Broken Piano for President (11 page)

Hamburgers, at one time, didn’t come deep-fried or even
freeze dried
. Hard to swallow, I know. You’ve gotta trust me here. Many years ago a hamburger was simply ground beef and a bun.

Naive days.

It’s wildly disputed who first chopped a cow into tiny bits, cooked those bits in a flat circle and slid it between bread. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. That guy’s not in this story.

The first serious hamburger restaurants in America opened during the 1920s and 1930s. The patties were tiny, quickly made and each cost about a nickel. Almost overnight, lunch counters across America sprung up producing similar sandwiches, known as sliders. Most popular were the White Tower stands in the Midwest. In a trend as infectious as measles, dozens of other entrepreneurs sprouted copycat stands to cash in. Some memorable shacks included: White House, White Cabin, Super Tower, White Burger and the doomed Detroit establishments: White Boy and White Devil.

However, these businesses faded in a cloud of griddle steam during the 1940s and 1950s with the popularity of drive-ins and the malt shop. Gradually, what burger stands remained branched into thinly linked regional chains.

Even at this infant stage of meaty lust, America knew an itty-bitty burger didn’t satisfy. The Cold War was hot and it was un-American to fill your hunger with an armload of puny sliders. May as well grab a bowl of borscht on the side.

Much like American waistlines, burger sizes inflated during this time. In 1952, truckers, linebackers and hungry tummies near Dayton, OH nearly fainted when regional burger powerhouse Beef Boy introduced the Fat Boy. Two quarter pound patties shuffled between three pieces of bun and a pile of onions, pickles, ketchup and mustard. The young chef and owner, Harold Dobbs—barely old enough to shave—became the first superstar of fast food.

The Fat Boy’s popularity allowed the Beef Boy chain to ooze across borders to Indiana, Kentucky, Michigan, Pennsylvania and West Virginia. At his peak, the 1954 fiscal year, Dobbs—now lovingly called “Double Harry” by customers and peers alike—operated ninety-two restaurants, the largest chain in the country, and served nearly a million Fat Boys.

Parody proved to be Double Harry’s downfall. Much like White Tower a few decades before, Beef Boy’s competitors adopted the double hamburger ethic and the
Boy
-craze sizzled like raw meat over flames. Notable copycats included: Chunk Boy, Double Boy, Buff Boy, Man Boy, Boy Boy, Coy Boy, Nature Boy and Well-Mannered Boy.

Beef Boy was swallowed by this expanding sea of imitation Boys. Unable to adapt and properly expand the empire, Double Harry and his franchise filed for bankruptcy and closed shop on all restaurants during the winter of 1956.

Once a staple of the Dayton culinary scene, Double Harry quickly vanished and was soon rumored dead.

While Double Harry’s greasy presence fell into America’s drip pan, its favorite Almost-Hitler-Catcher and top Electric Toothbrush inventor was just firing up his stovetop.

There’s an envelope in the mail addressed to Deshler. He opens it and finds an Arbor Day card. He doesn’t know when Arbor Day is, but it doesn’t come at the start of winter, he knows that.

Missing: One Screwdriver. One Red Car. One Pint of Malinta’s Blood.

There is no return address. The postmark is from Deshler’s zip code. He throws the card away and spends the rest of the day trying to forget ever seeing it.

Okay, so back to the burger story. Sorry, I had to look over some notes.

A Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger publicist tells us its beefy empire was founded by Christopher Winters in 1955 with money saved from his various fortunes. Today, the company spreads a message of “Good old-fashioned American fun and values through ground beef.” This is reiterated by every restaurant being modeled after Winters’ green and gray Victorian mansion: a place Winters claimed was as happy and well-rounded as a sesame seed bun. All employees dress like nineteenth century bankers and bankers’ wives to truly illustrate the old-fashioned goodness of its product.

Prior to the first set of Victorian gables poking a hole in the skyline, most burger restaurants, including Beef Boy, didn’t have enough fuel in their engine to expand beyond a couple states. Thanks to Winters’ nationwide popularity and bottomless wealth, there was a neon-lined Victorian mansion in every American state, most of Canada and Guatemala by the time the 1960s rolled around. The company’s founder was never seen in public without his trademark outfit: A ketchup red suit with mustard yellow shirt and tie. He often said in interviews: “I’m so serious about hamburgers, I wear the colors on my back.”

Until his death, Winters’ suit, traffic-jamming smile and hamburger philosophy (capitalizing on both dining propaganda and World War Two rhetoric) were staples of American hearts and stomachs.

• “If your life were a tasty Winters Burger, would you be the bun or the beef?”
  

• “I may have let Hitler slip through my fingers, but mark my words, that’ll never happen with these Stay-Crisp Winters Fries.”
  

• “Only a communist would limit himself to a single Winters Burger for dinner.”
  

• “Burgers, fries and a milkshake—now that’s what I call the Axis of Edible.”
  

• “Enough of this bologna, let’s get down to ground beef.”
  

• “A burger a day keeps the Nazis away.”
  

On the flip side of the bun, Bust-A-Gut rocketed to
overnight sensation
status during the early eighties. There is no corporate information regarding the chain’s founder. In cataract-inducing type at the bottom of its press releases, it reads: “A member of the Globo-Goodness Corporation Family of Corporations.” In 1977, weeks before a marketing blitz declared Bust-A-Gut was “the same Bust-A-Gut flavor you’ve always loved, just new,” two mildly popular American burger chains, Ground Beef Grotto and You Want Pickles on That?, were purchased for undisclosed sums and remodeled into domes. Suddenly, the fast food landscape was crowded with yellow and blue. The restaurant’s image was far more subdued than Winters’. It basically said: “This restaurant is blue, yellow, and clean. Enjoy.” In a matter of weeks Americans began asking themselves how they’d ignored this restaurant that, apparently, had always been around the corner. After all, it was shaped like a bubble and that’s pretty hard to miss.

The domes proved impossible to ignore in the decades to come. But Winters and his kingdom of mansions wouldn’t give up the skyline easily.

It’s been over a week since Christopher Winters passed away. “Peacefully,” a press release reads, “in his sleep from heart failure.” All Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers employees wear black armbands with turn-of-the-century uniforms.

Hamler crunches through a Space Burger while talking on his phone. Styrofoamy cheddar just lacerated a cheek. This is the fifth lunch break in a row he’s spent car-bound. Spending so much time alone, without someone to come home to after a day of lying and spying, has worked his confidence down to a pile of sawdust. Possibly lower than after the Christopher Winters mess.

“So, like I said,” the young spy mutters between snapping bites of Olde-Tyme space-age beef. “This fried cheese thing is owning everyone. I heard some dude in the shitter talking about how they’ve adjusted the composition to forty-five percent mozzarella, twenty percent provolone,
thirty
percent something called Gluten Solvent and five percent
other
.”

Outside, the sky is a gray mash of dense clouds. The first snow of the year drops across Hamler’s windshield and melts watery upon landing. The crisscrossing power lines above the parking lot shiver with the breeze.

“Other,” Tony says like a professor.

“That’s all I have, man. I had to pick my legs up in the stall just to get that.” His cheek tastes like copper. Bloody cheese.

“Okay, that’s helpful, really.” Tony sounds disappointed. “Really, Henry. Great work.”

The car is so cold, steam rises from the bag the way Indians believe souls escape the body. The soul of a freeze dried cow vaporizes into a pine air freshener.

“Have you interrogated Malinta Redding yet?”

“I don’t see much of her, Tony. I mean, the least you could have done is get me a job in her department.”

“Hey.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Henry slouches low. Recognizable faces from the office return from lunch, hustling across the frosty parking lot.

“There weren’t any. Just focus on Malinta Redding, she’s the key. I don’t really care about mozzarella sticks, the boss certainly doesn’t. She’s the gatekeeper. Redding is your primary objective.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll try harder.”

“Anything else?” Tony says, desperate. “Before I let you go.”

Henry holds his wrapper. The lucky Space Burger number is 12171979.

“Uhm, oh yeah,” Henry’s voice picks up. “They are running a hush-hush thing called
Salute to Genius
. Some commercials about Christopher Winters and what a great guy he was. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

Tony whispers, “
Shit
.”

“No, I can handle things, don’t sweat it. I just don’t think this job makes anything easier. He
is
dead because of me.” Henry’s tongue runs a back-and-forth line across the cheek.