Broken Piano for President

by Patrick Wensink

  Our anchor stuffs a finger in his shirt collar and tugs a tie loose. “America, the fate of five cosmonauts is in your hands.” Hands fold like prayer. A salty glaze of sweat covers his forehead. “Please buy an extra Space Burger tonight.”

  “Dude,” Napoleon says, mist and frost whipping past their cheeks. “Did you read the paper today?” Downtown’s old brick buildings are merely a squint in the skyline.

  “Nope, why?” Deshler says. He inhales cool air through a sober head. Dean wishes the valet awning was better protection from the elements as the clock-stopping hum of boredom creeps in. It’s like sitting in the corner as a boy, in trouble with Mom again. Morning is always this slow, things never pick up until happy hour when all the executive autos need parked.

  It has been five days since Dean’s touched a drop of alcohol. Five days since he woke up in that limo. It has also been five days since he’s shown up to work late. And at least as many since he’s wet himself. Dean’s banter with millionaires, which used to consist of grunts and nods, has improved to the point where a good stock market joke lands the former Cliff Drinker a twenty dollar tip. He’s only scratched and dented four cars. Less than one per day—easily a record.

  “There’s a blurb about your band and a preview of tonight’s show.”

  “No shit?” he says, with an Oh, golly kind of face. “Let’s have a look.” Dean is a little skeptical, knowing Napoleon’s track record of saying practically anything for attention.

  “I forgot it at home.” Napoleon’s breath evolves into steam. “But, basically, it said Lothario is gaining some cult status in town. Something about being an unpredictable live act.”

  A little sad, wanting to believe his parking partner, Dean says: “Get out of here.”

  Yawning, Napoleon stretches short, soft arms. “It said something like you’re Iggy Pop with a bright orange mask and Ziploc baggies.”

  This makes Deshler blush, since the four singers he’s always modeled himself after are:

  Iggy Pop “Stooges era, of course, before he sucked.”

  David Yow “From the Jesus Lizard, before they left Touch and Go and sucked.”

  Nick Cave “But only when he was in the Birthday Party. He never really sucked, but you get the picture.”

  Gibby Haynes “Strictly the Butthole Surfers’ eighties work.” Dean will never admit it, but he can’t stand their nineties stuff when the band sucked.

  His heroes not only used their voices to express themselves, but their bodies and actions, as well. Part performers, part performance artists. When drunk, Deshler’s voice gets dreamy and he says things like: “They stitch together these Frankenstein monsters of guerrilla art and punk rock.” This talk sends his friends from zero to eye-rolling in no time flat.

  Those eyeball spasms are nothing compared to his near-biblical quoting of Haynes. “One time, this foster home my brother and I were crashing at had a rad magazine collection. I read this interview where the journalist was talking about touring and asked Gibby, ‘Where do people usually get the most pissed off?’ And Gibby, wow that guy’s a genius. Do you know what he said? His answer was, ‘Between the ears.’”

  Lately, thankfully, Dean’s kept these proclamations to himself.

  A wind tunnel-tested yellow sedan pulls up to the awning. “Man, that’s heavy,” Deshler says, rubbing fingers together until they regain feeling. “Maybe some people will show up tonight and buy some tapes.”

  “Yeah, tapes are a hot commodity. People love ’em,” the little valet says, doing his usual attention grab. “Speaking of which, I told you about my video camera, right?”

  “Uh, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “I got it at the thrift store…VHS tapes…seriously? You don’t remember?”

  “Hmm. Wish I could say I did.”

  “Let’s hang out after work. There’s this cool car wreck I shot. It’s right up your alley,” he says, searching Deshler’s eyes for any spark.

  A sturdy, sailor-looking guy steps out of the car. His posture mirrors the city’s dueling skyscrapers. His gray suit looks like it’s never been worn.

  Napoleon hustles up to the car door with a smile. “Welcome back, sir. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of your baby.”

  “Back off, tubby,” the man growls. “Look at this beautiful machine. They’d have to peel you out with a shoehorn.” The man dangles keys in front of the valet’s bubble cheeks. “I’ve told you a million times, son, you’ll never get to drive this car. I need my man Deshler Dean to park it.”

  This harpoons Dean’s attention. He doesn’t recognize the yellow car and an all-too-familiar confusion nestles in tight.

  “Yes, sir,” Napoleon says.

  The man stops and turns around. “Here, go buy yourself a burger.” He dunks a five in Napoleon’s breast pocket.

  This guy reminds Deshler of a football coach when he steps up and gives a nod. “All systems are a go, buddy.” The man is quiet enough to keep Napoleon out of the loop. Dean stares hard into that face. It’s intense and focused and has probably made people pee themselves.

  Deshler returns a stiff nod. This unfamiliar kind of talk boils a pot of spaghetti where his stomach used to be.

  “I mean, this is gonna blow up big time,” the sturdy guy says, showing off a white marble slab of teeth. “R and D is having trouble actually converting fried mozzarella into the shape of a bun. Some shit about structural integrity. Looks like we might have to use provolone. But seriously, who knows the difference?”

  “I’m glad,” Deshler clears his throat. “To hear the mozzarella is going well.” He hopes this lie is enough to pass. Dean wishes he was humble enough to simply say he doesn’t know, but dark pride won’t allow it.

  “You better be!” the man says, slapping Deshler’s white jacket shoulder. The coach’s skin is tanned. He could be on posters for California tourism. “It’s the best damn idea you’ve ever come up with.”

  If you guessed this news jerked our hero back a step, you’d be right.

  The man continues, “Hell, it’s the best thing Bust-A-Gut’s had in fifteen years. Better than the Monte Cristo, I truly mean that.”

  “I do what I do,” Deshler says, wondering if he actually heard the word “idea” or not.

  “Absolutely,” the man says, searching for credibility in Deshler’s eyes. Digging deep. The guy’s fingers pinch a sorry white lapel. “Anyhow, we’ve gotta get you out of this getup. You should be wearing pinstripes, Dean. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “You’d be surprised. But you know me.” Deshler smiles, the gap in his teeth forms a goalpost. “I like to make an honest living.”

  “Oh, you got me,” he says, covering an imaginary gun blast to the chest. “See you tonight, buddy. It is Friday after all.” The man laughs and passes the keys to Dean.

  Deshler slips behind the wheel and hollers, “Tonight it is.”

  The accelerator needs only a tap to roar the engine. Dean can’t look at the RPMs, his mind is off so far. Deep in that mind, it’s like a streetlamp over a dark road. Warm peach light fills a space for the Cliff Drinker’s memory, but just out of reach. He’s pushed people past the light. It’s dark outside the lamp glow and it’s getting crowded. Whoever’s out there, they’re close, he can almost touch them, recognize them. But he can’t. It frustrates the hell out of Dean.

  When the car is safely parked and Deshler is out of sight, he opens the glove box and searches through paperwork. “Thurman Lepsic,” he says, holding the car’s registration. “I bet I know who knows this guy.”

  Deshler is too dazed to even pop in a CD for Mister Lepsic.

  Napoleon has a strange twist in his lips when Deshler returns. “What did I just see, man?”

  “Nothing, don’t sweat it.”

  “That asshole talked to you for like an hour.” Napoleon gives his partner a prize fight jab. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know who Thurman Lepsic is either?”

  That nasty pride bu
ilds a dam over his mouth and stops Dean from honesty. “He was just babbling about the gas pedal sticking and not to take it over fifteen. The usual bullshit, Napoleon. Lighten up. I’m sorry he was a prick.”

  “He can say whatever he wants to me. That dude is like, second in command at Bust-A-Gut. Lepsic is right below Clifford Findlay. His tie tack is worth more than your life.”

  “Then he should have tipped better.”

  So right now, you’re probably saying something to the effect of: “Jeez, there is a lot of burger talk flying around. This book is one coldcut away from being a butcher shop menu.”

  This is the point I’d say: “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Is this a little overkill?” You’d shrug and I’d feel kind of guilty.

  So maybe it’s time you were brought up to speed about the Burger Wars, the Beef Club, the Winters Family, Globo-Goodness Inc. and Burger Town, USA.

  Let’s start at the top. Last fiscal year, Bust-A-Gut’s three hundred and fifty worldwide domes had a stronger income than many small Asian nations. However, Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, with its six hundred and twenty Victorian mansions worldwide—including the recently opened Winters Antarctica—pulled in about as much money as a certain huge Asian nation we will not mention.

  It wasn’t always this way, however. Hamburgers, in general, weren’t multi-national corporations. In the beginning, burger stands were regional and as unique as the cities themselves. Their buildings weren’t designed by focus groups and dropped out of assembly lines. You’d better believe the food wasn’t either.

  Hamburgers, at one time, didn’t come deep-fried or even freeze dried. Hard to swallow, I know. You’ve gotta trust me here. Many years ago a hamburger was simply ground beef and a bun.

  Naive days.

  It’s wildly disputed who first chopped a cow into tiny bits, cooked those bits in a flat circle and slid it between bread. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. That guy’s not in this story.

  The first serious hamburger restaurants in America opened during the 1920s and 1930s. The patties were tiny, quickly made and each cost about a nickel. Almost overnight, lunch counters across America sprung up producing similar sandwiches, known as sliders. Most popular were the White Tower stands in the Midwest. In a trend as infectious as measles, dozens of other entrepreneurs sprouted copycat stands to cash in. Some memorable shacks included: White House, White Cabin, Super Tower, White Burger and the doomed Detroit establishments: White Boy and White Devil.

  However, these businesses faded in a cloud of griddle steam during the 1940s and 1950s with the popularity of drive-ins and the malt shop. Gradually, what burger stands remained branched into thinly linked regional chains.

  Even at this infant stage of meaty lust, America knew an itty-bitty burger didn’t satisfy. The Cold War was hot and it was un-American to fill your hunger with an armload of puny sliders. May as well grab a bowl of borscht on the side.

  Much like American waistlines, burger sizes inflated during this time. In 1952, truckers, linebackers and hungry tummies near Dayton, OH nearly fainted when regional burger powerhouse Beef Boy introduced the Fat Boy. Two quarter pound patties shuffled between three pieces of bun and a pile of onions, pickles, ketchup and mustard. The young chef and owner, Harold Dobbs—barely old enough to shave—became the first superstar of fast food.

  The Fat Boy’s popularity allowed the Beef Boy chain to ooze across borders to Indiana, Kentucky, Michigan, Pennsylvania and West Virginia. At his peak, the 1954 fiscal year, Dobbs—now lovingly called “Double Harry” by customers and peers alike—operated ninety-two restaurants, the largest chain in the country, and served nearly a million Fat Boys.

  Parody proved to be Double Harry’s downfall. Much like White Tower a few decades before, Beef Boy’s competitors adopted the double hamburger ethic and the Boy-craze sizzled like raw meat over flames. Notable copycats included: Chunk Boy, Double Boy, Buff Boy, Man Boy, Boy Boy, Coy Boy, Nature Boy and Well-Mannered Boy.

  Beef Boy was swallowed by this expanding sea of imitation Boys. Unable to adapt and properly expand the empire, Double Harry and his franchise filed for bankruptcy and closed shop on all restaurants during the winter of 1956.

  Once a staple of the Dayton culinary scene, Double Harry quickly vanished and was soon rumored dead.

  While Double Harry’s greasy presence fell into America’s drip pan, its favorite Almost-Hitler-Catcher and top Electric Toothbrush inventor was just firing up his stovetop.

  There’s an envelope in the mail addressed to Deshler. He opens it and finds an Arbor Day card. He doesn’t know when Arbor Day is, but it doesn’t come at the start of winter, he knows that.

  Missing: One Screwdriver. One Red Car. One Pint of Malinta’s Blood.

  There is no return address. The postmark is from Deshler’s zip code. He throws the card away and spends the rest of the day trying to forget ever seeing it.

  Okay, so back to the burger story. Sorry, I had to look over some notes.

  A Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger publicist tells us its beefy empire was founded by Christopher Winters in 1955 with money saved from his various fortunes. Today, the company spreads a message of “Good old-fashioned American fun and values through ground beef.” This is reiterated by every restaurant being modeled after Winters’ green and gray Victorian mansion: a place Winters claimed was as happy and well-rounded as a sesame seed bun. All employees dress like nineteenth century bankers and bankers’ wives to truly illustrate the old-fashioned goodness of its product.

  Prior to the first set of Victorian gables poking a hole in the skyline, most burger restaurants, including Beef Boy, didn’t have enough fuel in their engine to expand beyond a couple states. Thanks to Winters’ nationwide popularity and bottomless wealth, there was a neon-lined Victorian mansion in every American state, most of Canada and Guatemala by the time the 1960s rolled around. The company’s founder was never seen in public without his trademark outfit: A ketchup red suit with mustard yellow shirt and tie. He often said in interviews: “I’m so serious about hamburgers, I wear the colors on my back.”

  Until his death, Winters’ suit, traffic-jamming smile and hamburger philosophy (capitalizing on both dining propaganda and World War Two rhetoric) were staples of American hearts and stomachs.

  “If your life were a tasty Winters Burger, would you be the bun or the beef?”

  “I may have let Hitler slip through my fingers, but mark my words, that’ll never happen with these Stay-Crisp Winters Fries.”

  “Only a communist would limit himself to a single Winters Burger for dinner.”

  “Burgers, fries and a milkshake—now that’s what I call the Axis of Edible.”

  “Enough of this bologna, let’s get down to ground beef.”

  “A burger a day keeps the Nazis away.”

  On the flip side of the bun, Bust-A-Gut rocketed to overnight sensation status during the early eighties. There is no corporate information regarding the chain’s founder. In cataract-inducing type at the bottom of its press releases, it reads: “A member of the Globo-Goodness Corporation Family of Corporations.” In 1977, weeks before a marketing blitz declared Bust-A-Gut was “the same Bust-A-Gut flavor you’ve always loved, just new,” two mildly popular American burger chains, Ground Beef Grotto and You Want Pickles on That?, were purchased for undisclosed sums and remodeled into domes. Suddenly, the fast food landscape was crowded with yellow and blue. The restaurant’s image was far more subdued than Winters’. It basically said: “This restaurant is blue, yellow, and clean. Enjoy.” In a matter of weeks Americans began asking themselves how they’d ignored this restaurant that, apparently, had always been around the corner. After all, it was shaped like a bubble and that’s pretty hard to miss.

  The domes proved impossible to ignore in the decades to come. But Winters and his kingdom of mansions wouldn’t give up the skyline easily.

  It’s been over a week since Christopher Winters passed away. “Peacefully,” a press release reads, “in his sleep from
heart failure.” All Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers employees wear black armbands with turn-of-the-century uniforms.

  Hamler crunches through a Space Burger while talking on his phone. Styrofoamy cheddar just lacerated a cheek. This is the fifth lunch break in a row he’s spent car-bound. Spending so much time alone, without someone to come home to after a day of lying and spying, has worked his confidence down to a pile of sawdust. Possibly lower than after the Christopher Winters mess.

  “So, like I said,” the young spy mutters between snapping bites of Olde-Tyme space-age beef. “This fried cheese thing is owning everyone. I heard some dude in the shitter talking about how they’ve adjusted the composition to forty-five percent mozzarella, twenty percent provolone, thirty percent something called Gluten Solvent and five percent other.”

  Outside, the sky is a gray mash of dense clouds. The first snow of the year drops across Hamler’s windshield and melts watery upon landing. The crisscrossing power lines above the parking lot shiver with the breeze.

  “Other,” Tony says like a professor.

  “That’s all I have, man. I had to pick my legs up in the stall just to get that.” His cheek tastes like copper. Bloody cheese.

  “Okay, that’s helpful, really.” Tony sounds disappointed. “Really, Henry. Great work.”

  The car is so cold, steam rises from the bag the way Indians believe souls escape the body. The soul of a freeze dried cow vaporizes into a pine air freshener.

  “Have you interrogated Malinta Redding yet?”

  “I don’t see much of her, Tony. I mean, the least you could have done is get me a job in her department.”