Broken Piano for President (18 page)

“Thanks for joining us here on
Cosmonaut Recap
,” our titanium-chinned anchorman says. “I’d like to welcome the men and lady everyone has been waiting for. We’ve had a ball watching the highlights of their space oddity: the starvation, the psychosis, the laughs. But now it’s time to hear from those brave souls who fought zero gravity and zero dinner to be here tonight.” Our anchor stands and extends an arm to the side of the stage. “Please welcome the Moscow Five.”

The television audience shakes the recording studio with applause. The Hollywood version of a space station—flashing lights and white padded walls—serves as the backdrop for five futuristic egg chairs. The entire set still smells of wet paint. The flimsy wall shimmies like aluminum siding in a tornado.

Four men and a woman in identical powder blue jumpsuits walk out smiling and waving. The men’s hair is trimmed short, three have hefty chins and thick waists, jumpsuits wrapping their bodies like wetsuits. The woman’s black bangs hang in front of a skinny face, her smile busy with destroyed teeth. The fourth man doesn’t look anything like the three other male cosmonauts. He’s so tiny he nearly disappears in profile. Unlike his commanding officer, this spaceman looks like he nearly starved to death up in the station.

“Wow, welcome,” our anchor says, shaking each member’s hand. “Glad you could be here.”

The cosmonauts sit and our anchor takes a stool to the far left. “Just so everyone at home can get it straight, introduce yourselves, please.”

The astronaut closest to the host chatters to the others in choppy, harsh Russian. The cosmonauts nod and smile and murmur to one another.

“I am Dimitri, captain of the team,” the first man says in a thick accent. His eyes don’t look as empty as they did beaming down from the space station. They seem rather lively. “I will do interpreting for my comrades.”

“Yuri, I Yuri am,” the second says, looking much like his interpreter.

“Pavel,” says the third, bulky and healthy.

“Sonja.”

“Keith,” the skeletally thin man says, hardly audible through his Russian tongue.

The audience giggles politely. “I’m sorry,
Keith,
did you say?” our anchor asks.

Keith is a broomstick with cheeks, nothing like his hearty comrades. He glares confused at the host while the audience continues.

Dimitri hammers out some casual Russian and Keith mumbles back.

“His parents,” Dimitri says through a deep accent. “Are big fans of Rolling Stones and Keeeth Reechards.”

“Ha, huh, wonderful,” the host chuckles. “So are we.”

The next five minutes revolve around Dimitri interpreting the team’s sentiments. Keith and Sonja never smile. Their words grind past sore tongues, like speaking is exhausting. Their voices have seen hell and it’s a Russian space station.

Dimitri explains for the television audience: everyone is glad to be home. Everyone missed their families very much. Yes, Space Burgers are delicious. No, the crew never thought they’d die, they had faith in the American people.

“So, I’ve got to ask,” our anchor says with no accent. The guy’s a total pro. “It’s on everyone’s mind. You folks have been back on Earth for about a week now. Still no
big
announcement. No contest winner.”

“Yes, yes,” Dimitri says with a blush. “We understand America demands to know. And we all want to tell.” He breaks to say something in Russian. The muscular cosmonauts smile and nod. “As I mention earlier, sir, we are on tour of Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger restaurants throughout country. And Sunday night, on national teevee, we will finally announce winner.”

“Wow, that sounds spectacular.”

“You-will-not-want-to-miss-it.”

The Beef Club, as it’s unofficially titled, is the entire eighteenth floor of the hotel. When Deshler and Napoleon have slow nights they discuss the Club. Or what they assume the Beef Club is like.

Napoleon guesses it’s a cigar lounge, a nook from turn-of-the-century England. Everything in dark wood and brass. The chairs would be, as Napoleon put it, Creampuff Leather. Seats so huge and soft your rich ass gets a hug. He guesses visitors drink brandy and scotch and not much else. Members debate with stogies between their teeth, looking out over the city, planning the next Space Burger takeover.

Deshler’s view is vague. He’s never had a decent answer to stack against Napoleon’s dream. Frankly, Dean’s sober imagination is nothing to write home about.

Inside the elevator, Roland Winters and Dean small talk about the weather and basketball. The CEO swipes a keycard through a slot, a bulb lights green. He presses the eighteen button. “What’s today, Friday?” Winters says as the box lifts.

“Uhm, no, it’s Thursday.”

“Thank God. This place will be a veterinary office full of table scraps tomorrow. Just like every Friday. I don’t need that now.”

Dean lets out an uncomfortable cough to fill the silent pressure building in the elevator.

“God, I hope those Bust-A-Gut assholes aren’t here. Not today.” Winters straightens red pant legs. “I’m not in the mood for that shit, you know?”

“I hear you,” Dean says, almost too assured. He makes a note to play it down, be neutral.

“Scum suckers,” Roland hisses. “Oh, I’m sorry, no offense, buddy. Not everyone who works with Bust-A-Gut. You, for example.”

The elevator pings and the doors open right into the Beef Club. It isn’t what Napoleon dreamed.

There is no oak. No bowtie-wearing bartender. No Creampuff Leather. It looks the same as the employee break room in the basement, but six-times larger and with a killer view of downtown.

Long fluorescent bulbs pop and sizzle overhead, soaking a yellow stain into the room. The couches are mismatched—some blue, some floral, some plaid. All are worn, stained, and hemorrhaging stuffing. The walls hang cheap photo prints fading orange. The room clutches a frat house quality Dean hasn’t seen since visiting a buddy at college.

The Beef Club décor, you see, has a lot to do with its founder.

A few decades back, Christopher Winters and the owner of the hotel started the Beef Club. The American hero wanted somewhere his executives could unwind. In fact, several years after its inception, the benevolent burger boss even allowed Bust-A-Gut’s people to join as a goodwill gesture. However, Winters was heavily bottom-line oriented and asked the hotel owner to decorate the club as inexpensively as possible, which turned out to be left-over hotel furniture from storage. Over the years a few people mutinied by hanging out in classier spots, but it never caught on. Winters dropped by the club every night, and wherever the man-who-nearly-caught-Hitler went, a crowd of followers remained. Heavy drinking on Fridays at the club is an institution. Rumor has it if you miss a Friday, you might come back to work without a job on Monday.

The bartender is the same kid Deshler’s seen working at the lobby lounge. Dean laughs at how wrong Napoleon’s theory is. This bartender’s not the kind of guy who serves millionaires, he’s the kind who huffs clear glue at break time. He has big, dumb eyes and a mouth that drops open when nobody is looking.

“Beer for me,” Winters tells the kid. “And Deshler, you want your regular?”

A thousand drink orders rubber-ball-bounce around his skull. He’s never had a regular drink at any phase in his life. At least not that he remembers.

“Right on, sir,” the kid says. “One PBR and a Rusty Knife.”

A Rusty Knife, Deshler learns, has something to do with whiskey, muddled cherries and sugar. Crushed maraschinos float like bits of flesh cleaned from an old blade.

The sun has nearly disappeared and the room crowds with men and women dressed to kill in the boardroom. Most drink cheap beer or wine from screw-top bottles—two drinks Winters Sr. and his tight wallet always enjoyed.

Deshler and the CEO sit at a wobble-legged table by the window. “Enough of this bologna, let’s carve the turkey,” Winters says, edging close. Dean looks at the CEO’s skin—heavy wrinkles raccoon around the eyes and across the forehead.

“Let’s do that,” Deshler says, shaking his hollow skull, dreading the next words.

“My father loved you. He had a lot of faith in Deshler Dean. And if my dad had that vision, well, by golly, so do I. Christopher Winters was a genius. A genius I have a hard time living up to, as you can imagine.” He straightens his imitation ketchup blazer.

“Consider yourself lucky.” Deshler sips the drink. It tastes like Night Train and kicks at the head, leaving traces of buzz. “My Father was sort of sent off when I was young, but even when he was around he wasn’t that fantastic. Good dads are a rare commodity.” Dean’s eyes feel inflated, his throat clears.

“Yes,” Winters says, drawing it out uneasy. “I don’t think anyone wants to hear that story twice, thanks.”

Dean tries to push away all memories of Dad and Mom’s blame. He attempts to pull in Winters. Dean’s curious where this is going.

“Let’s get to it. Have you thought about my offer? I hope you have.”

“Sorry. Remind me, Roland, what’s, ah, you know, the offer again?” Dean smiles at how easy honesty is.
Maybe this trend will catch on
, he thinks.

The walrus sighs and rubs at his temples. He grabs the mustard yellow knot around his neck and loosens it. “Christopher Winters is spinning in his grave, God rest his soul. I take it the answer is no?”

“Easy, easy,” Deshler’s flustered mouth guns out. “Let’s just, you know, talk.
You
should talk.”

“You’re either in or out, Dean. Quit dusting my cock.” Winters hails a waitress. Deshler looks down. His Rusty Knife is a stack of loose ice cubes. He doesn’t remember finishing. “You’ve got a knack for this business. The Space Burger, that entire campaign is genius. Our profits have gone up two percent since it kicked off.” Winters grows tense in the arms, crushing the beer can slightly. “I’ll even give you credit, Bust-A-Gut’s Monte Cristo…people eat that shit by the shovelful. You played ball for the other
guys and really got us on that one.”

A waitress brings a beer and a tumbler of Rusty Knife. Dean gulps down half, trying to stop his shaky arms from going completely haywire.

“And…and I know you’re working with Findlay’s people on another project.” The CEO’s bulky fingers fidget with the can tab, decapitating it. “Intelligence says it’s something to do with cheese sticks. That’s fine. I don’t blame you for working with Bust-A-Gut again. You’re a free agent.”

Deshler silently agrees, keeping eye contact. The room rumbles with voices. One overhead light is switching on-to-off every few seconds.

“The Winters family knows…I know, that you could make a great VP of Development. Harry, the Chief of Development, knows it, too. He’s excited to have you aboard. I mean, your reputation looks like the Fort Knox vault around here.”

Deshler takes this in. Whiskey torpedoes around his brain, sinking tiny battleships of logic. He says the first thing on that evaporating mind. “Did the governor really say all that?”

“Absolutely.” Roland’s cheeks blush into cuts of salmon under a creeping layer of stubble. The bags below his eyes sag. “It keeps me up at night, trying to maintain Dad’s legacy, walking in his shadow. I mean look at me, I’m the B-movie version of Christopher Winters. Getting you onboard was a dying wish from my father. He told me on his death bed to get that Dean kid at all costs. I just want to see that come true.” Winters takes a gulp of beer and nearly chokes. “God…God rest his soul.”

“That’s flattering, Roland,” Dean says, with a shallow pool of confidence filling. Dean recognizes this sensation—it’s happiness. His entire life, when this feeling arrives he pushes it away. It’s wrecked many friendships, loves, jobs and bands.

Most people on the receiving end of this push just stare at our hero like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But Dean knows why he does it. It doesn’t mean he hates himself any less, though.

Winters checks over his shoulder. A dark-skinned guy with a soul patch talks about the difference between sharp cheddar and extra sharp cheddar to a group. They ball fists behind their backs.

“So…?”

Magically, Deshler’s second cocktail is gone. Skin hangs like it could dribble off his bones and into a puddle. A gentle hum starts in the chest and vibrates through his body the way several drinks inspire him before band practice.