“Actually,” Henry says, wagging a half-full glass over the table. “Malinta here was going to spill the beans about Bust-A-Gut.” His jaw grinds, feeling this interrogation get complicated.
“There are a lot of beans, eh, Malinta?”
“More than you can count.” She orders another scotch with fingers in the air. “What’s new in gouda?”
“See, Henry, Malinta and I started together. Has it been two years? Some of us gave blowjobs for promotions and others plan cheese now.”
“It’s not like you don’t have skills to offer.”
Henry dives in and practically screams over the increasingly sharp chit-chat. “Let’s not get off the subject here. I was promised dirt. You know, blackmail material.”
“Okay…”
“Like real dirt.”
Her eye hooks upward, thinking. “Well, my odds of dying from a snakebite are three and a half million-to-one,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But your chances of dying from a heart attack are two-point-five-to-one. That’s forty percent of this entire room. How’s that for blackmail, Henry?”
“Way to blow the safe open.” Martin supplies a golf clap.
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Hamler says, not sure whether that was sarcasm or not.
“Seriously, someone in this country dies from heart failure every two minutes,” her left eye staggers closed. “Every third is a son-of-a-bitching.” She cringes. “Son-of-a-bleeping Winters customer.”
Martin and Henry take a drink and cautiously eye one another.
“What about Bust-A-Gut customers?” Henry says.
“Who cares? Especially when we green-light my next campaign. Instead of thirty-second commercials, think thirty-minute news magazines blabbering about the deadly effects of Space Burgers.” Her whiskey-soaked eyes squint and see two confused faces staring back. “Let me dumb it down for you boys. What if someone said Pepsi and Coke give you hemorrhoids? Instantly everyone will buy Dr. Pepper. Nobody asks if Dr. Pepper does too.”
“If Winters is Pepsi, who’s Coke?”
“More important,” Martin says. “Who’s Dr. Pepper?”
Henry kicks back the rest of the drink. His body is overcome once again with that first-cigarette feeling. He makes a mental note and lets Malinta ramble. He pulls out his cell and checks the clock. Lothario Speedwagon has a show in three hours. When Malinta is done, he thinks, I’ll bail out of here.
The strong grip of his boss’s right hand locks on Henry’s thigh, tight enough to count the veins in that baby fat leg. Henry slowly glances toward Martin and blows smoke over his face.
In twenty minutes Malinta is sleeping in the booth while boss and temp kiss.
*Excerpt from an eye-rolling conversation between Deshler and a friend.
DEAN: The longest I ever waited? I once had to wait three months for a video to arrive.
FRIEND: That’s ridiculous. Was it something kinky from Thailand? Ping-pong balls or orangutans and stuff?
DEAN: No, better than that. It was this rare Butthole Surfers tape.
FRIEND: Oh, dude, don’t start…
DEAN: Gibby was wild as shit at this concert, Milwaukee or something. There was smoke, a small pile of burning trash on the stage, an old medical school film of a penile transplant playing behind the drummers—
FRIEND: Drummers? As in plural?
DEAN: Yes, they had two. I’ve told you this. Anyway, he was singing real nasty. Gibby just ripped apart this mannequin and there were chunky plastic limbs everywhere. He took out this wiffleball bat…
FRIEND: Dude, come on, this was only interesting the first hundred times you told me.
DEAN: Gibby’d pissed in the bat’s tiny opening earlier, and was swinging it around. Called it his Piss Wand. It splattered the audience. He was singing “The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave.”
FRIEND: And this guy’s your hero? That’s kind of messed up.
DEAN: No, not at all. Look, I needed that. When I bought that video my brother and I were staying at, at, at this relative’s place. My folks were…you know.
FRIEND: Gone?
DEAN: In several senses. Anyhow, Gibby burned into my skin like a fog lamp. He was up there doing it, bringing people to their knees like a puke-stained preacher.
FRIEND: You’re sick. I need to go home. Can you grab my coat? You should really try watching some of that Thai porno. Sounds like you need a little culture.
DEAN: Gibby broke the rules. He did everything, so now anything is possible. His art was so over the top that he clear-cut a forest for the rest of us to march through. I can do anything I want. My art is free, thanks to him.
FRIEND: I’ll be sure to send him a card.
The rabbit ears of the Cliff Drinker’s senses twist and dip until they pull in a decent signal. Dean’s eyes are closed. Blood beats through his head like cymbal crashes and he’s out of air. Someone is jumping on him. A rib starts cracking. Feminine breaths huff like pumping weights.
Dean can’t remember the lyrics to Broken Piano for President at this exact moment, but the music is there, wandering his skull.
A voice moans: “Ohhh.”
There’s a twenty-five percent chance this involves bench pressing.
Deshler’s eyes open. A nude woman bounces into his groin—blonde hair scurries over her face and stops at a bare chest. She is thin enough to count ribs.
“R-R-R-RRR, yeah,” she says.
There is a zero percent chance she is pumping iron. Squat thrusts are another story.
He’s seventy-five percent sure they are having sex.
The woman has a white bandage around her head.
“Ahhhh, whuuuuuh?” Deshler moans. He’s one hundred percent sure this is sex. With Malinta, no less. A wave of amazement floods over his body. Like most of his previous hookups, Dean had no idea he is smooth enough to reach this point, but he’s not arguing.
“There you are…I thought—” She slows to breathe deep a few times. “I thought you died on me.”
“Wha…huh? Oh, yes! No, I’m alive,” he hoots, wondering if this is an accident. Maybe she tripped and fell? he thinks.
“Don’t stop, I’m close, I’m—” she gasps. For a split second, looking into her green eyes, Deshler’s crushing skull ache disappears.
Do not forget this moment, he thinks. Don’t forget her skin. Don’t push her away. He stops to take in a sober glance. Don’t do anything stupid.
Yellow bangs flop back over her face and Deshler goes cross-eyed again.
Dean returns to consciousness with gravity bullying him around. He can’t lift an arm or wiggle a toe, but his eyes crack a flinch.
“Wake up, softie,” Malinta nursery rhyme sings. She is curled into his body. “Wake up, softie. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell what?” he says, waterlogged.
“I won’t tell anyone that you went soft on me. Lucky I finished or I’d tell your little buddies at Beef Club,” she smiles. Her fingers dance through Dean’s chest hair. “You feel okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired,” he says, smelling Malinta’s hair, the shampoo sweetness planting fresh flowers in his lungs. “I played a show last night, I’m beat.”
“You played a what?”
Thanks to the newspaper article, Lothario Speedwagon sold more than a few tapes at last night’s gig. They actually offloaded the remaining stock of Broken Piano for President due to the overwhelming attendance. The article’s picture didn’t hurt either. In it, Deshler hung from his knees on a drainpipe in a dingy basement club. His bright orange mask was stained down the middle from a bloody nose, he howled into a microphone and yanked a frightened woman by the hair like a caveman.
For some reason, he wore this same getup walking around before last night’s show. The blood was now crusty and browned. Mask recognition meant half the packed club bought our neon-faced hero a shot of bourbon.
Lothario was headlining a three-band bill at The Purple Bottle. The club is the musty b
asement of a downtown carpet cleaning service which hosts rock shows and a bar. Lavender paint snowed from the walls when Lothario cranked amps to max. The cigarette smoke near the stage was so thick it acted as a makeshift fog machine. Add that to their dozen black lights and fluorescent face gear and the Lothario’s heads floated through dark haze like atomic particles.
Besides house parties, The Purple Bottle is the only place in town Dean, Hamler, and Pandemic can still get a gig. But even when the Bottle is packed, it’s no great feat. The crowd couldn’t fill a bus.
Deshler doesn’t remember ever touching the stage. Lying next to Malinta on cool, clean sheets, he hopes it went well, especially with the big performance piece planned for the show.
Morning light slashes through window blinds and burns on Deshler’s bare stomach. The bedroom is a foreign country. The walls are empty and cheddar yellow, trimmed in blue. It’s so clean he doesn’t even see any clothes on the floor.
“Hello,” she snaps her fingers. “You played a show, Deshler?”
“Nuh, nothing, forget it.”
She sighs and rolls off the bed with a squeak. “Come on, get up Mister Secret, I’ll make some coffee.”
His performance art piece was supposed to mimic the meat grinder of society. Gibby cleared the forest, now Dean had to make a statement amongst the leftover wreckage.
Nobody listens unless you force them, he thought before the show, complimenting himself on being such an artistic genius. This isn’t pissing into a baseball bat, but it’ll do.
Deshler bought ten pounds of stale hamburger buns, three heads of lettuce, seventeen tomatoes and value-sized containers of mustard and ketchup. He planned to cover the audience with these ingredients, making one large human hamburger while the band did its thing. The ketchup and mustard would be tossed out in Ziploc baggies.
The French press whiffs through the bathroom while Dean unrolls a condom into the toilet. His piss lasts exhaustingly long. From the mirror reflection, Deshler thinks about checking into a hospital—his hair is another night’s sleep from knotting into a single dreadlock, his arms and legs are covered in blue-purple bruises and his chest stinks like condiments. Every step is like stumbling around on stilts.
Dean’s mouth, however, hangs unchanged, still confused as ever. His lip is plump and split open.
He flushes and pauses for a second, wishing he could remember what convinced Malinta to jump into the sack. It’s starting to get on his nerves, this Cliff Drinker’s memory. He’s amazed at his ability to pull Malinta close and gets anxiety knowing he’ll eventually push her away like all the others.
The kitchen’s electric yellow walls and blue trim are exactly like a Bust-A-Gut dome, too. Deshler worries about Malinta’s psychological state and overzealous job loyalty when the plates and mugs match this paintjob.
“Un, deux, trois, quatre…” Dean discovers her pulling cups from a cabinet—speaking quietly, privately, and with an accent. “Quatre…q…q—”
“Cinq,” he says.
“How’d you know that?” She turns, eyes surprised.
“Three years of French in high school.”
“Me too. I used to be able to read whole French novels, but I just let it go. Isn’t that sad?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think so.”
“Are you going to Paris or something?”
“No. I just think I should relearn it. It’s a shame to let talent go to waste. A good person wouldn’t just waste all these valuable bleeping skills to sell hamburgers. She’d be well-rounded.”
“I’ve never had one thought about cinq until today.”
“Drink your coffee.”
“Café.” He grins and sips.
Her eyes don’t say funny, but they don’t disagree, either. She passes him a full, hot mug.
Sitting at the table, the black coffee cuts Deshler’s tongue like a branding iron. “Do you have any crème?”
She squints.
“Cream.”
“Oh. I doubt it.”
“Any milk?”
“Uhm…”
“Sugar?”
She smiles, head shaking. “Darned if I know.”
Deshler sips and winces. Nude, his legs are crossed in an attempt to be casual. Malinta, in a blue and yellow robe, laughs through her nose.
“Why do you talk like that? Are you born-again or something?”
“Stop. Don’t be mean.”
“Seriously,” Dean says.
“You know.”
“Remind me.”
“Because, stupid, I’m a lady. I’m a good person. Or, at least, I’m supposed to be.”
“And swearing’s not—”
“Yes, yes, yes. Don’t rub it in, I know I sound dumb. Eventually, I’ll cut it out all together.” Her finger begins twisting a lock of hair. “Someday you’ll thank me when our kids don’t speak like truckers.”
“Our?”
“Don’t F-ing start.”
“Start what?”
“We’ve talked about this. Don’t act like you don’t know I want a family.”
“Right, right. It’s…ah…too early. Can we please just discuss something else?”
That giggle returns. “Okay, wise guy. I can’t believe you tracked me down last night,” she says through a smile.
“Me neither,” he says truthfully.
“I got so drunk with my coworkers at a happy hour. Where did we even run into one another?”
Deshler looks around the room, pretending not to hear. “You have,” he forces down another sip. “A great place.”
“It’s not mine,” she says, squinting one eye. “It’s Clifford’s.”
Deshler leans forward and rubs a stubbly chin. Another massive headache isn’t far off.
“Clifford Findlay, right?” Dean says, amazed he remembered the name. Still not sure if he’s ever parked the Bust-A-Gut chief’s car. “Why aren’t we at your place or mine?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“He’s a nice guy?”
“Uh, yeah, Bust-A-Gut’s president, the most powerful man in hamburgers, is just doing this because he’s a nice guy. He’s not kissing your ass or anything.” Her shoulders tighten. “Er, butt…rear.”
“Derrière?”
“Cut it out.”
Dean can’t stop watching the blinding yellow walls. “I’m serious. Just tell me. Your paint isn’t that bad.”
“You’ve seen my place enough to know the answer.” She grows red and picks an arm scab. Malinta’s attitude jumps the rails and her face gets dark. “Fine, you want to screw around this morning, here’s an answer. I’m sick of playing this game,” she says, fishing a cell phone from her purse. “Talk to someone who enjoys your little stunts.”
The phone is ringing when Deshler presses it to a throbbing ear. He swears it’s an hour between buzzes.
“Lepsic here.”
Deshler’s confused morning growl says, “Thurman Lepsic?”
“You got him, who is this?”
“Deshler Dean…” The sensation of swimming and sinking pulls inside him.
A shotgun blast of recognition rattles the phone. “Ahhhhhh! My man! I thought that was Malinta’s phone number. Things must’ve worked out last night.”
The Cliff Drinker is paddling with a wrecking ball tied around his waist. Water sloshing at the neck, filtering salty into his mouth. “Errrrrr,” Deshler says.
Malinta’s head cocks, half-listening, half-burning a hole through his forehead.
“Well, I’m on my way to Miami for mozzarella testing. Help yourself to Old Man Findlay’s wine cellar. Just don’t touch the Dom Pérignon eighty-three.”
“Wouldn’t,” he says, faintly, “dream of it.”
“Perfect. Enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. And I’ll see you in a couple days.”
“Thanks for the hospitality, Thurman.”
“Hey, what Mister Findlay doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Now seriously, you’ve earned it.”
“Stop.”
The phone vibrates with Lepsic’s chuckle. “One last thing,” his voice slinks into a whisper. “Squeeze Malinta’s ass when she’s on top. Drives her wild.”
Dry air hisses through the phone. Malinta pours another coffee. She has a wrinkled, confused forehead. “That wasn’t Findlay, was it?”
“Thurman Lepsic.”
The space between her lips splits wider. “I dialed Findlay’s phone number. God, it’s weird that he’d answer. What do you think that means?”
“He seemed pretty friendly…again.”
She stands and tucks hair behind an ear. Bare feet pace from the sink, across the room, to the refrigerator. “He should be friendly, being your other boss and all.”
“You bet.” Dean swallows scratchy, selling himself hard on this lie, forgetting he doesn’t know what Malinta’s talking about. Playing along, nodding. This is still more fun than parking cars, he thinks.
“How can you sit there and not be a little freaked out by this? We’re talking about the same man who practically puts a tongue in your throat every time he sees you. The guy who pays the Beef Club waiters to keep your whiskey glass full, no matter what. First, he tells you to crash at the CEO’s penthouse. And now he’s answering that same CEO’s phone?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She waits, sips, and waits more.
“They’re doing it,” Dean says.
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
Deshler’s body shrinks, his knees pull together and arms wrap around his chest. Familiar chills arrive. The same lonely confusion from that first night he and his brother spent in separate foster homes.
Malinta’s face is upset, changing shades of color. She speaks with whip-snap arms and hands. “Sometimes you don’t act like a rising star. I mean, you created the Monte Cristo Burger, for God’s sake. It’d be nice if you at least pretended to be Bust-A-Gut’s golden boy once in a while.”
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