“I swear, man, you are totally out of it. Do you know what year it is, who the president is?” Pandemic says.
“Cute,” Dean says.
“What did they teach you in orphan school?”
“I went to regular school,” Dean gets red. “Quit being a dick and tell me what’s up.”
“Okay, Oliver Twist. There is a spacesuit floating around in orbit. If you have the right burger wrapper number sequence, you can control the jetpack from Earth.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Duh, so you can feed the starving cosmonauts with all the hamburgers in the suit and become famous,” Pandemic says.
“And win four hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” Henry adds.
Pandemic says, “Yeah, I forgot.” He tugs hamburger wrappers from deep inside his sweatpants and smoothes them out. Each has a sticker with a different bar code. “It’s a real life video game. This is pretty much the most important thing in the world. Don’t blow it for me.”
“The further the suit floats away from the space station, the harder it gets to guide it back, obviously,” Hamler says.
“Big deal. What if nobody does?”
“That’s totally unlikely,” Pandemic says. “There are four hundred and sixty thousand winning numbers. You can enter your number at any time to control the suit, but anyone else with numbers can override you and steal the controls. The last person in command when the suit floats home is the winner. The whole country is a team. Get some patriotism, asshole.”
“Isn’t that kind of like Cannonball Run?” Deshler says.
“No,” Pandemic sounds blunt and mean. “Plus, the cosmonauts don’t have any other food. Not even freeze dried ice cream. Their lives are in our hands. So, stop being a total douche, and give a shit about all this.”
“So…what? Practice is over because of a hamburger?”
“Sorry, man. I guess I’ll have to save somebody’s life instead. I feel real bad about it.”
“Welcome back to Cosmonaut Watch,” our anchorman says, raising his voice, slowing his English to a crawl. “Dimitri…how-do-you-feel-up-there?” His jaw and hair are carved from the same rock.
The picture quality is bleak, hazed.
The screen fills with a floating head, covered in a scrubby beard and lonely eyes. “We are now fine, has only been one day,” the man says with a Moscow diplomat’s tongue. “The Russian Space Program has trained us to sustain such tragedies.”
“Do-you-miss-eating?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do-you-miss-gravity?”
“Not too much, no.”
“How-long-can-you-and-your-fellow-cosmonauts-survive…”
The picture dissolves into black and white fuzz.
“Dimitri, hello?” The camera flashes from the scramble back to our anchor. “I apologize for the technical difficulties. I’m told we are having some satellite issues.”
“We are needing the America’s help,” the dark Russian accent says behind a wall of television quicksand, eloquent enough for a cocktail party. “It is up to you to eat hamburgers and save our lives. We cannot survive much longer.”
“Thank you, Dimitri. Godspeed,” our anchor says. “Chilling, truly chilling. Let’s take a look at the suit on the monitor, can we, Hank?”
The screen fills with a globe orbited by a cartoon space station. The animated suit floats further away. It has traveled one hundred miles and gives a countdown until the suit enters the atmosphere and burns up, essentially starving five Russian astronauts to death.
America has six days and fourteen hours to guide the suit back to the station.
A few sassy notes of Broken Piano crush through the Cliff Drinker’s ears. All is good until a Night Train headache jabs knitting needles where a brain used to be.
“C’mon, wonder boy,” some acidic voice calls. “We’re almost home.”
Deshler’s vision flickers. His bloodstream is still around fifteen percent booze. An opportunistic vampire would call Dean a cocktail party.
He smells leather or new car from a can. His body bounces, which is not a friend to headaches.
“You busted your ass tonight, kid. Just get some rest,” the voice snorts. “In your own bed, you know?”
Deshler sits up from a pretzel curl. Periodically his vision wipes the fog from its window. That confused look returns like it was tattooed across his face—mouth hanging open deep. Deshler is fifty percent sure this is a limo. The other fifty percent says it’s a hearse.
“Sorry, I must have dozed off,” he growls like someone is standing on his throat.
“Dozed my eye,” the man says. He’s at the opposite end with his back to the driver. An orange glow kisses the roof from dim lights, though not enough to lift the veil of darkness around the man’s face. He wears a black brimmed hat. “This song and dance is getting real old, young mister Dean.”
The mystery friend trend twists Deshler’s patience into stiff knots. Gibby, Dean decides, would play along. “Is this…is this a real limo?”
“Yep.”
Words slip from Dean’s mouth like they’re skating down soapy hallways—he can’t control them. “And I’m guessing we didn’t just get married.”
“It’s the boss’s limo, big shot,” he says, as if Deshler should know already. “I’m taking your ass home.”
“What time is it?” Dean hates asking that question. It’s always later than it should be. He—without fail—blacks out more hours than previously thought possible.
“Who knows? Wristwatches are for assholes. Sun’s not up yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His snorty words trip into a laugh. “Let me guess, you have to get to that stupid valet job.”
Deshler’s vision comes into full clarity. “So if this isn’t our honeymoon, what’ve we been doing?”
That voice turns red and sharp: “You drunk bag of shit, you’re a piece of work you know that?” A chasm of silence holds. “Burning the midnight oil on the new campaign, maybe? I swear, some nights you don’t know when to stop drinking and start thinking.”
Deshler’s clarity floats away like a sneeze. He manages to mumble, “Sounds like we’re old pals,” before a wave of cheap wine swallows all clarity.
“You’re a real case study, Dean.”
Deshler’s eyes don’t crack apart until the thin stranger drags him from the limo. As the Night Train swims away, Dean recognizes the red brick of home.
“If you weren’t the best I’ve seen since,” the man laughs. His long gray hair scrapes his shoulders, capped off with that black bowler. “Well, since myself.” One hand grips Deshler’s collar and one hand locks the back of his belt, holding a Cliff Drinker puppet. “If the boss didn’t have his head buried so deep in your lap.”
Deshler’s toes drag lines into the sidewalk frost as his apartment door comes into focus. “Who’s the boss?”
“Tony Danza, you prick,” the man says and spins Deshler around swift. His ass hits cement stairs. The dense cold swallows his flesh. The man’s face is a garbage bag of wrinkles. He’s probably somebody’s grandpa. Some unfortunate, twisted kid.
The gray-haired guy crouches down to Dean’s level with a creamy look of concern. “Sorry for busting your balls. I’m gonna do you a favor. Listen, the next few weeks are crucial. You’ve shown us a spark in that empty head of yours.” He rises and begins walking away. “You prove there’s a bonfire inside and you’ll be in a good situation. Trust me.” The man slips back into the limo and a steamy breath of exhaust floats into arctic morning air.
In addition to selling their tape online and at gigs, Lothario Speedwagon mailed out free copies of Broken Piano for President to magazines and websites they thought would review it. Though, the band is still not sure how Japanese reporters got a hold of the cassette. Here’s what the press has to say:
“There’s a guy yelling about pianos…maybe…it’s hard to tell because it sounds like he’s underwater. And I think there are a c
ouple other guys destroying a Chevy with hammers. My speakers are bleeding.” –Le Bombsquad.org
“Thirteen minutes of uncomfortable hell.”
–Standard Times Review
“The deepest voice this side of the Grinch.”
–Tucson Weekly
(Translated from Japanese) “Lothario bad bad bad noise feels good good good to young ears!!!!”
–Nagano Weekly Gazette
“Who wasted money on this thing getting printed?”
–Squeege Blog.com
“I don’t get it.” –Broken Mirror
“A tape? Seriously? Who makes tapes anymore? I had to go to my grandma’s house just to listen to this stupid thing.”
–Imperfect Scrawl
“In a world where so many bands try very hard to seem insane, you get the vibe Lothario Speedwagon just rolled out of bed that way.” –Clap Amp Quarterly
“My first thought was, ‘Eewww, are these fingernails and band aids?’” –Static Magic Monthly
“I didn’t hear a guitarist in the mix. However, that doesn’t mean Lothario Speedwagon isn’t torturing one in a dark shed somewhere.” –Weekly Observer
“Until now, no band has properly captured the sound of tossing bags of urine at you. Enter Lothario Speedwagon.”
–Impact Weekly
“I want to think these guys are just that cool for making a tape, but my best guess is that they’re just that dumb.”
–[YELLOW] Journalism
(Translated from Japanese) “Ear holes make yummy buzz, melt bubble gum to trashcans. Babies dance! Babies dance!” –Tokyo City Blues.com
(Translated from Japanese) “Burn Lothario like nuclear missile of love. Hail, hail, hail, The Anti-Beatles.”
–Osaka Daily News
The blankets are tight over Henry’s face when the phone rings. Christopher Winters’ liver spotted skull disappears from behind dream-soaked eyelids. Henry was reliving that sudden head jerk of recognition as poison mixed with the old man’s blood. He relives it five times a day.
“Hello,” he croaks.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“I feel like crap, Tony,” Hamler tells his mentor.
“Henry, last time I’m saying this. You did the right thing. Plus, Winters was ancient, he might have died of old age a split second before you got him. BANG! His heart turns to cement. You probably didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Nice try.” Hamler coughs. “You know, the only thing that makes a person feel guiltier is having someone say they shouldn’t feel guilty at all.”
“Wow. I’ll write that down.”
Maybe, Henry thinks, I wouldn’t feel so guilty if there was someone to tell these problems to. Not a shrink or anything. Just someone to hold in bed. Someone who doesn’t make him feel like shit for crying so much. Loneliness and guilt, Hamler’s observed many times, fit together like some awful sandwich.
Hamler untucks the sheet from around his ears and checks the clock. Lunch was an hour ago.
“I’m just saying it’s possible. Hearts are weird like that. Anyway, put on that nice blue suit of yours, there’s more work today.”
“I called in sick, Tony. There’s…I can’t…I’m not doing shit today. Maybe ever.”
“Oh, good. Drama Club.”
“Don’t, Tony.”
“Look, I told you I understand. That’s why you won’t have to get your hands dirty. You might even enjoy yourself.” A few crackles of dead air fill their talk. “You might even get laid.”
Henry sighs against the phone. It swirls into distortion as defenses collapse. “What’re you thinking, exactly?”
“You’ll dig this. It’ll take your mind off things.”
Henry is nearly out of butane and it takes a fair amount of voodoo for a spark. His first cigarette of the day melts both arms to gelatin. This, he assumes, is probably what junkies feel when they shoot up after years on the wagon. He breathes smoke slow into the receiver. That feeling of peace. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Just some simple recon work. Get to know a person and pump them for info on their next project,” Tony says. “Nothing sticky or dangerous.”
“I don’t know how to pump people for information.” Deep inside, Henry admits this doesn’t sound so horrible.
“Get ’em drunk, get ’em high, give ’em a foot rub. Who cares? The important thing is, I want you to work alone. No more Junior Agent garbage.”
“You really think I’m ready?” Henry can’t tell whether the bacon sizzle in his chest is excitement or nicotine.
“When I watched you pin-prick that old man I could see it in your eyes. It was love.”
“Love?”
“You love this job, don’t you?”
“Um, let’s not go that far.”
At the start of the next work day, there is a temp named Henry Holgate at America’s second-largest hamburger chain: Bust-A-Gut. He makes copies and fetches cappuccinos like a textbook admin. He makes three trips a day to the candy machine. Once in a while, the young spy plays lost and pokes his head around the office. He briefly catches a glimpse of the target coming out of a meeting and scurries away. She looks different than the surveillance photo, Hamler thinks.
“Getting the lay of the land, Henry?” his new boss says. The man’s skin is so smooth Hamler counts the pores. The boss has an obscure title like Assistant Vice Manager of Dairy Acquisitions. It takes Henry until lunch to realize his boss, Martin, is a cheese buyer.
“Totally,” he says with a laugh. “Copy room, coffee maker, mail room—the Big Three.” Secretly, Henry dances with the excitement of actual espionage work.
“You’re a hard worker, Henry. You’ll fit in great here at Bust-A-Gut.” His boss is dressed expensive—black shoes glowing.
“Thanks, it’s really exciting to be somewhere that’s such a big part of my life.”
Martin, deep-skinned and Latino with a tiny black goatee, looks Hamler’s chub up and down. Generously, he ignores the slick gel job hair. “I don’t buy that, Henry. You’re in too good of shape to eat burgers.” The boss’s eyes are a forcefully confident brown. He exudes a damn-near perfect presence except for those uncontrolled nasal snorts every few sentences.
“Monte Cristo is practically my middle name,” he says, rubbing a Santa belly, impressed with how good he is at lying. “Honestly!”
“Whatever you say, Henry.”
“So, I have a weird question,” Hamler says. He’s trying to organize a chain of command for his report to Tony. He doesn’t know what size fish Martin is yet. “How does cheese factor into what goes on here?”
Martin’s brown eyes bulge, wet and offended. “Eh, well, cheese is pretty important to our success. Frankly,” his voice lowers as coworkers buzz in all directions. The office is a puzzle of moveable cubicle walls. Daylight is nonexistent in Bust-A-Gut’s home office—replaced overhead by long fluorescent bulbs. “There’s big talk of a Mozzarella Stick Burger. Revolutionary.”
“How is that revolutionary?”
Martin stuffs his tongue deep in his cheek until it pops out like a gumball. He leans in whisper close. “The bread,” his nose snorts, “will be fried mozzarella shaped like a hamburger bun. Ground beef, bacon, cheddar and….well, pickles and shit, all book-ended by fried cheese.”
“Wow, that’ll knock people out.” Henry holds for a second, exactly as he learned to lie in spy school. “I’m speechless.”
“Needless to say, it’ll make the competition look like crapped pants.”
“What?”
“Forget it.” Martin spins on his heel and his purple striped tie whips Henry. “Oooooh, here’s a high-roller you’ve got to meet. Kiss her ass, Henry, and you’ll go straight to the top!”
That familiar first-cigarette feeling of peace sinks in deep when Hamler turns and sees the woman he was sent to spy on.
“Not bleeping likely, Martin,” says an insanely tall blonde woman with a bandage wrapped above her
ears. “Malinta Redding. Nice to meet you.”
“Dimitri,” our Cosmonaut Watch anchor says. “I’m sure you are weak and malnourished, but can you say a few words to the folks here on Earth?”
There is static clatter when the cosmonaut’s blurry mouth moves—pictures beaming down faster than sound. Dimitri’s beard is a patch of overgrown weeds. Now his once lonely eyes just look empty. Embarrassed. Halfway through his speech, the delayed words reach American ears, totally out of sync like black market film dubbing.
“Please, America, we are at your mercy,” he wrestles with English. “You must eat Space Burger and play game to save us. We have not eaten in many days. We will die soon—” A thunderstorm of static crackling cuts him off.
“Di…Dimitri?” our beautifully tanned anchor asks. “Well, it appears we’ve lost feed with the space station again.” He pauses, reading a report on the desk. The newscaster rubs his face like aluminum tears are leaking from those steel eyes. “Folks, this is life or death here and only you can help. So far, two hundred and twelve thousand lucky numbers have been used to guide the Burger Suit back toward the space station. It will take a lot more of your help to get it home. Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers is the only place to get those lucky numbers and save our starving Russians. And it’s the only way for you to become a thousandaire in the process. But that is not the issue, folks. Innocent people are dying up there. Only we can change it. Together, as a team.”
The graphic shows the suit and the space station inching closer, but still hundreds of miles apart in real life.
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