Red Meat Cures Cancer

by Starbuck O'Dwyer

  “Annette, I didn’t mean to. I had no idea things would turn out this way.” Excuses were flying fast now, like bat shit at a barn dance. “The situation was beyond my control.”

  “Yes, but getting involved with Cal in the first place wasn’t.”

  “This wasn’t all my fault.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Sky.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Sky, I can’t continue on in this relationship anymore. It’s too much. I’ll get eaten alive in the papers if I’m part of this story. You know that.”

  “I know.”

  “Sky, I’m sorry. I love you. I just can’t be with you anymore.”

  “I understand.”

  And then Annette hung up on me. This was turning out to be one hell of a night. Once the news of my arrest hit the police blotter and newswire, the media saw blood in the water. Katie Chang Gomez stood in the front row of the press corps gathered for a midmorning press conference arranged by Shufelbarger. On the marble steps of the state courthouse, following my arraignment, Shufelbarger approached me and whispered in my ear.

  “You ever work in a soup kitchen or a shelter?”

  I pulled back from him and spoke aloud.

  “I don’t remember. Maybe one time. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Shufelbarger went back to shuffling his papers, pulling various items in and out of his satchel until he was ready to speak. He acknowledged the growing mass of reporters with a nod and began.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to read a statement to you.”

  Shufelbarger cleared his tar-stained throat.

  “Schuyler Thorne is totally innocent of the charges leveled against him. There is absolutely no truth to any of the allegations, and he is confident that he will be vindicated completely in this matter. Sky is one of Rochester, New York’s, most upstanding citizens. As the chief operating officer, excuse me, former chief operating officer, of Tailburger Incorporated, Sky has been responsible for creating hundreds of jobs in our community, and for the donation of thousands of dollars to local causes that improve our daily lives and the lives of those around us. He’s spent countless hours in soup kitchens all over this city, and in social work circles, he’s known as ‘Mr. Homeless Shelter,’ because that’s where you’ll find him most holidays, handing out turkeys, ladling gravy and whatnot. Now Mr. Thorne will not be speaking today, but I’m willing to take a few questions. Ms. Chang Gomez, please go ahead.”

  “Mr. Shufelbarger, did your client know that minors were entering the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes?”

  “Absolutely not. He had no idea.”

  “So what was the primary purpose of the contest?”

  “To sell more burgers. Plain and simple.”

  I was encouraged by the first few questions and answers. We were getting the facts out—our side of the story. Everything that was true and good about me was coming to light.

  “Next question. Yes, you, in the front row.”

  “Is Mr. Thorne a pimp?”

  “People, please! Keep the questions appropriate or this news conference will be over before you can spell Britney Spears. Next question. Yes, you.”

  “When is Tailburger announcing the winner of the sweepstakes?”

  “Mr. Thorne is no longer an employee of Tailburger and has no access to that information. Next question.”

  “If you win the trip to Vegas, do you get to pick the hooker you sleep with? Or do they just give you some leftover skank?”

  “That’s it, people! This press conference is over!”

  Shufelbarger led me by the arm to a waiting car.

  “Those hookworms don’t know when to quit,” Shufelbarger fumed as the driver whisked us toward M.C.’s office for a debriefing. I was furious about the pimp question and nearly as mad at Shufelbarger.

  “Hey, what was all that homeless shelter bullshit? You were lying.”

  “I was not, Sky. That’s called lawyering. There’s a big difference. It’s my responsibility to paint an accurate picture of you for the public to see. And you are obviously a very civic-minded person. That’s all I was saying. Was there some hyperbole involved? Perhaps. But that just comes from my heart. I don’t see the harm.”

  “Well, why don’t you take it down a notch next time? Stick a little closer to the facts. All right?”

  “Okay, but it’s your ass.”

  “Stop saying that!”

  Okay, okay. Calm down.”

  Shufelbarger and I rode together in silence for a minute. While my thoughts drifted to Annette and the fact that I’d lost her— probably for good—he pulled out a Johnny Cash cassette from a drawer under the liquor decanters. “This is what you need to listen to, Sky. A little Boy Named Sue’ll cure ya.”

  When it came to my failed relationship, I didn’t have anybody to blame but myself. That was the truth, and I’d have to accept it. Although I’d seek pity from everyone around me, I didn’t expect to receive it.

  “So when are they announcing the winner of the sweepstakes, Sky?” Shufelbarger casually inquired.

  “Why do you care?”

  “No reason. Just curious. It seems to have generated a tremendous amount of interest. Me, myself, I hadn’t heard of it.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you get to pick the hooker? Or is it some skank?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Just asking.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re pond scum.”

  “Easy, Sky. I’m not the pornographer here.”

  “I am not a pornographer!” I shouted at Shufelbarger.

  “Don’t pop your top!”

  “M.C., I want to go home. Driver, head for Mendon.”

  “That’s fine, Sky. I have to meet with Burton Roxby this afternoon anyway. This’ll give me a chance to prepare for that. We can meet tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  Sometimes when you’re away from home, even for a day a two, you see the true physical condition of your house when you return. You could go years without noticing the chipped paint or the faded shutters, the weeds in the driveway or the rusted mailbox. And then, having been gone, you pull up with fresh eyes and you realize the whole place needs a lot of work. So much work, you’re not sure where to begin. You stop for a minute and wonder how your house ever got so dilapidated. When did you start letting it go? How did this happen? You won’t be able to remember. And it’s frightening because repairing the damage will take certain resources and you must assess whether or not you’ve got them. The patience. The time. The money. The desire. Maybe you do, but maybe you don’t. And maybe you’re all alone. And if you don’t have the resources and you are all alone, you face a difficult decision. Will you let your house fade even further, personally holing up inside the deteriorating structure? Or will you sell it and quietly move far away, forgotten by all but a few?

  My house needed a lot of work.

  29

  Tenderloin

  King was out when I returned. It was just as well. I didn’t really want him making a big fuss over my first prison homecoming. At this rate, there’d be others anyway. Then again, where the hell was he? Didn’t he know I’d been in jail?

  I stood still for a moment in the front hallway and listened for the normal noises I’d missed: the ticking of the clock on the living room mantel, the clanging of the water heater from the basement, the crunching of soy nuts by King as he espoused the virtues of tantric sex. I was alone and lonely, a most unfortunate condition. Usually I was one or the other, but not both. The combination was a killer.

  The telephone rang, and I let the machine pick up.

  “Sky, it’s Trip Baden calling. I don’t know what kind of a midlife meltdown you’re going through, but you better get your shit together. If you think I’m gong to let some scuzzy, low-life flesh peddler like you prevent me from getting what’s legally mine, you’re woefully mistaken. Your career is officially over at Tailburger and I want my hal
f of your pension. You have one week to call my lawyer, Herv Alverson, and begin the paperwork. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court. Good-bye!”

  I went to the refrigerator, twisted open a Molson and sat down in my dreary kitchen. This symbolized freedom to me, however pathetic it sounds, and so I sat, feeling sorry for myself. But hey, I felt entitled to a bit of self-pity, having lost so much (add girlfriend, self-respect, watch—Fingers Tremble duped me on a Jar Jar Binks trivia question—dignity and possibly liberty to my aforementioned list of job, pension and reputation). Hard to say which loss was the worst, although Annette was most on my mind. “At least I have my health,” I consoled myself, swilling down the last sip of beer and choking back the cough of a man with early-stage emphysema.

  I was paralyzed. Couldn’t call Annette. She didn’t want to hear from me. Couldn’t call Cal. He hated me. Couldn’t go to work. I didn’t have a job. Couldn’t call my kids. I prayed they would miss this part of their father’s demise. Couldn’t watch television. I was too afraid to face the character assassination that was undoubtedly taking place on the local news. I grabbed a pile of mail from the counter and started sorting through it. Cable bill. Electric bill. Request for a donation from Roxby’s legal defense fund. Columbia Compact Disc Club offer (mental note: check for Bread Anthology CD). Publisher’s Clearinghouse packet. Crooked Creek club dues. Another Publisher’s Clearinghouse packet addressed to someone named Ski Torne. Credit card offer. Gas bill. Cornell tuition bill (mental note: remind Sophia you weren’t kidding about her getting a part-time job). Another credit card offer. J. Crew catalog. Late notice from mortgage company. Victoria’s Secret catalog (whoever sent me this—you’re cruel). Telephone bill. The end. (Pause). My conclusion. Looking to the mail for comfort was like looking to Liz Taylor for marital advice.

  Moving toward the hot shower I so badly needed, I heard a rumbling outside. Sure enough, out the front window I saw a lime green van, covered with rust and bumper stickers, sitting in my driveway. I couldn’t see what the bumper stickers said but instinct told me the collection included “Practice Random Acts of Kindness,” “Think Globally, Act Locally” and “Jesus Is My Copilot,” not to mention every other annoying saying ever foisted on the American car-driving public.

  Just when I thought no further ill fate could possibly befall me, I was proved wrong by a gangly punk with a bad goatee and two earrings who spryly hopped down from the driver’s side of the van, and a strange woman in dreadlocks who did the same from the passenger’s side. Hand in hand, the two of them, both clad in sandals, sunglasses and knitted, tricolored, Rastafarian lids, strolled toward my house. They only looked moderately dangerous so I opened the front door to greet them.

  “May I help you?”

  “How could you, Daddy?” the female asked.

  “Yeah, how could you, man?” her companion followed. It was Sophia and my biggest nightmare: Tweeter, the non-Choate townie.

  After all the times I’d supported my daughter through lost loves, unfair teachers, catty girlfriends and cosmetic surgery, I thought that she would be the first to support me in my hour of greatest need. Her dear old dad was fighting for his personal and professional life, and what he really needed was a hug. But did I get that? Of course not. Instead, I stood in the foyer of my own home getting verbally attacked by her and a guy wearing an Insane Clown Posse concert jersey. Too stunned to react, I threw up my arms and shrugged while my persecutors sauntered in from the front stoop.

  “Daddy, this is Tweeter,” Sophia called out as she headed for the bathroom. “I’ve gotta pee so bad.”

  Suddenly I was left alone with David Soul.

  “So, Tweeter, is your name short for something?” I asked, extending my nicotine-stained hand to shake his.

  “Nope. Just Tweeter,” he responded, returning my traditional gesture of greeting halfheartedly. “My folks named me after a speaker, I think. It was either going to be Woofer or Tweeter.”

  “I see. I think you got the better end of that bargain.”

  “I like to think so.”

  The thought of this cretin having sex with my daughter made my brain go numb. I had avoided imagining it before, but now with him standing in front of me I couldn’t, so I allowed myself to go into some kind of protective parental shock.

  Sophia returned from the bathroom still steaming.

  “Daddy, Ethan told me what you did, and I think it’s awful.

  How could you support the exploitation of women with that prostitution contest?”

  “It was just marketing, Sophia. Prostitution is legal in Nevada. Those women are professionals.”

  “That doesn’t make it right. Men have been making sex objects out of women since the beginning of time, and this only adds to the problem.”

  “Sophia, I’m not saying it’s an ideal situation. But it is legal, and I was under extraordinary pressure at work. You’re going to have to forgive me, or at the very least, try to understand.”

  “I don’t understand, Daddy. Is it true that crippled little kids were entering the contest? That really bothers me.”

  “That part of the story has been blown way out of proportion. They weren’t all crippled, and I had no idea that was happening anyway. Think of the illegal entrants as horny high schoolers. You remember that time of your life Soph, don’t you?”

  “I sure do,” Tweeter piped up.

  “Shut up, Tweeter,” Sophia snapped. “Daddy, this sets the cause of females back about twenty years. My fem lit professor says we’re getting physically, spiritually and emotionally raped by the white man in power. That’s you, Daddy! You’re part of the problem.”

  “All right, Soph, that’s enough. This hasn’t been the best day of your father’s life. I just got out of jail, and I need some peace and quiet. Do you understand?”

  I’d really had it with my daughter at this point, and I knew if she pushed me any further I’d probably say something I regretted.

  “Daddy, we can’t just drop this.”

  “Okay, fine! Tell me then, what does your fem lit professor say about your breast implants? Are they part of the problem?”

  “No. There’s a difference.”

  “Those aren’t real?” Tweeter interjected, a surprised look on his face as he pointed to Sophia’s chest.

  “No, they’re not real. God, Tweeter, don’t be stupid,” Sophia barked.

  “What difference?” I persisted.

  “The difference is that with my augmentation procedure, I exploited myself. It was an act of self-empowerment. I had a choice.”

  “I can’t believe those aren’t real,” Tweeter observed, scratching his scraggly beard.

  “Shut up, Tweeter!” Sophia shouted.

  “These women in Nevada have a choice, too,” I protested. “They don’t have to have sex for money.”

  “You just don’t get it, Daddy,” Sophia said, telling me in her customary way that the conversation was over as far as she was concerned. Life’s a funny thing. Just twenty-four hours before I’d been in prison debating the merits of The Shawshank Redemption with a serial rapist named Fingers Tremble, and now here I was arguing about the merits of legalized prostitution with my daughter and a guy most likely conceived during Lynyrd Skynyrd’s second encore at the Gator Bowl in 1976.

  “Sophia, don’t be mad at me.”

  Silence.

  “Well, are you staying for a bit?”

  “We’re just passing through, Sky,” Tweeter informed me.

  Sky? Did this kid just call me Sky?

  “Call me Colonel, Tweeter.” Although I’d never served a day in my life in the service, I wanted Tweeter to fear me.

  “Got it.”

  Sophia looked at Tweeter as if she was waiting for him to say something.

  “Daddy, the reason we’re here is because Tweeter has something to say to you.”

  Tweeter looked back at Sophia and audibly gulped.

  “Go ahead, Tweeter,” Sophia urged.

  “Well, Colo
nel Thorne . . .”

  “You don’t have to call him Colonel.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Well, sir . . . uh Colonel, uh Mr. Thorne, I wanted to talk to you about me and Sophia.”

  Tweeter placed his index finger under the loose-fitting neckline of his jersey and began to shift his weight from side to side. This couldn’t be what I feared it was. It just couldn’t.

  “What about you and Sophia?” I countered nervously.

  “Well, you see . . . we’ve been living in my van . . . that green one outside.”

  “I saw it. So what?” My heart sank under the weight of his words.

  “Well, we’d like to get married. And I wanted to ask your permission.”

  Sophia moved over to Tweeter, placed her arm around his back and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I would need to handle this gently, delicately and with finesse.

  “You know you seem like a nice guy, Tweeter. But I’ve got to tell you something. There’s NO WAY in FUCKING HELL you two are getting married!”

  “I just thought that maybe . . .”

  “MAYBE NOTHING!”

  “Oh, Daddy, how could you be so mean?” Sophia broke into tears after my outburst. “Tweeter and I are in love. Can’t you see that?”

  “It’ll pass, Soph, I promise you. And all you’ll be left with is a rusted-out van covered by a ‘Honk If You’re Horny’ bumper sticker. I can’t let you make that mistake.”

  “I hate you, Daddy! I hate you! We are going to get married, whether you like it or not. C’mon, Tweeter. We’re leaving. (Pause) I bet Trip would understand.”

  Sophia knew that remark would hurt me.

  “Sorry, Colonel,” Tweeter said as he shuffled out and shut the door behind them.

  I watched Sophia and Tweeter climb back into the van and added my daughter’s name to the growing list of things and people that I’d apparently lost. This was just one of her phases though. I was certain about that. Twenty or thirty years from now, everything would be back to normal.

  30

  Indecent Exposure

  Soy nuts. Organic polenta. Ready-to-drink, nondairy, blended chai tea and spice soy beverage, Tofutti vanilla snacks. These monstrosities were my brother’s idea of problem solving.