Burger Wuss (7 page)

Now I stood there, looking at the empty spot, C-24, where we had spread out our good basket of things. I thought about her. There were some jokes which she made and which I made that other people just wouldn’t get. I thought about Turner. He really wouldn’t get a Fume Picnic. I could see him thinking it was dumb and sissy.
What the —?!? Oh, cute. Real cute.
His head was made of meat.

I started my walk again. I picked up my pace, thinking about his head and its stupid, unfeeling, pockmarked steak. It was the kind of meat you wanted to hit. Your fist would make a nice smack. I couldn’t see how he kept
thoughts in meat. Only one at a time. One thought, wrapped in meat and strapped in with twine, like a roast. A chuckhead grinning above a jacket of green sateen.

Her kissing him. I saw it. She wanted to kiss that meaty face. That sneer. Sticking out his tongue. She had the tongue in her mouth like bad sirloin. She wanted that. I don’t know why. I asked myself:

Why?

But I didn’t know the answer. I was pacing faster and faster, up and down the spiral parking lot.

I was telling myself about my master plan. I was thinking about how it would be genius. It was so genius it was maybe even capitalized (Master Plan). I was thinking about every detail. The first stage — the kidnapping with Shunt — me, disguised ingeniously, providing the diversion while Shunt would do the deed. The second stage, waiting, sending letters through the U.S. mail. The third stage, the final revenge when Kermit O’Dermott came to town. Turner wouldn’t know what hit him. No clue who’d pulled the stunt. Even Shunt wouldn’t know the extent of the thing. If he knew it all was for revenge, he wouldn’t help. He had to think my motive was hatred for the corporation. That way he’d help. I’d leave no spoor. This was the mastery of the Plan: Even Turner himself would never know it was me. No one could ever trace it all. I would make him cry.

I will make you cry.
I thought about him getting pouty. I
thought about his chin wrinkling. His mean eyes blinking. And tears.

“I will make you cry!” I roared. My laughter echoed through the empty car park as if in a tomb. It echoed better when I tried nearer to the central air shaft. I experimented with some guffaws facing away from the air shaft. I moved about ten feet to the right and chortled. I took a few steps back. I cackled.

After some trial and error I decided that to sound really maniacal, I had to laugh at about knee level, five feet away from the central air shaft. That was fine, except that the evil rarely hunker.

I got on my knees. I stretched out my arms. I said, “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” I cleared my throat. Sometimes I get this phlegm.

Then I had great peals of laughter.
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Yes, yes, Mr. Turner, I shall make you cry! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
Four frightened finches shot up the air shaft.
“I SHALL MAKE YOU CRY!”

I could have used some lightning.

For hours before stage one, I worked on my disguise. It was impenetrable. I did not let my parents know what I was doing. I asked them if I could borrow the car. They said yes. When I had on my makeup and my special clothes, I sat patiently in my room. I sat on a chair in the middle of the floor. They walked from one end of the house to the other. They were calling to each
other in different rooms. I waited until they were both in the kitchen.

Then I darted down the stairs and out the front door. “Bye Mom! Bye Dad!” I yelled.

“Have a good evening, honey!” I heard them call. “Say ‘hi!’ to Diana for us!”

I was not, of course, going to see Diana. That was just a clever ruse.

I ducked so the neighbors wouldn’t notice me. In my costume, they wouldn’t recognize me. They would think I was somebody stealing the car. My costume was very complete. When you are going to get some revenge, you must be a master of disguise.

I started up the car and backed it out of the driveway. It was still early evening. It wasn’t yet completely dark. The sky was still strange colors over the Mastersons’ jungle gym and TV dish.

I drove to pick up Shunt. I was hunched in my seat. I didn’t want my wig to get static by brushing the ceiling. Small details are an important part of any sting operation.

I made my way toward the center of town. I slit my eyes and watched carefully. No one around me appeared to suspect anything. I was right on schedule.

Shunt lived in the bushes next to the QuickBank automated teller. I pulled up and honked the horn. He came out of the bushes, looking suspicious and professional. Something about him and his anger made me realize how protected I had been. He opened the door and slipped inside the car.

“Nice costume,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

He pulled the seat belt on with several sharp jerks. I looked around at the QuickBank kiosk. I said, “Shunt, ah . . . this really where you live?”

He nodded, evening reflecting on his shaved head. “Yup,” he said.

Trying to be polite and conversational, I said, “Do you, um, have an account here or something?”

He gave me a funny look. “No. Parents kicked me out of the house. Couldn’t stand the no hair and the being weird.” He looked at his hands. He felt his knuckles.

“Man,” I said, feeling sorry for him. “You okay out here?”

“Sure,” he said. “Ma and Pa Butthole just slowed me down anyway. This a good place to crash.”

“Great.”

“It’s convenient to a produce stand. There’s a Port-a-Potty over there where I can take a dump. Hey, someone’s old subscription to
Road & Track
comes monthly.”

“I didn’t mean to sound like you don’t have a nice place here. Like that the bushes aren’t nice or anything. They’re really great bushes.”

“Juniper,” he said with some pride. “They’re actually shaped professionally.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Berries poisonous?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately. But no one promised me a rose garden.”

“Man, Shunt . . .”

“That was a joke, pal. The rose garden.” Shunt threw
both his arms backward over the seat. He strained and cracked his back. He grunted and pulled his arms back around. Then he said, “So what’s the checklist for stuff to do before the operation?”

“We have an hour before strike time.”

“We’ve got to cover the license plate.”

“Right. I have some black construction paper in the back.”

“Perfect. You’re a real professional.” I was proud he said that. Shunt had a hard streak that made you want him to take you seriously.

I said, “This is going to be easy as pie.”

“Won’t know what hit them.”

“I’ll provide the diversion while you grab the victim,” I said.

He nodded. “This is going to be ace.”

“We rule.”

“High-five for solidarity.” We gave each other a high-five.

He looked at me from head to foot. He was taking in the costume. He nodded with satisfaction. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “I admire your strength.”

Strength.
Now we were talking.
My strength.
I was excited about the operation. This was adventure. Here we were, lurking in a parking lot, about to drive off and do things illegal and tricky. This was Living. Just thinking of it, the way I’d make Turner cry when everything came together, I felt a grim strength bubbling inside me, felt like I should be throwing back my head and roaring with laughter to show the full brilliance of my Plan. No more wimp. No more wussy.

Shunt said with admiration, “It’s not everyone who would dress up as a female clown for the cause.”

I laughed and the bells on my collar tinkled. “Yes, it’s a masterstroke, isn’t it? It will be perfect for the diversion. I’ve been practicing my contortionist act. We are masterful. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”

He scratched his lower lip. “So why a
female
clown in particular?”

“Ah! Ah ha!” I said. I held up a finger. “Because there aren’t too many contortionists in town. I don’t want to be spotted.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you. You go that extra mile.”

“What about you? You were supposed to be wearing black pants.”

“Oh,” he said. “I have to get them. They’re in my closet.”

I squinted into the darkening bushes. “Where’s your closet?” I asked.

He nodded his head over to the left. “Over in the Appledale development, five-sixteen Granny Smith Street. Can we swing by?”

“No prob,” I said. I pulled out of the QuickBank parking lot.

It took us about ten minutes to get to Appledale. There was a big sign with a happy worm. I was saying, “I called ahead to the place to confirm our timing. I pretended to be someone invited.”

“Genius, man. You’re wasted on little gigs like this.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Not at all.” I glowed.

We turned onto Granny Smith Street. I was excited,
nervous. I tapped the steering wheel in rhythm. Shunt picked up the beat and did some syncopations with his cheeks and breath.

We drove past his parents’ house once slowly. There weren’t any cars in the driveway.

“Go around the block,” he said. “There’s a culvert around back.”

We drove to the back. We cased Golden Delicious Avenue. We could see the house through a few trees.

“Park here?” I said.

“Yeah. Turn your lights off.”

We got out of the car and I locked it. It was dark now. We could hear a little stream running through the strip of woods behind the houses. We made our way down the back. I tripped several times. My shoes were big.

We hopped across the brook. No lights were on in the house. There was a little lawn with a dark wooden fence on either side.

Shunt and I made our way up the bank of the culvert and came out on the lawn. “Okay,” said Shunt. “It’ll just take me a minute to go in and get the pants. I’ll be right out.”

He crept toward his house, keeping close to the fence. He ducked low. His heavy black boots squished on the wet grass. A bug light popped and zapped. He had already made it most of the way to the house.

Suddenly, there was barking. A dark shape hurtled toward him.

“Shunt!” I hissed.

It was a dog — a mean-looking dog, a brown and
black dog. The kind of dog that looks like it has teeth that once they’re shut don’t come open. “Shunt!”

I only had time to call out his name twice. Then it was on top of him. Shunt toppled. I rushed forward. The dog was all over him.

Licking and hopping.

“Hey, Bakunin,” said Shunt, knocking the dog on the side of the head. “How are you, boy? How’s my widdle doggy-boy? How is dat widdle boy?” Shunt chucked the dog’s chin. He ruffled its nape. “I miss you, boy.”

He got to his feet and waved at me. The dog slammed its front legs into him. He whacked it. It grinned.

As it turned out, I had to give him a hand up to his window.

“You might want to take off those gloves,” he said. “They’ll get all dirty.”

I took them off and rolled them up. I shoved them in my pocket. I lifted him up to the window. He jimmied it. With his palm, he knocked it back and forth. Finally it slid to the side. Bakunin was jumping on my legs.

“Down, Baku,” Shunt hissed from above. “Down, boy.”

“He’s going to wreck my polka-dot dungarees.”

“I said
down.
” The dog stopped jumping. It looked confused. “You,” he hissed, pointing at the dog, “are a damn good boy.” The dog let its tongue fall out. Shunt grabbed the window frame. He heaved himself upward. His boot treads left red geometry on my palms.

He was inside. The dog stared at me. I pretended to ignore it. I fixed my grapefruit breasts. They had gotten skewed.

“Okay,” said Shunt from up above. “I’ve changed into the black.”

“You ready to come back down?” I said.

“One thing,” he said. “Can I just brush my teeth? I haven’t for like weeks. They’re getting kind of mossy.”

“Hurry up,” I said. “We don’t want to blow the operation.”

“Excuse me,” he said. “No anarchist needs to take lip from Bozella the Clownette.” He disappeared back into the window.

A few minutes later, we were taping black construction paper over the license plate. At first, the tape wouldn’t hold. Shunt used his shirt to smear the dirt and grease off. Then the tape stuck fine.

We pulled onto Golden Delicious and headed out of the development. We were going to Burger Queen.

BQ was on the edge of town. It was a place where several roads came together. We drove in that direction.

We were whipping through the suburbs. We passed the new strip mall. I was thinking about revenge. I was congratulating myself on taking action.

“You don’t know how right it is to help the cause,” said Shunt.

“Oh yes I do.” He didn’t know the half of it.

“These companies are monsters. You line up all the O’Dermott’s hamburgers that have been sold? Circle the earth thirty-five and a half times.”

“Wow,” I said absently. I was thinking about the jacket of green sateen. And revenge.

“You don’t know how their suppliers treat their animals. Pigs, chickens, cows: They live in pens too small for them to move. They’re often conscious when they’re slaughtered.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s awful,” I said, thinking about Turner and his vicious grin.

“Just one of O’Dermott’s meat suppliers takes up to three hundred chicks a day that don’t make the grade. Gasses them to death.” He stared at me and said, “Carbon dioxide in a box.”

“Those bastards,” I said, making a left turn. I hoped he’d shut up. I could have used a minute of silence to focus.

On he blabbed. “All of them, they’re all clear-cutting forests and jungles, kicking out native peoples.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “They have a policy against that.”

“Hello,” he said, knocking on my head. “They’re lying. It’s a lie. It’s been proven in court. They’re buying meat from Costa Rica and Brazil. They’re trying to change the eating habits of developing nations. They’re producing one million tons of waste packaging a year, each chain. It’s thrown away after approximately five minutes of use.”

“Yeah, Shunt? Could we concentrate?”

“Meaning? You mean what?” He was a little angry. “This is concentrating. This is who we’re up against.”