Broken Piano for President (27 page)

The show opens inside the fake restaurant with the Moscow Five chit-chatting about the dramatic changes in their life since coming to America. Dimitri—captain and interpreter—answers rehearsed questions.

Yes, they still eat hamburgers once a day.

Oh, he’s not one to say, but yes, American girls are much prettier than Russian ones. No offense, Sonja.

No, none of them are married.

They love outer space for different reasons, but feel it is their duty to help all of mankind with their work.

Yes, their parents are very proud back in the Mother Country.

There’s a one minute commercial break, which includes a Bust-A-Gut spot honoring Christopher Winters, followed by another thirty-second spot on the same topic from Winters Olde-Tyme.

The show returns. “If not for our next guest, ladies and gentlemen,” our wax dummy anchor says. “These five cosmonauts would still be in space. Starving, lonely, cold, drinking their urine.”

Chatter buzzes among the crowd.

“Moscow Five, are you ready to meet,” our anchor says, spreading a smile across the audience like jam on toast. “The American hero who saved your lives?”

On cue, the five space travelers nod their heads in rehearsed awe, as if Gandhi were fixing his sarong on the other side of the door.

Our host’s question, “What do you say, ladies and gentlemen?” is met with a roar. “Here he is, the Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers Space Burger Contest winner, Mister Juan Pandemic.”

Pandemic trips over his feet under the brutally hot stage lights. The final ten minutes are spent discussing different reasons why the man with a bad haircut and worse mustache loves America and hamburgers. The climax comes when he says he hopes the Russians will take their second opportunity at life as a blessing.

Backstage, Delia mumbles, “Damn it.”

In rehearsal, Pandemic was ordered by the tour manager to say, “Blessing from God,” at this point in the interview. Marketing finds Winters burgers are not selling well in the southern United States. Religion, however, flies off the shelf in Dixie. So, Olde-Tyme Marketing assumes, tying a God-fearing Christian hero to their chain will bolster market share.

During the interview, Henry stands stage left with Delia and her lonely arm. She checks a watch and flips through script pages. Henry peeks under his jacket every few minutes to make sure his gun hasn’t sprouted wings and flown away. It tugs heavy on his shoulder, it carries with it a dangerous sort of tingle—a gravity of purpose. He plugs two fingers into the opposite jacket pocket occasionally and slips a few Milk Duds behind his teeth. It slows that hammering chest and settles his vision.

The two don’t talk. Besides the time Juan failed to give the thumbs up to God, Delia’s lips are silent the entire program.

During the final minutes, Pandemic is presented with a cardboard check as tall as a basketball hoop for $460,000. The astronauts hug him, the music plays, the crowd claps, and they invent smiling small talk during the credits.

Spotlights go cold and the group walks offstage.

The cramped hallway is a jungle gym of old props and extra lighting equipment. Pandemic struggles to carry the check. In an open space where the backstage area shatters into a thousand dim alleys, two teenage girls with faces painted green and gray begin squealing. The knobby one with braces has a t-shirt that says,
SPACE
. The other girl, plump and pimply, wears a shirt that reads,
BURGERS
.

“Oh my God,” they scream, parting a sea of angry cosmonauts like some guy in the Bible. “Juan, Juan! We love you, Juan.”

Pandemic jerks backward and nearly falls out of the toupee. He holds the check over his head with two hands like a spear.

“I want your baby, Juan,” the one with braces snarls, shoving Keith to the ground. “Get me pregnant!”

Henry jumps from behind the contest winner and clotheslines both girls before their greasy fingers touch Pandemic.

Flat on their backs, the young ladies take a communal gasp and stare at the babyfat bodyguard. “I’m sorry girls,” Henry rehearses the words Tony fed him earlier. There’s a growl in his voice—the kind Henry imagines a take-charge man would have. “Being an American Hero is quite exhausting. Mister Pandemic would love to impregnate both of you, but is terribly tired.” His new suit jacket flaps open as neurons plunge hot rivets into his brain.
Holy cow, I just stopped two psychopaths
, he thinks.

Henry’s exposed jacket provides a top-notch view of that gun from the girls’ angle. The Pandemic fans scramble, say sorry, and run down the hall.

This is what I was born to do
.
Nothing’s felt this dead-on since
…Henry thinks of making out with Martin at that bar, but quickly extinguishes the urge.

“Wow, Henry,” Pandemic says. “You’re the best bodyguard ever. You totally smashed those chicks. And they were ugly. Good eye. I will only be impregnating the cute ones!”

Keith watches the girls scurry off, sitting on his ass. His face is a bonfire. He rattles off a clipped Russian burst directed at the Pandemic fanatics. The cosmonaut lifts up and punches the cardboard check, splitting it in two novelty chunks. The angry spaceman starts sprinting after them.

“No, no, no,” Hamler says, grabbing Keith by the shoulders as the skin and bones cosmonaut flies past. He breathes into the space adventurer’s face and speaks slowly, lumbering through the Cyrillic alphabet. (Keith,) he says in Russian with a thick American accent. (Relax, those stupid horses have now moved.)

Hamler’s mangled Russian delivers Keith a smile. He holds a hand up to say truce. The spaceman’s face drops back into seriousness and grapples Henry Hamler’s arm. (I did not know you spoke the mother tongue,) Keith says in the mother tongue.

“Dude,” Pandemic says, fixing his fake mustache. “When did you pick that up?”

“I told you, man, I needed a minor in college.”

Keith yanks Henry close, the sweaty heat of anger steams through his jumpsuit collar. The spaceman says, (We will be good friends soon. There is a need for men like you.)

“Best bodyguard ever.” Pandemic smiles and slaps Henry’s back.

Commercials roll after the Cosmonaut show. Two spots declare Monday night the new Thursday night. These comedies are wholesome enough for families, but raunchy enough for fraternity brothers. Here’s what
TV Guide
has to say…

One car ad boasts a bigger gas tank and the same square footage as a motel room. The next claims to be the only automobile J.D. Power and Associates rated as “Indestructible.”

It’s ten and America’s favorite news source begins. “Tonight on
Nightbeat
Live,” our female announcer says. “Is your mechanic ripping you off? Benjamin Lambers goes undercover to find the hidden truth beneath your hood.” Televisions across the country feature men in grease-smeared overalls shielding faces from the camera. “And later…a cannibal in the White House? We may be closer than you think.” A shot of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue flies in. “But first,” the woman’s voice lowers dramatically. “Are your hamburgers really safe?
Could
America’s passion for fast food have a connection to its mysterious rise in obesity? Find out next on,” synthesized newsy music swoops in, “
Nightbeat
…
Live
.”

More commercials—brown soda, sitcoms, extreme green soda, prescription anxiety drugs.

“Welcome back,” the voice from the opening says. It’s attached to a light-skinned black woman with short hair named Sharon Smalley. Her blazer is red, her glasses are tortoiseshell. “It’s no secret Americans are gaining weight,” she looks into the camera. A graphic appears over her shoulder. It reads, “
Death Burger?”
in bloody scrawl that compliments her suit. “But who’s to blame? Some say it’s fewer physical activities due to technology. Some say it’s simply genetics. But recently there has been some discussion in the medical community claiming our waistlines are directly tied to fast food consumption.
Nightbeat
’s Leah Pullem takes a closer look.”

A silent fade to black washes over the screen. “Studies say your chances of dying from a falling coconut are greater than a shark attack,” an over-rehearsed, less professional voice says during split images of palm trees and great whites. “Almost six times greater. Find that hard to swallow? Well, your chances of dropping off a ladder and breaking your neck are higher than dying in a terrorist attack, too.”

The camera shifts to a short female reporter with spunky reddish-brown hair in front of a Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers. “However, hardest to swallow are your chances of dying from heart failure. Studies suggest one in every two-and-a-half Americans die from coronary disease. Of that group, over half of those heart sufferers dine here.” The camera pans to include the familiar green and gray Winters sign in front of a Victorian drive-through window.

Leah cuts to the artery of this problem. Studies reveal a single Space Burger, while only one-eighth the weight of a bacon double cheeseburger, contains nearly four times the daily fat and calories required by a human body. The list of preservatives sounds like a Swahili lesson.

She asks unsuspecting customers if they are aware of these statistics. An elderly woman is shocked and asks if they make a Salad Burger. A skate punk says, good, he wants to die young anyhow, and orders two more. A young mother and father drop their jaws, pluck space-age beef from their children’s thick fingers and toss the discs in the trash.

Leah speaks with one Winters employee who wishes to remain anonymous: “Sure, we know,” he says. “But Leah, it’s not what we
know
or what we
think
. It’s what our damn customers want.” The camera shows the man, but blacks out his eyes. The viewer can plainly see gap teeth and a fresh scar on his chin the shape of a seven. The man slurs words and frequently stops to hiccup. “People
want
more meat. They
want
cheese. They want their bacon strips batter dipped and fried in shortening. Jesus, don’t be an asshole, it’s supply and demand.” In the dim light the man slugs back a can of beer and burps.

Stock footage rolls as he finishes speaking: assembly lines of Winters employees slap together freeze dried ingredients so fast their foreheads sweat.

“No, no I don’t think Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers is directly tied to the obesity crisis, that’s
horseshit,
” the man’s voice grinds deep: Fat Albert impersonating a semi-truck. “People can easily choose not to have a tender all-beef patty with natural Wisconsin cheddar for dinner. But they do. Are you calling our customers stupid?”

Leah shuffles some papers and clears her throat. She asks if the mystery informant has any final statements.

The man drunkenly smears his words. “Well, Lisa, clear your calendars and your colons because it’s not Olde-Tyme Hamburgers’ fault America has great taste. And we’re here to stay.” He concludes by flashing a wide smile, his teeth a seven-ten split. The man’s head wobbles and he pops open one last hiccup before the scene cuts out.

“But what can be done to stop this madness?” says our anchorwoman back in the studio.

Leah sits behind the desk now, too. “Well, Sharon, when we return I’ll speak to a gentleman who says the hamburger is the Hitler of our generation. He also says Christopher Winters won’t come close to capturing this ruthless dictator. I sat down one-on-one to learn how this man plans to wage a D-Day of his own.”

More commercials: Import beer. Fast cars. Funny sitcoms. Nightly news preview. Slacks sale. Anxiety drugs. And, oddly, hamburgers.

“People,” the show returns with a sunshine voice. He is a short dark-skinned gentleman behind a podium. He addresses a yawning crowd, crossing vocal styles between congressional filibuster and Muppet. “We need to fight these oppressors. We are shackled by Big Beef and its propaganda.” The man wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. His eyes bulge into a pair of globes. “This is the first day of the rest of your lives. Folks are addicted to everything from cigarettes, to shopping, to sex…even food. It’s not just drugs, ladies and gentlemen. Food addiction is
real
. And it is
really
killing us. Health Watch International is really going to put a stop to it.”