Red Meat Cures Cancer
Page 19
I left the stage and attempted to orchestrate the intended seating pattern of handicapped children and church types in the first several reserved rows. This wasn’t easy. The Rochester area diocese had dozens of representatives present, including Bishop Clark, who would deliver the benediction. Dressed in full regalia, he naturally proceeded to the stage and took his place next to the Link, while the priests and the Shriner kids milled about in a state of confusion, unsure of where to sit. With the situation spiraling out of control, it became a free-for-all as the clergy and the lame fought for the open spots in a game of musical chairs gone bad. I did my best to get everyone settled and to relocate those squeezed out of a slot. About the same time, a sea of fezzed Shriners drifted in aimlessly and shuffled slowly into the growing throng.
To the Link’s delight, Katie Chang Gomez, as well as a whole slew of media personalities, was in attendance to report the gym’s opening. Channel 4’s Soledad Murphy. Channel 2’s Rock Bledsoe. Even Channel 9’s action weatherman, Stormy Winters, was there, evidently ready to report on the death toll in case a tornado blew through. Although this amounted to a major happening in Rochester, you would have thought it was a hostage crisis by the number of news vans parked out front.
Ned, Ted and Fred, just off the back nine at Tinkle Creek, ambled in and took seats. Dressed in matching argyle tamo’-shanters and knickers, they looked like a trio of oversize lawn jockeys as they argued loudly about who had the most triple bogeys and failed to notice Annette, who quietly slid into their row and sat down. She smiled broadly at me and, for a moment, my world narrowed to her lovely face and nothing else. Ted Truheart and his wife arrived, along with their new au pair, a former Turkish prison guard named Sekhmet. Chad Hemmingbone, Biff Dilworth and the rest of the Tailburger board followed.
By the time Bishop Clark was introduced by the mother superior, the lawn of the convent was a great American melting pot of golfers, reporters, Shriners, Catholics and the physically challenged. Shutters clicked continually and film rolled as every second of this moderately momentous occasion was recorded.
“Today is a gift from God,” the bishop started. “A great, glorious gift from God.”
“Don’t forget my little gift, Bishop,” the Link whispered aloud, overly concerned that credit for the day was being misplaced.
“Fear not, my son,” the bishop reassured the Link before continuing. “I want to welcome everybody to this wonderful day. This wonderful, wonderful day.”
Admittedly, I was contending with a few problems in my life, but it was hard to argue with Bishop Clark’s assessment as he presided over the dedication ceremony. The sun shone brightly from a clear blue sky, and the trees swayed gently from a light summer breeze that made the temperature perfect. Yes, everything was ideal for a brief, shining moment, right until I heard a faint sound in the distance.
What started as a murmur was soon a muddled rumbling, though the bishop, whose hearing had perhaps diminished in his older years, continued undeterred.
“So we say thank-you to God for blessing us with this day.”
The crowd applauded the bishop’s words, momentarily obscuring the growing din.
“Frank Fanoflincoln deserves our heartfelt thanks as well . . .”
More applause.
“...for it was his generosity and the generosity of Tailburger that made this beautiful structure possible.”
The Link beamed as the bishop’s words washed over him like baptismal water. But by now, the faint sound from far away had become clearly audible and the audience members craned their heads to see what was causing the ruckus.
And then it was upon us—an obstreperous mob of angry protesters at the gates of the convent.
“WHAT DO WE WANT?”
They shouted in a chorus 200 strong.
“NO MORE PORN!”
The reply came in a refrain even louder.
“WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”
“NOW!”
The protest leader appeared to be a leftover radical from the 1960s who hadn’t been told the movement was over. Although a number of the priests nervously got up and left quickly, apparently fearful their extracurricular activities with altar boys had been discovered, my heart sank when I saw the words printed on endless picket signs.
Tailburger and Porn Is No Happy Meal!
Tailburger and Prostitution = Deadly Combo Platter
Kids on Computers Don’t Need Porn
My little scheme to improve market share had been found out.
“WHAT DO WE WANT?”
“NO MORE PORN!”
“WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”
“NOW!”
The bishop stood frozen at the podium as the marchers made their way down the center aisle and approached the stage.
“Good Lord. This is most unusual. I urge everyone to stay calm.”
“WHAT DO WE WANT?”
“NO MORE PORN!”
“WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”
“NOW!”
The Link immediately blamed me for the mishap, this time rightfully so.
“What the hell is this, Thorne? What are they talking about?”
“I don’t know, Frank,” I lied unconvincingly.
Chaos ruled the afternoon now as the media found itself in a feeding frenzy of religion, pornography and the handicapped. Sister Ancilla pulled out her rosary beads and began praying while placards and chanting continued to fill the air.
“WHAT DO WE WANT?”
“NO MORE PORN!”
“WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”
“NOW!”
Katie Chang Gomez, having picked up on the possibility of Tailburger’s involvement with computer porn, turned her questions to the kids from the Shriner’s Hospital gathered in front.
“Do you kids know anything about Tailburger and its possible involvement in these sex-related computer sites?”
“Sure,” a hunched over boy with a large back brace responded. “They’re sponsoring the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes.”
“Nail some tail?” Chang Gomez asked, her brow furrowed in ludicrously serious journalistic fashion.
“That’s right,” came another debilitated boy. “First prize is a trip to the Lust Ranch out in Nevada for a free date with a hooker.”
“And you all entered this?” Chang Gomez directed the question at the large group who’d been bused out for the dedication.
Nods all around sent a pack of reporters, now in on the story, up onto the stage, rushing to interview the Link.
“Mr. Fanoflincoln, what do you know about Tailburger’s involvement in the pornography business?”
“Get those damn things out of my face,” the Link answered, swatting his fat hand at the microphones. “We’re not in the pornography business. We never have been. This is all trumped up by our enemies. Tell ’em, Thorne.”
“Well, Frank . . . You see it’s all . . .”
My momentary hesitation and the look on my face told the Link everything he had to know.
“Thorne! You’re FIRED! Do you HEAR me? FIRED!!!”
I couldn’t bring myself to look at Annette. I walked off the stage dejectedly and, after declining further comment to a pack of agitated reporters, fought through the dispersing mob to my car. The game I’d been playing was a losing one. I had known from the beginning that I was going to get caught. It was only a question of when. Now I had the answer—three weeks before qualifying for my Tailburger pension. I’d blown it. By embarrassing the Link on the biggest day of his life, I would receive no clemency from him. He might even take deranged pleasure in denying me what I’d earned over a lifetime. It was over.
26
Reeling
According to her ex-roommate Natalie, Sophia was at an AA meeting with Tweeter when I called to break the bad news. Even if I received a severance package, which was unlikely given the circumstances, tuition for her next semester at Cornell was going to be a challenge. And she could forget about the collagen injections. Her lips would have to remain
thin and birdlike for the near future.
I now dared to utter the three words every college student fears the most: part-time job. Tweeter’s van, my daughter’s adopted home, didn’t have a telephone, so I asked Natalie to have Sophia call me the next time she rolled into Ithaca. I rarely burdened my children with personal problems, but my new financial condition compelled me to warn them of the impending need for their gainful employment. Ethan wasn’t home, but his message, recorded with the poetic assistance of Skull, encouraged me to “grab life by the cojones,” all in all good advice when you’ve just been downsized. I told my son to call me when he got in.
King came home and found me in my funk.
“Do you want to meditate?”
“No. I don’t want to meditate.”
“It’ll make you feel better.”
“King, I just lost my job, my pension, my reputation and, in all likelihood, my girlfriend.”
“At least you’ve got your chi reservoir.”
“My chee reservoir is all tapped out. Do you understand?”
“You can’t meditate when you’re angry. That’s one of the twenty-four rules.”
“I don’t care about the twenty-four fucking rules! I told you. I don’t want to meditate! Will you just leave me alone?”
“If you think I don’t understand, you’re wrong. I’ve been right where you are.”
“When have you ever been right where I am? You don’t even know what the work world is like.”
“That’s not true. When I walked away from Norwegian Cruise Lines, I left with nothing but a sunburn and a bad case of genital herpes. You don’t think that was painful? I’ve been there.”
“King, I appreciate your empathy. I really do. But right now, I’d just like to be left alone.”
“Okay, okay. But I won’t let your evil chi consume you. Tomorrow we meditate.”
A few dirty martinis. A few Commodores. A pair of comfortable pajamas. The remote control. Soon I didn’t feel so bad about this firing stuff. Truth be told, it was liberating. I couldn’t decide whether or not to quit my crap-ass job. Now the decision had been made for me. The pension problem was a bit of a bitch, but maybe I could finagle something. Or I could sue. How would my story play to a jury? Pretty damn well. Three weeks short of my retirement and the cold corporate hand cuts me off. I might get even more money this way. Being fired was a blessing. I was convinced. And drunk.
Local news did a job on me, the Link and Tailburger. When you’re described as the linchpin between the church and a porn ring aimed at crippled minors, it’s hard to call it a good day politically. Katie Chang Gomez, exercising her usual editorial restraint, called it the most galactically disturbing story she’d ever covered. Latest reports had the Fanoflincoln Pavilion being burned down to remove the impurity of the event from convent grounds. Suddenly my jury case wasn’t looking as good.
My thoughts turned to Cal’s son Kyle and the other kids in the hospital as a result of our undercooked meat. When the doorbell rang, I feared I’d find Cal standing on my front stoop, a loyal friend looking for comfort over the tragic news of a child’s death. But it wasn’t Cal. It was Annette, still dressed in the suit she wore to the dedication. I opened the door, dreading what she might have to say.
“Annette. What are you doing here?”
“I’m not welcome?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
“Fanoflincoln is in the hospital.”
“He is? What happened?”
“Stroke. Right after you left the convent, he keeled over on the bishop. It took three or four Shriner kids to get him off.”
“My God. That’s terrible.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.”
I walked Annette to the kitchen and offered her a seat.
“I can’t believe the Link had a stroke. Everybody’s gonna say it was my fault for shocking him.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Annette said skeptically. “I think the extra four hundred pounds he carries around is a suspect as well.”
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.”
I brought a bottle of wine and two glasses to the table.
“I’m sorry about your job.”
“You heard?”
“Everybody at the ceremony heard.”
“There’s a reasonable explanation for all of this, I swear. I had to get our market share up or lose my job. You were at the board meetings. You know how the Link pushed people. He just pushed me and pushed me.”
“Sky, I won’t lie to you. I’m angry as hell that you weren’t up-front with me and that you didn’t tell me what you were involved in.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. At least then you could have distanced yourself from me and prevented any political damage.”
“Sky, I’m not just talking about things from a political standpoint. I’m talking from a personal one. I trusted you. This is about honesty.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You let me down. And it hurts.”
I hung my head in boyish shame, prepared to receive the punishment I so richly deserved: losing Annette.
“Look. (Pause) I know what kind of pressure you were under. Fanoflincoln is a jerk. I just want you to know that I’m resigning from the board.”
“What?”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought. He just bullies everyone. It’s not worth it to me anymore.”
“Annette, you don’t have to do that for me.”
“I know that. I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.”
“It sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”
“I have. I’ve also made up my mind about something else.”
“Here it comes,” I thought. “El dumperoo.”
“I want us to be together.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
“You do?”
“Yes. But, Sky, I have to know if there’s anything else you haven’t told me. I do have an election coming up, and I won’t be able to withstand a second bombshell. People will be associating me with you from here on out. So I’ve got to know. Is there anything else out there? Anything sordid or embarrassing?”
“No. Of course not. I mean, what else could there be?”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Annette walked over to me and wrapped her arms around my back.
“I missed you.”
“Me too.”
I kissed Annette softly on the lips.
“Stay over?”
“No. I’ve got to go. I have a meeting in the morning, and I’m exhausted. I just came by to make sure you were all right.”
“You’re incredible, Annette.”
Annette and I embraced at the door and said good-bye. Ethan reached me an hour later, just as I was falling asleep.
“Dad, what’s wrong? Your voice sounded funny on your message.”
“Ethan, listen. I lost my job.”
“Noooo. That is brutal, Dad. What happened?”
“Well, that’s the other part of the news. See, you may hear some things in the press about Tailburger and an Internet contest we were running.”
“You mean the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes?”
“Yes. You knew about that?”
“Of course. When are they announcing the winner? I’m hoping to score that Lust Ranch trip.”
“Look, I don’t want you to score anything. That contest was a bad idea.”
“Let me guess. You were the guy behind it?”
“I’m ashamed to say it, but yes.”
“Awwwriiight, Pop! That’s all-time. I can’t believe you were the guy behind that gig. I can’t wait to tell my buds.”
“Don’t tell your buds! Don’t tell anyone!”
“Why not?”
“Let’s just say it’s not something I’m proud of.”
“So why’d you get in trouble for it?
”
“It’s a long story. Let’s just say some people weren’t happy about it.”
“I’ll tell you, Dad, they did you a favor by ankling your ass.”
Time for some of my son’s legendary career counseling.
“Why do you say that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re in the death zone.”
“What do you mean, the death zone?”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re over forty-five years old, which means you could drop any day. The studies show it. Very few men die before fortyfive, but after that life turns into a crapshoot. You could bite it today.”
“I’m not going to bite it today, all right?”
“No need to go postal. I’m just saying. I thought you knew.”
Maybe my son was on to something. Why not listen to him? I sure hadn’t found many answers to life’s questions on my own.
“So this death zone I’m in, how does it relate to my firing?”
“Dad, I’ve learned a few things out here. One is that everybody retires by forty-five. Nobody wants to be hanging around the office sitting on the cube farm, hunched over all day, just watching their body and brain deteriorate. You make your money and you get out while you still have time to enjoy it. It’s all about being young. Doing the things you want to do in life. Use work. Don’t let it use you. Travel. Paint. Collect wine.”
“Collect wine? What the hell do you know about collecting wine?”
“Nothing yet, but I’m not retired.”
“Ethan, it’s not as simple as you make it sound.”
“All I’m saying is, what’s the use of piling up all this dough just to die? Hell, if you’re still working at the age of fifty in Silicon Valley, people feel sorry for you. It’s like, ‘What happened, dude?’ We’re all just company cattle. When you try to invest yourself in a corporation, you waste your time. You won’t be there long enough for it to pay off. And there’s no loyalty anymore, Dad. Companies don’t care about their people. It’s all about the Benjamins. The dead presidents.”
“The Benjamins?”