Prior to her stint at the Triple C, Dilda was at Justice for the Jailed, a well-known private agency, where she tried to tell anyone who’d listen that executing the insane was a bad idea. Most recently, before being kicked out for her ardent male castration stance, Dilda had been the executive director of W.A.R., the Womyn Are Right organization; a group committed to gender-neutral language, the Indigo Girls and the comedy stylings of Paula Poundstone.
Upon entering the room, each of the original inhabitants, including Hitch, managed a muffled hello. Even Muffet, who for purposes of the impending debate was Dilda’s ally, seemed frightened by this bald woman wearing a muumuu and mukluks. Fortunately, Gabby saved us all from ongoing discomfort by ushering us out of this hatespace and into the backstage area, where we waited for a few minutes while Maher did a short routine.
Soon we were introduced one at a time until I found myself under hot lights in a comfortable chair before a live studio audience. Our host started us off.
“Okay, there’s been a lot in the news lately about beef. Is it good for you? Is it dangerous? I think it’s a lot to do about very little.”
“Getting meat from cows is the equivalent of rape,” Dilda announced, her first words landing with a thud.
“Now c’mon, Dilda, isn’t that a bit extreme?” Maher asked.
“The woman’s detached, Mr. Maher. Detached, I tell ya,” Hitch said.
“Am I? We drug them, mate them forcibly and then slaughter them.”
“Hey, if you know a better way to get a girl in this country, by all means speak up,” Maher quipped.
“That is not funny, Bill. We rape these cows of their lives.”
“Muffet, what do you think of that argument?” Maher asked as he turned the attention of the audience her way.
“Well, it is a very strong statement and I cannot speak for all the members of SERMON, but my own opinion is that Dilda is essentially correct.”
“You can’t be serious,” I blurted out in disbelief. “We’re not raping cows. You’re missing the whole point. What about all the people we feed? Beef is a source of great nutritive value and, more importantly, joy. How about the great American cookout? You can’t hold a cookout without beef.”
“Dad’gum right,” Hitch added. “Who in the name of Sam Hill wants a turkey burger on Independence Day? Maybe some commie out in California, but not a red-blooded American.”
Muffet did not bow.
“Bill, I’m more concerned about the organophosphates.”
“Organophosphates?”
“Yes, the pesticides used to help grow corn which is then used for feeding livestock. Bill, have you heard of methyl parathion?”
“No, I haven’t. Is he the U.N. representative from Greece?”
“Not exactly, Bill. Commonly called PenncapM, this stuff has been shown to cause brain damage in children.”
Hitch adjusted his belt buckle with both hands and leaned up in his seat.
“Mr. Maher, may I say something? May I say something?”
“Sure, Hitch. Call me Bill.”
“Bill, she’s got to get the facts straight. First of all, it wasn’t brain damage, it was nervous system damage.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Well, I don’t know, but brain damage sounds a lot worse. Anyway, my point is that we haven’t used PenncapM for years, not since the EPA banned it.”
The debate was clearly not going our way, so I redirected it.
“Bill, we’ve got to get back to the real issue here, which is that American beef is a safe, nutritious, delicious food that should be a staple of every citizen’s diet.”
“That’s true, if they want to come down with mad cow disease,” Dilda piped up.
“Dilda, that’s nonsense! If you ask me, the only mad cow around here is you.”
“Temper, temper, Mr. Thorne. See Bill, that’s the attitude of the fast-food industry. Instead of discussing the issues, they just attack people personally.”
“Great,” I thought to myself. “Now Maher will want to talk about mad cow disease.”
“Let’s talk about mad cow disease for a minute because that’s been in the news lately, too. For three years the European Union banned British beef, and just recently the American Red Cross has said that anyone who has spent six months or more in England since 1980 may not give blood. Pretty scary stuff. Just what is this mad cow disease?”
“It’s a boil on an ant’s ass, Bill,” Hitch artfully explained.
“Besides AIDS, I’d say it’s the biggest public health problem facing the world as we start the new millennium,” Dilda countered.
“That’s just not true,” I said. “There hasn’t been one reported case of BSE in the United States.”
“BSE?”
Maher asked me the question, but Muffet rudely interrupted and answered.
“That’s Mr. Thorne’s, and the beef industry’s, preferred description of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.”
“My God, it sounds like something you’d get if you left your tampon in too long,” Maher joked.
“It’s nothing to laugh about, Bill, I assure you. Have you ever seen the way these cows stagger and drool as their brain tissue is destroyed?”
“I’ve seen the footage. It’s like St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago. Seriously, it looks awful.”
“It is awful, Bill, and I fear the American cattle supply is next.”
“Bill, the reason they’ve had problems in Britain is because of the way they feed their cattle. The animal feed that caused BSE was made from ground-up animal remains. We don’t do that here in the U.S.,” I informed him.
Maher nodded, but somehow the unappetizing image of ground-up animal remains hung in the air. Muffet, of course, had to go for my Achilles’ heel.
“Bill, it’s common knowledge that companies like Tailburger don’t cook their meat to the recommended government temperature, exposing children and the elderly to disease and possible death.”
Now I stood perilously close to the edge of moral turpitude. If Maher asked me about our cooking policies at Tailburger, I’d be forced to tell a direct lie on national television, something I didn’t want to do.
“So Sky, what is Tailburger’s policy on cooking its meat?”
In response to this question, I did what every self-hating, God-fearing and, quite frankly, desperate man would do. I went on the attack.
“Bill, the real question here is why can’t these women and their extremist, anti-American, militant, pro–radical feminist agenda groups peacefully coexist with the beef industry? We harbor no ill will toward them, yet they seem so agitated by every move we make.”
“Ladies. A response?”
Muffet took the lead.
“Bill, Sky Thorne, and others like him in the beef industry, represent a real threat to the children of America.”
“How would y’all know?” Hitch asked. “Last I checked, neither of you had any.”
I started assessing the public relations damage before the show had ended. I don’t know if it was me or the fact that Hitch wasn’t accustomed to the talk show format or what, but I felt like these women kicked our asses up and down the studio. “How many people actually watch this show?” I wondered.
Afterward, Hitch assured me that we’d gotten “our licks in,” and Muffet threatened to destroy me if I didn’t return the videotape of us having sex to her within a week. All in all, it was a pretty rough day. Dilda did trip on her muumuu on the way offstage, however, so it wasn’t a total loss.
23
Reaping
Calls from my kids came in waves: tidal waves. I wouldn’t hear from them for a few weeks and then all of a sudden they’d both ring me up on the same day, usually with problems that required immediate attention. The best I could hope for was that the predicaments of the moment didn’t require enormous financial outlays on my part. Upon my return from the taping of Real Time, however, I didn’t get that lucky.
“Daddy, it�
��s me.”
I could tell by Sophia’s muted tone of voice that she was upset.
“Hi, babe. What’s wrong? You sound a little down.”
“I don’t know.”
Sophia was stalling, a sure sign that she wanted me to coax the crisis out of her.
“Hey, this is your dad. You can tell me. What is it?”
“Well . . .”
“Out with it, Soph.”
“Daddy, I need laser surgery.”
My heart sank. I had read that doctors used lasers to get at precancerous lesions in the uterus and various other female private parts. “My poor baby,” I thought. I needed to be strong for her.
“Sweetie, listen to me. I don’t want you to be afraid. I will be with you through this every step of the way. We’re going to get you healthy. There’s nothing to be frightened about.”
“I’m not frightened.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Of course not. I mean, we’re only talking about my teeth.”
“Your teeth? You mean you don’t have a vaginal lesion?”
“No, Daddy. That’s disgusting. Is that what you thought?”
“Well, to be honest, yes.”
“The laser is for whitening my teeth.”
“You don’t need that. I spent four thousand dollars on your braces. You have beautiful teeth.”
“No, I don’t. They’re dingy and gross. They’re corn yellow.”
“They’re not corn yellow. They’re a natural pearl. That’s the color they’re supposed to be.”
“I don’t like them. They’re maize-colored. I’ll never get a job looking like this.”
“I thought you wanted to go to business school. Isn’t that why I bought you new breasts?”
“I thought I’d work for a while.”
As with the boob job, I tried to appeal to the feministic leanings of my daughter by stressing that people should like her for who she is, and that those who placed value on the superficial were generally not worth knowing. I told her that in today’s world, it was only the strong that held on to the principles of inner beauty that ultimately dictated true happiness. When that didn’t work, I told her to get three estimates.
Sophia’s brother did not disappoint me by failing to call shortly thereafter. His problem was of a different sort, but certainly no less dire or costly. Evidently the fever of day trading had gripped my son. Unfortunately, the requisite skills to be successful at it had not. Not only had he lost the last fifteen hundred dollars I’d sent him, he’d also managed to go deeper into the hole by getting a cash advance on a credit card he’d received in the mail.
“How much are you in for, Ethan?”
“About twelve K.”
“Twelve thousand dollars? Ethan, what the hell were you thinking?”
“Well, I got in on some shares of this hot IPO at seven dollars. Right after the opening, it shot up to a hundred eighty-five a share. It was all-time. Then the shares just took a dive and closed up at about three-fifty. Next I knew the SEC got involved and delisted the company. It was a huge bummer.”
“Goddamnit, Ethan! What’s the annual interest rate on your credit card?”
“I think it’s twenty-eight percent.”
“Holy shit.”
“Dad, don’t worry. Not all of the debt’s on the card. I borrowed some of the money from Skull. So we can pay him back without interest.”
“We? We can pay him back? No, no, no. This is all you. Jesus, son. I don’t understand. What are you doing out there?”
“Dad, I’m sorry. I just saw a chance to make a success out of something, and I wanted to give it a shot. I wanted to make you proud of me.”
And there it was. The lowest blow a child could hit a parent with: the old “I wanted to make you proud” paradox. What can a parent say in response to that other than, “I’m already proud of you”? And how mad can you get when your child justifies his behavior as an effort to please you? The conversation was effectively over.
“Ethan, I’m already proud of you.”
“No, you’re not. I’m a total disappointment.”
“That’s not true. I’m very proud of you. I just want you to exercise better judgment. And no more playing the market with other people’s money, mine or Skull’s. Do you understand me?”
“I do. Dad, I’m sorry I let you down.”
“It’s all right. Tell Skull you’ll pay him back as soon as possible. I’ll figure something out on this end, all right?”
“You’re the best, Dad. Thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll call you this week.”
Although Ethan had seen fit to call me the best, I felt like the worst after hanging up with him. I tried to remember if I’d been as scattershot in my decision making at his age. These are things you tend to conveniently forget as time passes, convincing yourself more and more that you had always made good choices befitting a mature person. But who was I fooling? It wasn’t until my marriage had broken up that I found myself looking beyond the next pay-check and planning anything in my life. Everything prior to that had just sort of happened to me and I willingly let it. The acorn hadn’t fallen far from the oak.
By the time I got off the telephone with Sophia and Ethan, it was almost 10:00 P.M. and I was hungry. Despite my renewed effort at dieting, including semistrict adherence to soybean-based foods (save the occasional Tailpipe with cheese), my paunch seemed to be getting paunchier. Like every aging American male, I was learning that suit pants could only be taken out so many times before your tailor cried, “No más.” “What to eat, what to eat, what to eat,” I asked aloud while basking in the glow of the refrigerator’s light. My Qigong training was supposed to reduce my stress, which, according to King, produced extra cortisol, a hormone that was causing me to retain more abdominal fat. “Not to worry,” King assured me. Pretty soon I’d be able to channel my chee toward my gut and eradicate the blubber around my midsection. Until then, it was soy milk and cereal.
I sat down with my bowl of Special K at the kitchen table. I noticed it was raining and watched the first droplets bead up on the sliding glass door that led out to my patio. Mesmerized for a few seconds, I was quickly brought to by frantic pounding on the front door. A little scared and a lot startled, I moved slowly through the foyer and peered out one of the small windows to the side of the entryway. To my relief, it was Cal.
“What are you doing here? Come in out of the rain,” I told him as I opened the door far enough for him to fit through.
“Thanks, Sky.”
Cal was shivering as he came across the threshold and began working his way out of his coat. Unflappable to a fault, he unnerved me with the crestfallen look on his face. When he wiped the rainwater off his brow, I could tell he’d been crying by the redness of his eyes.
“Cal, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Kyle. He’s in the hospital.”
Kyle was Cal’s nine-year-old son, a cute, towheaded rugrat who called me Uncle Sky.
“My God. What happened?”
Cal was distressed and began ranting.
“His birthday was last Saturday so we had a Star Wars party for him. I dressed up as Darth Vader and all the neighborhood kids came over. I had the cape. The helmet. The light saber. Everything was going great. We did all the usual shit—games, candy, party favors. You know the deal. Then I went to cook some burgers for him and his friends, but I couldn’t get the grill going. I was out of propane or something. So I ran out to Tailburger and picked up a bunch of those Dongwood burgers and Tailfraps. One week later, half the kids are doubled over and throwing up.”
“Oh, no, Cal. What did the doctor say?”
“He’s running some tests. He thinks it may be one of these bacterias—E. coli or something.”
“Is Kyle going to be okay?”
“He’s in the ICU. The doctor says it’s fity-fifty at this point. Jenny’s hysterical. They had to give her some sedatives—the kind they use on elephants.”
�
��Oh my God, Cal. I feel horrible.”
“It’s not your fault, Sky. You can’t control something like this.”
Whatever color was left in my face drained away. My biggest nightmare was coming true. The decision to undercook our burgers was going to kill someone—my best friend’s son and his Star Wars party buddies.
“Cal, I’ve got to tell you something.”
“Wait, that’s not all. I’ve got something else to tell you.”
“No, Cal. This is really important.”
“Listen to me, Sky.”
“What?”
“I can’t run your campaign anymore.”
“That’s no problem. Don’t even think about that right now. I totally understand.”
This made perfect sense to me. Who’d want to spend one minute helping to promote a company that had poisoned their child? I understood. Tailburger was a despicable enterprise and I was its main proponent.
“No, you don’t understand. Today was the worst day of my life.”
Cal slumped down on the front hall staircase and rested his head in his hands. He started crying again.
“I’m getting out. I’ve got to get out.”
“Out of what?”
I wasn’t sure what Cal meant, but I sure knew how he felt. I’d spent most of my life trying to get out of things. Marriage. Debt. Awkward relationships. Working for Tailburger. Going to church. Potluck dinners. Parent-teacher conferences. And that’s just for starters. For all I knew, Cal’s list could’ve been just as long as mine or longer. Men are funny like that. Most times, we won’t tell even our best friends that we’re feeling disillusioned, depressed or even suicidal. We’d rather let them find us dead at the bottom of a ravine with a note in the front pocket of our favorite jeans. It’s less trouble like that.
“Are you and Jenny having problems?”
“No,” Cal replied through a muffled sob.
“Are you in debt?”
“No.”
“You want to get out of Rochester?”
“No. The industry. I’ve got to get out of the industry.”
The answer seemed a bit anticlimactic to me.
“Oh,” I replied, pausing for a moment. “Why?”
“Because of Christine.”
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