Broken Piano for President (19 page)

Winters’ sad eyes hold the stare. Dean fights off fidgets under their pressure.

The Cliff Drinker reminds himself that the alternative is parking cars eight hours a day and, apparently, Malinta thinks it’s sexy when he struts around the Club like he knows something. Deshler is one tongue click from uttering: “Yeah, Roland, I’m in,” and embracing happiness for once in his life, when a man with a salt and pepper beard clears his throat.

“Sir, we’ve made some progress on the contest winner,” the man hisses into Winters’ ear.

“Great. Talk to marketing about it.”

“It’s
you-know-who
. Harry is picking
you-know-who
up right now. The CEO should come by the office and say…” the man strains from behind that salty, peppery beard. “Hi, perhaps.”

Winters eyes this man with shock. He’s beaming hot and his posture is tight. “Oh, well, oh. Yes, I should. Deshler, let’s sew this puppy up tomorrow over lunch.” The CEO is up and practically out the door. “Are you free?”

“Completely,” he says, thankful to have more time to think.

“Call Deb, she’ll schedule something.”

The waitress brings a third drink without a word. Deshler’s brain unhinges and he stares at the lights across the city. It’s relaxing, the warm buzz and the headlights going up and down the street. Fragments of Winters’ talk enter Dean’s consciousness, but fade to the skyline going to bed, getting dark, outlined in gentle orange streetlamps.

It doesn’t even bother him that the room is thick with that musty cellar scent.

The revolving door of Dean’s life swings and when he looks up, Malinta is sitting in Winters’ warm seat.

“What are you doing here? Drinking?”

“I’m…yes. It’s called a Rusty Knife, apparently.” His pool of confidence dries up, getting caught in the act.

“I know that.”

“Right.”

“You said you’d come with
me
, sober. And my coworkers said you were talking to
Roland Winters
.”

“Yeah, we were discussing work.”

“Deshler,” she says with a shocked frown. “What about Clifford Findlay? What about Bust-A-Gut? Where’s your allegiance this week?”

“I’m trying to figure that one out myself.” He glances down. The whiskey and cherry are gone. His chest sparks with sour mash heartburn.

“You’re gonna blow it. I just know it.” She leans back, shoulders and confidence slackening. “Forget Bust-A-Gut, what about
us
?”

The waitress delivers another drink. Deshler looks at his hands and the tumbler, they shake in and out of focus. A tiny earthquake.

“It’s like every time I start to trust you, I get shoved away. Like you want to hurt my feelings.”

“That’s not it.”

“Well then?”

“Um…um…” it’s there now—the why. Dean never quite saw the why all these years until now. He sees it, but is too embarrassed to explain that he pushes in hopes that someone, anyone, will return. “Um…” It hasn’t worked with his parents, or his brother, or countless friends and girlfriends. Why would it take off now?

“It’s always
um, um, um
,” she snaps and stands. “Close your mouth.”

Pandemic thrashes under the covers. It’s the bull’s-eye of frosty early winter weather, but his air conditioner is cranked up to eight. He is sweating through boxer shorts. The bedroom window is painted black with a layer of aluminum foil taped to the glass, blocking out this evening’s fading daylight. The drummer has been up for nearly three days straight.

Pandemic can’t purge the angry amphetamine juices from his body. Growing up, experimenting with drugs provided a clean perspective. One his father didn’t understand or condone. Now, he smokes it and doesn’t remember why. His jaw clenches enough to grind chicken bones to sand. His teeth are grains of rice. His muscles ache. His temper is spring-loaded and sensitive most days.

Juan is not who he used to be.

This thought, mixed among a dozen others cycling through his mind at once, causes him to pause. Pandemic knows his old self, but draws a dark curtain in his mind around that man.
You are better now than before
, he thinks.
You are the best drummer on earth. You are the handsomest dude in town. You are smarter than, like, Einstein and—
This pause escapes when the quiet bedroom explodes in metallic hammering. Pandemic’s doorbell is a retired school alarm he wired in order to hear during drum practices. An icy silence fills the drafty house for a few moments. His eyes are wide open in the dark room now. Cool air touches his cheeks. There’s soft knocking at the door, then the bell rings another carpet bomb across Pandemic’s head.

“I’m busy here,” he yells.

A few minutes later, those massive, scarred hands pull the front door open. Two people in matching green shirts tense at the sight of a skeleton in its underwear. They twist up noses and jerk back from the rotten odor floating from the living room.

The porch floorboards bend down hard. The paint is chipped and mildewed over. Shimmering webbing hangs overhead.

“I said I was busy,” he sniffles. Pandemic’s face is vanilla pudding skin.

The short black guy cranes up his neck. “Sir, sorry to bother you so late, is this the, uh—” He snaps a fast glance to his left. His partner is old and bored. The guy clears his throat. “Is this the home of Timothy Winters?”

Frigid evening air washes over Pandemic’s body, balls slink upward and chest pigments burst into a light, rosy Rorschach.

“Are
you
Timothy Winters?” the older woman demands.

“Wrong house, fellas. Get off my porch before I buy a gun and learn to use it,” the malnourished drummer says, knees shivering. He wraps blade-of-grass arms around that chest.

The man and woman bite lips and wait. Two cars pass the porch.

“Then,” the man says with a fake smile. “Is this the home of
Juan Pandemic
?”

Pandemic flashes veiny eyes, dropped far back in his skull, between the two strangers. The older lady shifts a fist in her jacket pocket, the coat’s breast slips open revealing a gray patch stitched into her green polo.

Pandemic knows what the shirt says and dreads the idea of continuing this conversation. “Shoo.” That shirt gives him a jolt of a scare. It’s one of the few things on this planet that can. “Shoo.”

“Is that your name?”

“Vamos.”

“Is. It?” The woman’s voice is big now.

“Possibly.”

“Well, sir, we’ve got some news,” the woman says, not offering a fake smile. “May we come in?”

The living room is dark and smells like old refrigerators and rotting vegetables and untrained cats. Metal folding chairs are scattered, some on their feet, some flipped over. A stack of newspapers as tall as a toddler sits under the window, spoiling into yellow parchment.

“Mister Pandemic,” the short man says. He sits nearest the door and rests a briefcase on his lap. “We have to get some things out of the way before we can tell you
exactly
why we’re here.”

Pandemic grumbles and wraps a blanket, freckled with cigarette-burns, around his shoulders.

“You need to tell us the truth.” The lady sits next to the newspapers, absently scanning for a publication date.

“You guys aren’t the cops, I’m not stupid.” His neck cocks, “Or intimidated.”

“No, we are not, sir.”

“I’m not scared.” He mumbles lower, with less pep. “I see your shirts.”

The black man pops the case open and sifts through papers. “Good, this will be a lot easier then.”

“Timothy, we need you to verify that that’s your name,” the gray-haired woman says, scooting her chair in Pandemic’s direction.

“It’s Juan. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”

“Now it’s Juan. It used to be Timothy, right?”

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Come on, kid. Look at this nest you call home,” the lady says, switching her voice to motherly and caring. “You know you deserve better than this. Don’t you, Tim?”

Pandemic bites his tongue and scratches a shoulder deep. It leaves red map lines from untrimmed fingernails. He can’t make eye contact—can’t even come up with an insult.

“What you tell us is confidential. There are only a few people who know about this. One being your father, of course.”

His dry mouth swallows. It tastes like two rice-kernel teeth slid down with it. Juan can’t fight who he is, so he gives up. “Yeah, I used to be Tim,” he says, staring at the naked floorboards. “I changed it legally. So what? I’m better than Tim now.”

“Yes, clearly.” The man is calm, watching a mouse sniff its way across the floor. “That’s Timothy James Winters, right?”

“Your dad is Roland,” the woman says. “Your grandpa is Christopher, correct?”

“Uhm, yer, yes, I suppose. Yes.” He jitters under the blanket, shifting his head from corner to corner of the room in a meth-twitch. A nervousness he hasn’t shown in years.

“Son, we’re from Olde-Tyme Hamburgers,” the wrinkled woman says. “I’m Delia and this is Pierre.”

Pandemic claws at raw scalp scabs. He notices for the first time the woman’s left coat sleeve is empty. Delia is missing an arm.

“Son, your father wants to see you.”

Wrapping the blanket tighter, Pandemic sneezes and lets the globby mess simply hang. “No way, I don’t need that. I…I’m cool.”

“It’s—” Delia begins.

Pierre flicks one finger to stop. “Tim, it’s complicated. It’s not just for a family reunion, you see. Your dad tells me he is really excited to spend time with you and wishes that he did more often. But, you see, there’s more to it than just that.”

“What? The old man needs a kidney or some bone marrow? That’d be just about perfect.” His voice gets unvarnished and nasty. “You tell him my kidney isn’t for sale and I hope he dies—”

“Settle down,” Pierre’s voice is louder, more commanding. “It’s nothing like kidneys.”

“Son,” Delia tweets. “You won the Space Burger contest. You’re an international hero.”

Since
Cosmonaut Recap
aired, Winters’ Space Burger gets all the attention. Bust-A-Gut is combating with a media blitz praising rival burger magnate Christopher Winters. Three different ads air hourly on the major networks during primetime.

Commercial one involves a montage of Winters photos from his days in the Army (nothing summer camp-like, thankfully), his rise to fame as benevolent hamburger baron and his stint as governor.

Commercial two and three are basically the same thing. A woman walks through a gallery of photos of the dead man and says some witty, caring words about each stage of his life. All the commercials end with a touching portrait of Christopher Winters with his wife, son, Roland, daughter-in-law and grandson, Timothy.

Immediately following these ads in every American market, another commercial appears. This one begins with a heart monitor’s bouncing blue-green spike—bleep…bleep…bleep…bleep.

The monitor suddenly stops and an intense electric death wails for an uncomfortable ten seconds.