music, which brought her to Rochester. After two years of playing with the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra, she got involved with local politics and rode to power on her promise of downtown economic development. Today she was a player in the community but remained largely unimpressed with herself and her accomplishments. I couldn’t say the same about most people I met.
Although I was in good company, I wasn’t sure how I felt about this whole Grease thing. If my recollection served me, the story hit on some pretty tender boy-meets-girl themes, ones that I probably wasn’t ready to face. Sure enough, as the evening wore on, I felt the two of us morphing into Sandy and Danny. The good girl and the bad boy. The prim and proper schoolgirl and the untamed biker. Okay, so the analogy wasn’t dead-on, but when Sandy and Danny kissed under the boardwalk, I took Annette’s hand. When they broke it off at the end of the summer, I headed out to the nearest beverage bar and got us a couple of sixty-four-ounce Scuz Colas. By the time “You’re the One That I Want” kicked in and the ice chips on the rink were flying up, we were dancing wildly on a concrete aisle. Annette’s white blouse, now partially untucked from her knee-length skirt, gave me a glimpse at her more than ample breasts. I knew there was a reason why these ice shows were so popular.
I liked Annette from the first time we met, and by the end of our first date, I liked her even more. I had to be cautious, though. She was still a fantasy, a woman who would never ask me to spend a whole day at an outlet mall or an evening watching a movie on the Lifetime channel. And until proven otherwise, she was still someone who would love me in spite of my obvious peccadilloes, something only Jess had done up to this point in my life and something that I desperately missed.
The date ended with one good, long, warm kiss at the door. I didn’t ask her to come in because I knew the answer would be no. The mayor couldn’t afford to be seen coming out of a strange man’s home in the wee hours of the morning, particularly mine.
22
Politically Impotent
LOS ANGELES, YET AGAIN
Once the class action lawsuit was filed, the battle in the press began in earnest. Our PR guru, Zeb Nettles, now under tremendous pressure from the Link to produce positive spin for Tailburger, advised me that ABC, having seen the fireworks between me and Muffet Meaney on Larry King Live, hoped to have us face off again on Real Time, the late-night talk show with Bill Maher. With no recent school slayings or prominent white supremacists in the news, there was time apparently for a debate about beef.
This was a perfect opportunity for me. Finally, I’d have a chance to let Muffet publicly know what I thought of her and her lawsuit, and to let the hardworking customers of Tailburger know that our food was safe and good for them. Of course, I’d also have to conceal the fact we were purposefully undercooking our meat in order to increase sales.
Unfortunately, Maher, a stand-up comedian turned television host, wasn’t what you’d call a sympathetic ear. He met everyone with a certain distrust and every issue with cynicism, which made me nervous and meant I’d need to be on top of my game.
After arriving at the studio, a beautiful production assistant, Gabby, escorted me to a makeup chair and then the green room. Scheduled to appear with Morgan Fairchild and Arianna Huffington, I was surprised to find myself alone with Muffet. I opened a bottle of Evian and took a seat on the red velvet couch directly across from her. She pretended to study her day planner for a minute or two and then looked up at me.
“I see your plane didn’t crash.”
“I missed you, too.”
“I want that tape, Sky.”
“I’m sure you do, but you’ll just have to wait ’til Christmas. Have you been a good girl?”
“Asshole!”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Although Muffet grew pissier by the moment, I was really starting to have fun now. I couldn’t wait to get out onstage, maybe chat up Ms. Fairchild, break a few hearts. Ten minutes before showtime, however, Gabby poked her headsetted face into the green room.
“Did you two hear about the change in guests?”
Muffet and I shook our heads in unison.
“Bill usually likes to get a few celebrities into the mix, but Morgan Fairchild and Arianna Huffington canceled so we’ve flown in replacements.”
My mind raced. Who would be in the chair next to me? Robert Klein? Sister Souljah? Roshumba? George Will?
“Sky, do you know Traylor Hitch?”
Before I could answer, over the transom came Hitch, the blinding glare from his belt buckle unmistakable.
“Sky, you old sum bitch. How the hell are ya?”
“Hitch, what a surprise.”
I tried to shake Hitch’s hand but he insisted on some kind of Texas bear hug.
“Hey, Sky, I see you’re not missin’ a meal. No sir.”
Hitch then noticed Muffet.
“Whoa Nellie. Did I just enter an igloo or is that my imagination?”
“Hitch, you know Muffet Meaney, of course.”
“Well, sure I do. How doo, little lady?”
Hitch extended a hand.
“No, thank you,” Muffet replied, recoiling from the offer.
“Suit yourself, missy,” Hitch responded, hardly missing a beat. “So, pardner, looks like we’re gonna be TV stars.”
“Looks that way.”
Hitch moved over to the refreshments and helped himself. A moment later, much to my chagrin, Bill Maher’s remaining mystery guest entered the green room. Dilda Wiggins, president of Citizens for Cleaner Colons, was a broom-toting activist who’d spent most of her career advocating a radical feminist agenda, including The Vagina Monologues and women’s soccer.
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