Broken Piano for President (26 page)

“You need a mustache or a beard. Sideburns. Something to fatten your face,” the CEO of Olde-Tyme Hamburgers tells his son through chubby cheeks and push broom mustache. “That wig and those glasses aren’t cutting the ketchup.”

They are alone in Roland’s oak cave office. Pandemic plucks a brandy bottle off a shelf, sniffs and glugs it like soda. He flushed his meth down the toilet days ago and it’s rearranging his brain cells. He’s actually been thinking a lot about what Dad had to say during that original late-night meeting. Most days, Juan Pandemic or Timothy Winters or whatever name he’s going by, is so filled with anger his shoulders ache from stress. Most days only a sweet pipe to his lips can cure it. But lately, he’s been upbeat and it feels great.

“People don’t want a junkie for a contest winner. A skinny, ungrateful drug addict. They want the all-American hero. They want your grandpa. Everyone wants Christopher Winters.”

“Look, Dad,” he says. A sudden snake of nostalgia twists between Pandemic’s lungs, wrapping around the heart, laying eggs of fond memories and family pride. His mouth soaks in the familiar juices of Grandpa Winters’ backyard barbecues. Juan remembers the warm fuzz of superiority when kids at school made a big deal every time he brought
the governor
for career day. He’d never felt so good or so superior to others. “I’ve been thinking. And, you know, I’m sorry. I’ll help, I’ll go around and say whatever you want me to say. I’ll kiss babies and shake hands with Russians. I’ll help.”

With the ink drying on Lothario Speedwagon’s death certificate, Timothy realizes being a Winters is all that’s left. This is the last chance to do something right and get back some of that old pride. Not many people can be part of a legacy, let alone an American legend, he decides. He tells himself art is for losers. When was the last time an artist bought a new car? When was the last time an artist was elected governor?

The sloppy CEO waits for his son to bust into a laugh. He doesn’t, so Roland coughs. “Son, this is the smartest shit you’ve ever told me. I’m glad your head is finally out of your ass.”

“I want to be a part of this company, Dad. It’s my legacy, you know? Maybe when this is done—”

“Keep your trap shut about being my kid, though. If there’s
another
thing Joe America can’t stand, it’s nepotism. If there’s something Joanne Customer hates even more,” he says, waistline stretching tight across his stomach. “It’s nepotism in a
contest
. Jesus, that would ruin me.” He pauses and rubs that mustache, “
Us
. Take a second, Tim, and ask yourself, if your life was a tasty Winters Burger, would you be the tomato or the lettuce?”

Juan removes the phony glasses and squints. “I don’t think you’re using that right. Anyhow, I can do that, Dad. But like I was saying, maybe when this is over in a few weeks I can come back and work with you. Learn the business. Be part of the family.”

“Maybe, Tim.”

This is how most of Pandemic’s debates with Dad end. But for the first time, maybe thanks to sobriety, it gurgles through his brain who has the advantage. “No, Dad, not maybe. I’ll do this, but you have to cut me in. I know a lot of things about this company. Grandpa told me a lot of stories. Things after the war, murders for recipes, you know?”

“Your granddad was bat-shit crazy, I’m sorry to say. He made all sorts of stuff up. He earned everything in life through hard work and being an ax-murderer of a business man. When his mind started slipping he jazzed his resume up. It’ll happen to you someday, just wait. Dementia’s genetic.”

“Well, I know what I know,” Pandemic says. Fingers lift to his face and scratch once, then the hand gently pulls into his jacket. He sucks in breath until his chest stings and the snake wiggles its rattle. This pride blocks his brain’s begging for crystal meth, but pride’s growing weaker. “And I know a lot of people want to hear.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” his father says.

“I can forget shit real easy, pop. I just want to be involved,” he waits a breath and quotes a brochure he read in the lobby an hour ago. “I just want to be part of America’s largest family-owned company.”

“Son, I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for years. You meathead, I might just love you yet.”

A few blocks from Winters headquarters, a giant stage was hammered together on a production lot. It’s a replica of an Olde-Tyme Hamburger restaurant, Victorian neon and all. The only difference is a missing fourth wall and the addition of studio seating for a few hundred.

Henry and Timothy Winters/Juan Pandemic haven’t been in the same room since shaking hands several days back at Olde-Tyme Headquarters. Hamler spent most of the morning with Tony, learning to aim a gun and obtaining a last minute concealed weapon license. The bandmates find one another in a dressing room behind the fake restaurant.

Cameras roll in a few minutes.

Hamler isn’t fooled by the new disguise. He recognizes his drummer even with the addition of facial hair. He spots those huge hands and dynamite-blasted teeth under a fresh
Magnum P.I.
mustache.

“Dude, what the?”

Behind a black bushy lip and under a stack of imitation hair, Pandemic’s jaw tenses. “It’s nothing, man.”

The two dance a tight circle around each other like stray alley animals. Pandemic in his getup looks as phony as pudgy Hamler in his fresh off the rack two-piece gray suit.

“Nothing?”

“Just, please, forget it’s me. I’m just some dude. I just want to get all this over with. Besides, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I just landed this temp job, I had no clue I’d get to travel, much less, you know...” Hamler smiles, but is annoyed, having to conceal his real job as a spy. The new take-charge guy buttons up that anger and cracks a jawbreaker between teeth. “Be…your …
bodyguard
.”

“Uh, yeah,” Pandemic says, stretching a rubbery
yeah
.

“Juan, man, what’s going on?”

Henry looks so pitiful Pandemic can’t hold back. “Well, okay, I won the big contest. I’m the guy. I guess you know that, though.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, why did…” he trails off.

“Sorry?”

“What’s up with all this business?” Hamler says, scanning the drummer up and down.

“Everyone does this. Everyone who gets famous.” Pandemic scratches his scalp, the toupee droops to one side. “I don’t want people stalking me and shit. Now that I’m a thousandaire.”

Henry’s face twists into a skeptical mash. “Dude, please. Come on, give me something better than that.”

The cosmonauts, wearing signature blue jumpsuits, are spread in a constellation throughout the room. The beefy ones flirt with young production assistants in broken English. Keith and Sonja, desert-island skinny, watch each other from opposite couches, not speaking. Sour faces saying:
I need an appendectomy, quick.

“Well,” Pandemic says and rubs a hand across his eyes. “Okay, well, you wouldn’t believe me anyhow.”

“Dude, look at us. Look where we are. There is a short list of shit I wouldn’t believe about you right now.”

• Pandemic is a magician.
  

• This is a Candid Camera-type reality show, and Hamler just won a million bucks.
  

• The drummer from Lothario Speedwagon has a skull made of melted silver dollars.
  

• Candy bars give you genital rickets.
  

• Pandemic is the grandson of the guy who invented the electric toothbrush and heir to a hamburger fortune.
  

“Alright, man, but you’ve got to promise to keep this under wraps. I can probably get in trouble or something. I’m trying to play shit cool, and let people know I’m a responsible dude.”

“Responsible dude?”

“Do you want this story or not?”

“Well, I am your bodyguard. I should know everything, wouldn’t you say? For safety’s sake.”

Pandemic nods. “So you know the Winters Hamburger place?”

“The restaurant you won the contest for? The one paying my salary?
Yeah
, I’m familiar.”

Juan Pandemic spreads apart the leaves of the Winters family tree and shows the branches that lead to: “Son of Roland.”

“Get out of here. Bull
shit
, get outta…” Hamler’s fingers tense at odd angles while digesting this. Henry recalls stuffing a cufflink in the governor’s skin. Now Christopher Winters has a whole new identity and his ghost ties a fresh set of guilty weights around Hamler’s neck.

“It’s true. I’m sorry I never told you, but, you know, there’s a lot of stuff that went down between my old man and me. There are about a million reasons why I do what I do.”

“So you’re really going to get a job with your dad after this? You’ll be, like, a hamburger guy?”

“Yeah, totally.”

“I’ve never known one of those before.”

“Me neither. Well, I mean, besides my dad…and my grandpa…and my uncle and some cousins. Aunt Pam, too, I think—”

“Right, gotcha.”

“That’s why I’m trying to play it cool. I know it sounds kind of lame. But I figure I can’t be drummer for crummy bands the rest of my life. This is a chance to do something with myself. It gives me butterflies thinking about it.”

“Are you sure that’s not, you know.”

“Man, I haven’t smoked in forever. I’m serious about this shit. Quit trying to bring me down to your level.”

“That’s really cool. Good for you. I’ve kind of been thinking something similar.”

“Meth? When did you start smoking anything stronger than dicks?”

“Funny.”

“Man, I’m just kidding.”

“I’m talking about bands. I’m too old for a band, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to take charge of my life. Be an adult.”

“You do, I agree.”

Hamler doesn’t know if he should laugh. “I don’t want to be thirty and making shit money and have my hearing go out and smell like mustard. I think
this
,” he waves an arm, “is the life for me. Not exactly cool, either. But it feels safe. I don’t get to feel safe often.”

An older guy in headphones swings the door open and announces curtain is in one minute. Timothy Winters is ushered away by assistant directors and makeup women. Hamler shuffles behind the crowd.