Broken Piano for President

by Patrick Wensink

  “Jesus, you don’t think I,” she stabs a finger into her chest. “Know who you are?” The woman squints and shakes in disbelief.

  What would Gibby do? he thinks and notices for the first time his cheeks are numb.

  “Listen, nothing personal,” one lonely step toward her. “Ehrm, I just don’t remember a lot about last night. I had a little too much to drink.”

  “Think so, huh?” Her eyes roll, watching a dark bird swoop overhead.

  Dean concentrates so hard on remembering this woman’s face his vision whites out.

  Nothing.

  The only time Deshler’s ever embarrassed is when someone recognizes him and he has no clue who they are. The Cliff Drinking style has almost no RECORD button. Rarely more than a sliver is ever recalled about the hours spent between sucking down cocktails and waking up with Broken Piano for President thumping between a headache. According to friends, he is incredibly productive in the Cliff Drinking state. During the last year alone, ten known women were swayed enough to make out, some even further. None of whom Dean remembers. Other times, witnesses claim to have seen Deshler escorting elderly women across the street, competing in spelling bees, winning Monopoly and, once, adopting a three-legged puppy.

  Some sweet perfume, like vanilla, manages to find Deshler’s nose across the icy air. Her smooth shoulders grow studded with goose pimples. “Does the Beef Club ring any bells?” the woman says.

  Hangover bells in Deshler’s ears ring a thousand decibels loud. However, none are connected to a Beef Club.

  “Dod gammit,” she hisses and inspects her feet for a long, long moment. “I’ve gotta get to work soon. Do you want a ride downtown?”

  “Yes, please, that would be fantastic,” he says, hoping that’s the right answer.

  She is speaking into a red cell before he finishes. “Hey, it’s me,” she waits a few seconds. “Yep, okay. Well, can you send someone to pick me up?” She waits another few breaths and makes a dramatic hand sweep. “Yep…well I’m here with the one and only Deshler Dean. Okay, see you then.”

  The cosmonaut swallows hard. Lungs and guts float up his throat. Television only shows astronauts spinning in circles, chomping on floating candies and loose droplets of water up in space. Nobody mentions the zero-gravity phobia of having all those important organs vomited up.

  A few hundred miles above Moscow, he curses in thick Russian chunks. It’s one thing to let millionaire thrill-seekers tag along on missions, he thinks, but this is too much.

  The cosmonaut has dedicated his life to space exploration and practically abandoned a family back on Earth. I am a scientist, he reminds himself, not a short-order cook.

  Knowing he is out of options, the cosmonaut stops and listens to the breathing apparatus hum. It’s calming. Moscow agreed to another get-rich-quick scheme, which he’ll never see a ruble of. But there is no other choice.

  Stepping out of the airlock and into the depressing blackness of outer space, the cosmonaut tows a plump thermal suit—an exact copy of his own. A shiver works up the Russian’s body.

  Ten minutes into the spacewalk, the cosmonaut releases the tether connecting him to the limp suit. It twists and contorts like a bronze medal gymnast. He stares directly into the protective face shield and curses while it swims into orbit. Through the shield he sees the suit is stacked full with freeze dried hamburgers.

  He wishes the suit good riddance and floats back to the station to repair a solar panel.

  A Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger logo is sewn onto the drifting suit’s chest.

  “Insult to freaking injury,” the formerly dead woman says, a wet towel pressed against her forehead. Deshler watches watery blood splash across the cushions of a very expensive car. “The Monte Cristo Burger. That piece of crap is the last thing I want to see today. I’ve said it about a billion times, but seriously, can’t we come up with something better than a deep-fried hamburger? Honestly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Did you know there was an article in the New York Times?”

  Thirty minutes earlier, the car picked Deshler and the woman up on the sidewalk in front of the Bust-A-Gut dome. The driver didn’t say a word. Now only a few miles into their ride, rush hour cars kiss each other’s bumpers along the freeway.

  “The New York F-ing Times,” she sighs. “See,” a smile forms and it startles Dean. “I told you I’d stop swearing.”

  Dean and the woman sit in traffic, studying the billboard that has her so upset. It features a giant crispy lump the size of a refrigerator, sweating grease. It looks like a rumpled paper bag but claims to be a sandwich. There’s a blue and yellow logo at the bottom for Bust-A-Gut Hamburgers. Above this fried fist, it reads: “TRUST YOUR GUT—Catch Monte Cristo Mania!”

  “Um, yes, you’re doing a great job,” Deshler says, happy to be off the subject of bloody wounds. “What exactly are we looking at?”

  Twisting her neck, focusing on the billboard, the woman says, “Yeah, like you don’t know.” She shoots another smile that must have been hell in dental bills. “I have no clue what Findlay is thinking. Whatever the new hush-hush secret is, supposedly, it’s killer. You know?”

  The billboard reminds Dean of the last meal he and his brother enjoyed with their parents so many years ago, the last time he ate Bust-A-Gut. It was a Teriyaki Beef Jerky Burger—the one you were supposed to eat with chopsticks.

  The antique idea of hamburgers in Japanese style fades. His soupy stomach splashes unabsorbed beer. His mouth is as hot and dry as the smell coming from the car’s heat vents. Outside, the sun is higher. Exhaust pipes blow steam.

  “Come again?” he says. He is dizzy and wishes this woman would have stayed unconscious. Running away from that car with a head full of prison anxieties would be a vacation right about now.

  “Clifford Findlay…my boss,” the woman turns and stares. “CEO of Bust-A-Gut, second largest burger joint in this country. Dean, this isn’t funny.”

  Findlay…he thinks about work and anyone he might have met there named Mister Findlay. Have I dented this guy’s fenders?

  “Deshler,” she coos. “You’re starting to hurt my feelings. Maybe you hit your head, too. Have you considered that? Matching concussions.”

  Her sweet voice rumbles his heart to life. That red-hot collection of arteries attempts to mule-kick his ribs. Life, for Deshler Dean, has been one long attempt to push everyone away. But this girl is someone he’d like to reel in.

  “This is the part where you say, sorry, Malinta.”

  Dean’s face goes lost. “Weird name.”

  “Oh, please. I’ve explained this a million times.” The glassy curve of her cheeks and chin tightens, drawing in a thousand wiry lines. Her eyes are sharp, business eyes.

  A million? Deshler wonders if it’s possible to meet anyone a million times. Have I met Malinta a million times? Have we kissed? Have we had sex?

  He admires her thin legs and green eyes and realizes the answer is “probably not.” That overworked heart thumps double-time. Even with the open wound, she’s a thousand times prettier than any other woman who has woken up in his bed.

  “My name’s Melinda. Malinta is a nickname. My little brother couldn’t pronounce it as a kid. Sound…” she counts to five and takes a breath, “familiar?”

  Screws tighten inside Dean’s brain. If you want to get through this, you’ve got to pull it together. You’ve got to be resourceful. Then the answer races down nerve endings like electricity. You’ve got to start lying.

  “Oh!” blasts open the silence. “God, yes! Wow, I can’t believe I said that. I’m so hungover. I’m sorry, jeez.”

  The tight muscles in Malinta’s face soften and that faint, flirty smile returns. A few bricks of confidence stack within Dean’s chest, realizing he might be onto something with this lying routine.

  “I had way too much to drink last night,” he says with sorry eyes. “Plus, I think I might have done some drugs.” He’s pretty sure he didn’t, but whatever.

  �
��Deshler, we were gonna score together,” she says. “Were you holding out on me?”

  “No, no, somebody just gave me some at the bar last night.” He trips on the words. “Some coke, I think.”

  “You think you did coke last night. Well, that explains why we drove all over town looking for more.” The early sun hits her blonde strands and glows translucent. “I think.”

  “Yep,” he says, leatherlipped, realizing he’s balancing on a line as thin as that imaginary cocaine rail. “Sure does.”

  Malinta rolls her eyes once more, but stops midway through, caressing the window with her cheek. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. God, what a great campaign. What genius.” This is a sultry voice Dean wants more of. “I was serious back when I said I should send them my resume.”

  A billboard for Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers features a floating spacesuit. “SPACE BURGER has Landed!” it says. Its moon is actually a beef patty.

  Malinta whips the towel off the bloody gash and saddles a hand on Deshler’s knee. The hair around her wound is pink from water. “Now that is a campaign. Monte Cristo is just slapping a band-aid on a broken arm. But Space Burgers, that’s, that’s…” Her lower lip gets clamped by white teeth and her eyes close. “That’s legendary. I hope we can do something legendary.”

  The driver doesn’t seem to notice any of this happening. He crosses the bridge into downtown, swerving through lanes. Trees are planted along the sidewalks, but they are young and weak. The city will probably cut them down when their roots grow too large. All around are squat brick buildings, but two glass and steel skyscrapers tower much higher than the rest.

  Malinta slides her hand further up Dean’s leg. A numb excitement blazes along his body. His eyes droop. “What,” Deshler says, “is a Space Burger?”

  “Very funny.” Malinta yanks the hand back into her lap.

  He’s suddenly lonely. Empty.

  Little speechless huffs and puffs slip out like she can’t understand what she just heard. “You know,” Malinta says, slowly, inspecting her towel’s strawberry stain. “You have a greater chance of being killed by a falling coconut than a shark attack?”

  He waits, about to tell the driver to just pull over. Running away sounds reasonable once again. “Okay.”

  “I’ve done some research. One hundred twenty people die each year from falling coconuts. Your odds of eating it are three hundred million-to-one. Those suckers drop like bowling balls.”

  Deshler pops knuckles. The limo pulls in front of a skyscraper with a huge blue and yellow awning: “Bust-A-Gut World Headquarters.”

  “But only about forty people a year are killed by sharks. Those are like, six hundred fifty million-to-one odds.”

  “Why do you research this?” He scoots away, intimidated by the focus in her eyes.

  “Point is, I don’t know what the odds of dying from having your head up your ass are,” she says, flipping hair, trying to hide the wound. “But I think you’ll show us all.” She opens the door and eases out. “I have to work. Bye.”

  “Dude, don’t forget we have practice tonight,” Henry says as Deshler struggles through the door. A slice of cold wedges in behind him.

  Dean looks down at his jeans, splattered red from Malinta’s towel. He needs to change, fast. “I’m fine, really,” Deshler rumbles. “Don’t ask how I am or anything.” The greeting reminds Dean how little respect his bandmates pay. Jerks.

  “Dean, if I got worried every time you magically disappeared from a bar,” Henry blows smoke through his nose, lying on the couch. “And wander back home at noon, I’d have an ulcer.”

  “Nothing says, ‘I care,’ like an ulcer.”

  “Please,” Henry laughs. Dean notices an ant hill of white dust on the coffee table. A snowdrift, really. “You’re a big boy. Not much of one, but you are, technically, an adult.”

  Dean tiptoes around the room’s few open gaps. Their apartment is so tight Deshler regularly gets leg cramps. Each room is so rotten with beer stains and old newspapers that Hamler’s allergies fight constant wars. They’ve shared this place for over a year, but neither has bothered to decorate much beyond plugging in the television.

  “Well, I care. See,” Dean says, feet kicking away microwave dinner boxes. “I got you your favorite.” He tosses a candy bar.

  Inspecting the bright wrapper, Henry perks: “Awesome. You’re not such an abortion after all.” His voice lacks its usual enthusiasm for comparing Dean to terminated pregnancies. Henry’s mind seems to be chewing on bigger things.

  Dean knows he should ask what’s up, but doesn’t. Henry is one of maybe two people Dean hasn’t pushed completely away. Friendly little moments like this only exist with his best friend. Dean knows he’s lucky because of that, but would never admit to the fact.

  “You’re a real sweetheart. Why so dressed up?” Deshler yells from his bedroom. He digs through a clothes pile for his uniform. The bedroom isn’t much larger than the living room. It’s stacked to the knees with clothes and records and empties. Some days it’s more like a birdcage with ashtrays.

  Henry watches his belly stretch the dress shirt buttons, teeth ripping through chocolate and nougat. He notices a dribble of Christopher Winters on the breast pocket. Just a splash where syringe and neck became one. “Job interview,” Henry mumbles, massaging stomach muscles that have been cramping since removing the cufflink from the old man’s flesh.

  “Didn’t go well, huh?” Deshler says, walking out in wrinkled black pants and a red crested white blazer. Hair designed by Tornado Alley.

  “Eh, who can tell?”

  “You’ll land one, don’t sweat it. You’re a smart guy. It’ll happen.”

  “I don’t know if I even want what I’m going after.” Henry lights up another cigarette and dips a finger through the powder. He sticks it in his mouth, closes eyes and melts back into the couch with ecstasy.

  “Dude,” Deshler says, slipping on a tie.

  “Drop it.”

  “Are you eating sugar?”

  “Lay off. I just needed something sweet, you know?”

  “Beyond that candy bar you just wolfed down?” Dean regrets saying that, judging by his roommate’s eyes.

  “Eat shit.”

  “Don’t start snorting it or anything.”

  “It helps me relax.” He frowns. “I need this stuff.” Hamler rolls over. A ghost of cigarette smoke hovers above his body like Christopher Winters haunting him.

  “Okay. So, practice tonight. Seven?” Dean wildly checks pockets for keys until he spots them on the coffee table.

  “No, man, nine-thirty, same time we always rehearse,” Hamler says, questioning Deshler’s dedication to the band. “Don’t miss it. Pandemic was pissed last time.”

  “Right, right, right, sorry, man. I’ll be there. I gotta run to work.” He twirls the keys through the air in a jangly cartwheel. “Apparently rich assholes still can’t park their own cars. Take it easy.”

  “Nine-thirty. We’ve actually got a gig this week!”

  The door slams and Henry listens to the cigarette burn away in the silence. His stomach is a bucket of snakes. He is always sick with guilt after a job. Why do I get stuck with all the dirty work?

  These greasy heaves are different than the ones after breaking no-name executives’ fingers and extorting trouble-making branch managers. There’s a powerful urge to apologize.

  Henry feels like Lee Harvey Oswald. He has destroyed an icon.

  Leaving the estate in their fake news van, that kick of sickness worked up Hamler’s chest. “Henry,” Tony said, patting his protégé’s shoulder. “You did an awesome job. You’re getting so good at this. I think soon you’ll be ready to go out on your own. We really trust you. You’re the best junior agent Olde-Tyme Hamburgers has.”

  “Tony,” Hamler’s face faded into gray. “I don’t know if this is for me. I feel like shit. Do you know who that guy is?”

  “Was, do I know who he was. The answer is yes, of course I di
d. But today he was just another job, all that terrible horseshit he’d done before, you heard him. Concentration camps like summer camps. Gross. The boss is right, Christopher Winters was a loose cannon. He was a security threat.”

  “I can’t think like that.”

  “You will.”

  Hamler loses focus when the neighbors start having sex. The thin apartment walls thump and crackle. It makes Henry’s stomach flip completely over, calculating the months since he last slept with anyone. I need to get out of here. Go buy some new strings.

  Slipping on shoes, he reconsiders. God, our band is stupid. I don’t want to practice tonight.

  The guilt from the Christopher Winters job embroiders his every thought. For a second, Henry considers jumping through the apartment window and breaking his neck. He dreams about taking off his other cufflink and stabbing himself. He thinks about going to the store for more candy.

  He chooses candy.

  Dean stands in front of a hotel forty hours a week.

  The hotel is a tall cube of white brick. Carved beasties spout water from the rooftop during storms. When politicians or Hollywood stars swing through town, they stay here. Both hamburger companies treat foreign dignitaries in its mosaic of meeting halls. Dean parks all their cars.

  “Come on, just answer the question. Which way would you want to die?” Dean says.

  “Can you really die from a falling coconut?” Napoleon asks.

  Standing straight on his little legs, Napoleon’s a sawed-off shotgun in a white dinner jacket. A block of mushy flesh and tattoos hidden underneath. He’s worked this shift several years longer than Dean. It was the first job he took after deciding high school was a dead end.

  “Yeah, man. Those bastards are heavy, all that coconut milk. I heard they fall at something like two hundred miles an hour. That’d crush your skull, buddy.” Dean rubs Napoleon’s buzzcut.