Broken Piano for President (10 page)

“Dimitri,” our
Cosmonaut Watch
anchor says. “I’m sure you are weak and malnourished, but can you say a few words to the folks here on Earth?”

There is static clatter when the cosmonaut’s blurry mouth moves—pictures beaming down faster than sound. Dimitri’s beard is a patch of overgrown weeds. Now his once lonely eyes just look empty. Embarrassed. Halfway through his speech, the delayed words reach American ears, totally out of sync like black market film dubbing.

“Please, America, we are at your mercy,” he wrestles with English. “You must eat Space Burger and play game to save us. We have not eaten in many days. We will die soon—” A thunderstorm of static crackling cuts him off.

“Di…Dimitri?” our beautifully tanned anchor asks. “Well, it appears we’ve lost feed with the space station again.” He pauses, reading a report on the desk. The newscaster rubs his face like aluminum tears are leaking from those steel eyes. “Folks, this is life or death here and only you can help. So far, two hundred and twelve thousand lucky numbers have been used to guide the Burger Suit back toward the space station. It will take a lot more of your help to get it home. Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers is the only place to get those lucky numbers and save our starving Russians. And it’s the only way for you to become a thousandaire in the process. But that is not the issue, folks. Innocent people are
dying
up there. Only we can change it. Together, as a team.”

The graphic shows the suit and the space station inching closer, but still hundreds of miles apart in real life.

Our anchor stuffs a finger in his shirt collar and tugs a tie loose. “America, the fate of five cosmonauts is in your hands.” Hands fold like prayer. A salty glaze of sweat covers his forehead. “Please buy an extra Space Burger tonight.”

“Dude,” Napoleon says, mist and frost whipping past their cheeks. “Did you read the paper today?” Downtown’s old brick buildings are merely a squint in the skyline.

“Nope, why?” Deshler says. He inhales cool air through a sober head. Dean wishes the valet awning was better protection from the elements as the clock-stopping hum of boredom creeps in. It’s like sitting in the corner as a boy, in trouble with Mom again. Morning is always this slow, things never pick up until happy hour when all the executive autos need parked.

It has been five days since Dean’s touched a drop of alcohol. Five days since he woke up in that limo. It has also been five days since he’s shown up to work late. And at least as many since he’s wet himself. Dean’s banter with millionaires, which used to consist of grunts and nods, has improved to the point where a good stock market joke lands the former Cliff Drinker a twenty dollar tip. He’s only scratched and dented four cars. Less than one per day—easily a record.

“There’s a blurb about your band and a preview of tonight’s show.”

“No shit?” he says, with an
Oh, golly
kind of face. “Let’s have a look.” Dean is a little skeptical, knowing Napoleon’s track record of saying practically anything for attention.

“I forgot it at home.” Napoleon’s breath evolves into steam. “But, basically, it said Lothario is gaining some cult status in town. Something about being an unpredictable live act.”

A little sad, wanting to believe his parking partner, Dean says: “Get out of here.”

Yawning, Napoleon stretches short, soft arms. “It said something like you’re Iggy Pop with a bright orange mask and Ziploc baggies.”

This makes Deshler blush, since the four singers he’s always modeled himself after are:

• Iggy Pop
  “Stooges era, of course, before he sucked.”
  

• David Yow
  “From the Jesus Lizard, before they left Touch and Go and sucked.”
  

• Nick Cave
  “But only when he was in the Birthday Party. He never really sucked, but you get the picture.”
  

• Gibby Haynes
  “Strictly the Butthole Surfers’ eighties work.” Dean will never admit it, but he can’t stand their nineties stuff when the band sucked.
  

His heroes not only used their voices to express themselves, but their bodies and actions, as well. Part performers, part performance artists. When drunk, Deshler’s voice gets dreamy and he says things like: “They stitch together these Frankenstein monsters of guerrilla art and punk rock.” This talk sends his friends from zero to eye-rolling in no time flat.

Those eyeball spasms are nothing compared to his near-biblical quoting of Haynes. “One time, this foster home my brother and I were crashing at had a rad magazine collection. I read this interview where the journalist was talking about touring and asked Gibby, ‘Where do people usually get the most pissed off?’ And Gibby, wow that guy’s a genius. Do you know what he said? His answer was, ‘Between the ears.’”

Lately, thankfully, Dean’s kept these proclamations to himself.

A wind tunnel-tested yellow sedan pulls up to the awning. “Man, that’s heavy,” Deshler says, rubbing fingers together until they regain feeling. “Maybe some people will show up tonight and buy some tapes.”

“Yeah, tapes are a hot commodity. People love ’em,” the little valet says, doing his usual attention grab. “Speaking of which, I told you about my video camera, right?”

“Uh, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I got it at the thrift store…VHS tapes…
seriously
? You don’t remember?”

“Hmm. Wish I could say I did.”

“Let’s hang out after work. There’s this cool car wreck I shot. It’s right up your alley,” he says, searching Deshler’s eyes for any spark.

A sturdy, sailor-looking guy steps out of the car. His posture mirrors the city’s dueling skyscrapers. His gray suit looks like it’s never been worn.

Napoleon hustles up to the car door with a smile. “Welcome back, sir. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of your baby.”

“Back off, tubby,” the man growls. “Look at this beautiful machine. They’d have to peel you out with a shoehorn.” The man dangles keys in front of the valet’s bubble cheeks. “I’ve told you a million times, son, you’ll never get to drive this car. I need my man Deshler Dean to park it.”

This harpoons Dean’s attention. He doesn’t recognize the yellow car and an all-too-familiar confusion nestles in tight.

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon says.

The man stops and turns around. “Here, go buy yourself a burger.” He dunks a five in Napoleon’s breast pocket.

This guy reminds Deshler of a football coach when he steps up and gives a nod. “All systems are a go, buddy.” The man is quiet enough to keep Napoleon out of the loop. Dean stares hard into that face. It’s intense and focused and has probably made people pee themselves.

Deshler returns a stiff nod. This unfamiliar kind of talk boils a pot of spaghetti where his stomach used to be.

“I mean, this is gonna blow up big
time
,” the sturdy guy says, showing off a white marble slab of teeth. “R and D is having trouble actually converting fried mozzarella into the shape of a bun. Some shit about structural integrity. Looks like we might have to use provolone. But seriously, who knows the difference?”

“I’m glad,” Deshler clears his throat. “To hear the mozzarella is going well.” He hopes this lie is enough to pass. Dean wishes he was humble enough to simply say he doesn’t know, but dark pride won’t allow it.

“You better be!” the man says, slapping Deshler’s white jacket shoulder. The coach’s skin is tanned. He could be on posters for California tourism. “It’s the best damn idea you’ve ever come up with.”

If you guessed this news jerked our hero back a step, you’d be right.

The man continues, “Hell, it’s the best thing Bust-A-Gut’s had in fifteen years. Better than the Monte Cristo, I truly mean that.”

“I do what I do,” Deshler says, wondering if he actually heard the word “idea” or not.

“Absolutely,” the man says, searching for credibility in Deshler’s eyes. Digging deep. The guy’s fingers pinch a sorry white lapel. “Anyhow, we’ve gotta get you out of this getup. You should be wearing pinstripes, Dean. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“You’d be surprised. But you know me.” Deshler smiles, the gap in his teeth forms a goalpost. “I like to make an
honest
living.”

“Oh, you
got
me,” he says, covering an imaginary gun blast to the chest. “See you tonight, buddy. It is Friday after all.” The man laughs and passes the keys to Dean.

Deshler slips behind the wheel and hollers, “Tonight it is.”

The accelerator needs only a tap to roar the engine. Dean can’t look at the RPMs, his mind is off so far. Deep in that mind, it’s like a streetlamp over a dark road. Warm peach light fills a space for the Cliff Drinker’s memory, but just out of reach. He’s pushed people past the light. It’s dark outside the lamp glow and it’s getting crowded. Whoever’s out there, they’re close, he can almost touch them, recognize them. But he can’t. It frustrates the hell out of Dean.

When the car is safely parked and Deshler is out of sight, he opens the glove box and searches through paperwork. “Thurman Lepsic,” he says, holding the car’s registration. “I bet I know who knows this guy.”

Deshler is too dazed to even pop in a CD for Mister Lepsic.

Napoleon has a strange twist in his lips when Deshler returns. “What did I just see, man?”

“Nothing, don’t sweat it.”

“That asshole talked to you for like an hour.” Napoleon gives his partner a prize fight jab. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know who Thurman Lepsic is either?”

That nasty pride builds a dam over his mouth and stops Dean from honesty. “He was just babbling about the gas pedal sticking and not to take it over fifteen. The usual bullshit, Napoleon. Lighten up. I’m sorry he was a prick.”

“He can say whatever he wants to me. That dude is like, second in command at Bust-A-Gut. Lepsic is right below Clifford Findlay. His tie tack is worth more than your life.”

“Then he should have tipped better.”

So right now, you’re probably saying something to the effect of: “Jeez, there is a lot of burger talk flying around. This book is one coldcut away from being a butcher shop menu.”

This is the point I’d say: “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Is this a little overkill?” You’d shrug and I’d feel kind of guilty.

So maybe it’s time you were brought up to speed about the Burger Wars, the Beef Club, the Winters Family, Globo-Goodness Inc. and Burger Town, USA.

Let’s start at the top. Last fiscal year, Bust-A-Gut’s three hundred and fifty worldwide domes had a stronger income than many small Asian nations. However, Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, with its six hundred and twenty Victorian mansions worldwide—including the recently opened
Winters Antarctica
—pulled in about as much money as a certain
huge
Asian nation we will not mention.

It wasn’t always this way, however. Hamburgers, in general, weren’t multi-national corporations. In the beginning, burger stands were regional and as unique as the cities themselves. Their buildings weren’t designed by focus groups and dropped out of assembly lines. You’d better believe the food wasn’t either.