At the precise moment the singer flopped into the front row, covering everyone in condiment goo, a stocky guy in a shirt, tie and toxic green mask strapped on the bass. He looked like my psychedelic accountant and created torturous noise fit for ending hostage standoffs.
What happened during the next song was disputed from different fans. As Lothario’s rhythm section stumbled into a sonic mess that’s best described as “car crash rock,” the show was over.
The bass gurgled tuneless notes and drums clunked like garbage cans in a trash compactor. Finally, someone took a swing at the singer. Apparently, one fan didn’t appreciate the mustard-hair treatment given to his date. The vocalist was unconscious for ten minutes as the band rolled on. Finally, the drummer lit his kit on fire, the bassist’s amp blew feedback and someone tossed the singer over a shoulder fireman-style.
It’s safe to say the wheels have fallen off the ol’ Speedwagon. Question is, “Were they ever meant to stick in the first place?” And “Would we want them to?” This is art, kids. Take it or leave it.
Me, personally, I’ll leave it.
“Holy crap,” Deshler says as Napoleon walks back. A popcorn bag of excitement bursts in his chest. “Did you read that thing?”
“Uh, yeah,” Napoleon says, hesitant. “Sorry.”
“Wow, they wrote a lot of stuff about us.”
“But it wasn’t good stuff.”
“No such thing as bad publicity, dude.”
“I don’t know. This seems close.”
A black car pulls in quiet as a dishwasher. A familiar man in a ketchup red coat sloshes out and stares at the pair.
“I think it’s great. It sounds like people were entertained.”
“Dude, seriously?”
Before either looks up from the paper, Roland Winters’ voice dives in: “Hey, there’s my slugger. How goes it, Dean?” He is a walrus with his mustache and heavy coat. “Let’s grab a drink. Take off that ridiculous outfit, buddy.”
Napoleon stumbles to Dean’s side like a first mate. “Oh-um, sorry, Mister Winters, sir,” the plump valet says, fixing his tie. “I’ll be more than happy to put your car in its usual spot.”
Deshler nods and points a finger at the walrus. “Right.” His open mouth converts to a smile, recalling this morning’s naked chat with Malinta. “Roland Winters…yeah.”
“Terrific, Greg,” Winters tells Napoleon.
“It’s Napol—” He quivers before realizing the man is long gone.
The executive’s coat flaps open and his burger belly stretches like a latex glove. “C’mon, Deshler.” A walrus flipper wraps around Dean’s shoulder. “The guys’ve been asking about you lately. We don’t want to lose The King.”
Napoleon’s cheeks ripple as if he’s three-fourths swallowed his tongue. Little dragon shots of haze puff through his nose into the freezing air as pink fingers rub Winters’ keychain.
“You know.” Deshler’s eyes drop to the ground. His mouth hangs momentarily confused. I might as well see what this is all about, he thinks. “God, yeah, I’d…” He eyes Napoleon. The small valet seems so pathetic. “Alright, forget it, yeah! Napoleon, tell the boss, tell her…you know.”
A yellow SUV and a tiny Italian sedan are behind Winters’ car. Napoleon can’t hear them speak, but the drivers’ lips practice unhappy patterns.
“Dean…whuh?” his partner says, eyes squinting with hurt.
As the glass doors close with Dean and the CEO of Olde-Tyme on the other side, Napoleon hears the executive say something that sounds like, “I think you’d look good in red.”
Napoleon spots the special DVD still atop the wooden stool.
“Thanks for joining us here on Cosmonaut Recap,” our titanium-chinned anchorman says. “I’d like to welcome the men and lady everyone has been waiting for. We’ve had a ball watching the highlights of their space oddity: the starvation, the psychosis, the laughs. But now it’s time to hear from those brave souls who fought zero gravity and zero dinner to be here tonight.” Our anchor stands and extends an arm to the side of the stage. “Please welcome the Moscow Five.”
The television audience shakes the recording studio with applause. The Hollywood version of a space station—flashing lights and white padded walls—serves as the backdrop for five futuristic egg chairs. The entire set still smells of wet paint. The flimsy wall shimmies like aluminum siding in a tornado.
Four men and a woman in identical powder blue jumpsuits walk out smiling and waving. The men’s hair is trimmed short, three have hefty chins and thick waists, jumpsuits wrapping their bodies like wetsuits. The woman’s black bangs hang in front of a skinny face, her smile busy with destroyed teeth. The fourth man doesn’t look anything like the three other male cosmonauts. He’s so tiny he nearly disappears in profile. Unlike his commanding officer, this spaceman looks like he nearly starved to death up in the station.
“Wow, welcome,” our anchor says, shaking each member’s hand. “Glad you could be here.”
The cosmonauts sit and our anchor takes a stool to the far left. “Just so everyone at home can get it straight, introduce yourselves, please.”
The astronaut closest to the host chatters to the others in choppy, harsh Russian. The cosmonauts nod and smile and murmur to one another.
“I am Dimitri, captain of the team,” the first man says in a thick accent. His eyes don’t look as empty as they did beaming down from the space station. They seem rather lively. “I will do interpreting for my comrades.”
“Yuri, I Yuri am,” the second says, looking much like his interpreter.
“Pavel,” says the third, bulky and healthy.
“Sonja.”
“Keith,” the skeletally thin man says, hardly audible through his Russian tongue.
The audience giggles politely. “I’m sorry, Keith, did you say?” our anchor asks.
Keith is a broomstick with cheeks, nothing like his hearty comrades. He glares confused at the host while the audience continues.
Dimitri hammers out some casual Russian and Keith mumbles back.
“His parents,” Dimitri says through a deep accent. “Are big fans of Rolling Stones and Keeeth Reechards.”
“Ha, huh, wonderful,” the host chuckles. “So are we.”
The next five minutes revolve around Dimitri interpreting the team’s sentiments. Keith and Sonja never smile. Their words grind past sore tongues, like speaking is exhausting. Their voices have seen hell and it’s a Russian space station.
Dimitri explains for the television audience: everyone is glad to be home. Everyone missed their families very much. Yes, Space Burgers are delicious. No, the crew never thought they’d die, they had faith in the American people.
“So, I’ve got to ask,” our anchor says with no accent. The guy’s a total pro. “It’s on everyone’s mind. You folks have been back on Earth for about a week now. Still no big announcement. No contest winner.”
“Yes, yes,” Dimitri says with a blush. “We understand America demands to know. And we all want to tell.” He breaks to say something in Russian. The muscular cosmonauts smile and nod. “As I mention earlier, sir, we are on tour of Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger restaurants throughout country. And Sunday night, on national teevee, we will finally announce winner.”
“Wow, that sounds spectacular.”
“You-will-not-want-to-miss-it.”
The Beef Club, as it’s unofficially titled, is the entire eighteenth floor of the hotel. When Deshler and Napoleon have slow nights they discuss the Club. Or what they assume the Beef Club is like.
Napoleon guesses it’s a cigar lounge, a nook from turn-of-the-century England. Everything in dark wood and brass. The chairs would be, as Napoleon put it, Creampuff Leather. Seats so huge and soft your rich ass gets a hug. He guesses visitors drink brandy and scotch and not much else. Members debate with stogies between their teeth, looking out over the city, planning the next Space Burger takeover.
Deshler’s view is vague. He’s never had a
decent answer to stack against Napoleon’s dream. Frankly, Dean’s sober imagination is nothing to write home about.
Inside the elevator, Roland Winters and Dean small talk about the weather and basketball. The CEO swipes a keycard through a slot, a bulb lights green. He presses the eighteen button. “What’s today, Friday?” Winters says as the box lifts.
“Uhm, no, it’s Thursday.”
“Thank God. This place will be a veterinary office full of table scraps tomorrow. Just like every Friday. I don’t need that now.”
Dean lets out an uncomfortable cough to fill the silent pressure building in the elevator.
“God, I hope those Bust-A-Gut assholes aren’t here. Not today.” Winters straightens red pant legs. “I’m not in the mood for that shit, you know?”
“I hear you,” Dean says, almost too assured. He makes a note to play it down, be neutral.
“Scum suckers,” Roland hisses. “Oh, I’m sorry, no offense, buddy. Not everyone who works with Bust-A-Gut. You, for example.”
The elevator pings and the doors open right into the Beef Club. It isn’t what Napoleon dreamed.
There is no oak. No bowtie-wearing bartender. No Creampuff Leather. It looks the same as the employee break room in the basement, but six-times larger and with a killer view of downtown.
Long fluorescent bulbs pop and sizzle overhead, soaking a yellow stain into the room. The couches are mismatched—some blue, some floral, some plaid. All are worn, stained, and hemorrhaging stuffing. The walls hang cheap photo prints fading orange. The room clutches a frat house quality Dean hasn’t seen since visiting a buddy at college.
The Beef Club décor, you see, has a lot to do with its founder.
A few decades back, Christopher Winters and the owner of the hotel started the Beef Club. The American hero wanted somewhere his executives could unwind. In fact, several years after its inception, the benevolent burger boss even allowed Bust-A-Gut’s people to join as a goodwill gesture. However, Winters was heavily bottom-line oriented and asked the hotel owner to decorate the club as inexpensively as possible, which turned out to be left-over hotel furniture from storage. Over the years a few people mutinied by hanging out in classier spots, but it never caught on. Winters dropped by the club every night, and wherever the man-who-nearly-caught-Hitler went, a crowd of followers remained. Heavy drinking on Fridays at the club is an institution. Rumor has it if you miss a Friday, you might come back to work without a job on Monday.
The bartender is the same kid Deshler’s seen working at the lobby lounge. Dean laughs at how wrong Napoleon’s theory is. This bartender’s not the kind of guy who serves millionaires, he’s the kind who huffs clear glue at break time. He has big, dumb eyes and a mouth that drops open when nobody is looking.
“Beer for me,” Winters tells the kid. “And Deshler, you want your regular?”
A thousand drink orders rubber-ball-bounce around his skull. He’s never had a regular drink at any phase in his life. At least not that he remembers.
“Right on, sir,” the kid says. “One PBR and a Rusty Knife.”
A Rusty Knife, Deshler learns, has something to do with whiskey, muddled cherries and sugar. Crushed maraschinos float like bits of flesh cleaned from an old blade.
The sun has nearly disappeared and the room crowds with men and women dressed to kill in the boardroom. Most drink cheap beer or wine from screw-top bottles—two drinks Winters Sr. and his tight wallet always enjoyed.
Deshler and the CEO sit at a wobble-legged table by the window. “Enough of this bologna, let’s carve the turkey,” Winters says, edging close. Dean looks at the CEO’s skin—heavy wrinkles raccoon around the eyes and across the forehead.
“Let’s do that,” Deshler says, shaking his hollow skull, dreading the next words.
“My father loved you. He had a lot of faith in Deshler Dean. And if my dad had that vision, well, by golly, so do I. Christopher Winters was a genius. A genius I have a hard time living up to, as you can imagine.” He straightens his imitation ketchup blazer.
“Consider yourself lucky.” Deshler sips the drink. It tastes like Night Train and kicks at the head, leaving traces of buzz. “My Father was sort of sent off when I was young, but even when he was around he wasn’t that fantastic. Good dads are a rare commodity.” Dean’s eyes feel inflated, his throat clears.
“Yes,” Winters says, drawing it out uneasy. “I don’t think anyone wants to hear that story twice, thanks.”
Dean tries to push away all memories of Dad and Mom’s blame. He attempts to pull in Winters. Dean’s curious where this is going.
“Let’s get to it. Have you thought about my offer? I hope you have.”
“Sorry. Remind me, Roland, what’s, ah, you know, the offer again?” Dean smiles at how easy honesty is. Maybe this trend will catch on, he thinks.
The walrus sighs and rubs at his temples. He grabs the mustard yellow knot around his neck and loosens it. “Christopher Winters is spinning in his grave, God rest his soul. I take it the answer is no?”
“Easy, easy,” Deshler’s flustered mouth guns out. “Let’s just, you know, talk. You should talk.”
“You’re either in or out, Dean. Quit dusting my cock.” Winters hails a waitress. Deshler looks down. His Rusty Knife is a stack of loose ice cubes. He doesn’t remember finishing. “You’ve got a knack for this business. The Space Burger, that entire campaign is genius. Our profits have gone up two percent since it kicked off.” Winters grows tense in the arms, crushing the beer can slightly. “I’ll even give you credit, Bust-A-Gut’s Monte Cristo…people eat that shit by the shovelful. You played ball for the other guys and really got us on that one.”
A waitress brings a beer and a tumbler of Rusty Knife. Dean gulps down half, trying to stop his shaky arms from going completely haywire.
“And…and I know you’re working with Findlay’s people on another project.” The CEO’s bulky fingers fidget with the can tab, decapitating it. “Intelligence says it’s something to do with cheese sticks. That’s fine. I don’t blame you for working with Bust-A-Gut again. You’re a free agent.”
Deshler silently agrees, keeping eye contact. The room rumbles with voices. One overhead light is switching on-to-off every few seconds.
“The Winters family knows…I know, that you could make a great VP of Development. Harry, the Chief of Development, knows it, too. He’s excited to have you aboard. I mean, your reputation looks like the Fort Knox vault around here.”
Deshler takes this in. Whiskey torpedoes around his brain, sinking tiny battleships of logic. He says the first thing on that evaporating mind. “Did the governor really say all that?”
“Absolutely.” Roland’s cheeks blush into cuts of salmon under a creeping layer of stubble. The bags below his eyes sag. “It keeps me up at night, trying to maintain Dad’s legacy, walking in his shadow. I mean look at me, I’m the B-movie version of Christopher Winters. Getting you onboard was a dying wish from my father. He told me on his death bed to get that Dean kid at all costs. I just want to see that come true.” Winters takes a gulp of beer and nearly chokes. “God…God rest his soul.”
“That’s flattering, Roland,” Dean says, with a shallow pool of confidence filling. Dean recognizes this sensation—it’s happiness. His entire life, when this feeling arrives he pushes it away. It’s wrecked many friendships, loves, jobs and bands.
Most people on the receiving end of this push just stare at our hero like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But Dean knows why he does it. It doesn’t mean he hates himself any less, though.
Winters checks over his shoulder. A dark-skinned guy with a soul patch talks about the difference between sharp cheddar and extra sharp cheddar to a group. They ball fists behind their backs.
“So…?”
Magically, Deshler’s second cocktail is gone. Skin hangs like it could dribble off his bones and into a puddle. A gentle hum starts in the chest and vibrates through his body the way several drinks inspire him before
band practice.
Winters’ sad eyes hold the stare. Dean fights off fidgets under their pressure.
The Cliff Drinker reminds himself that the alternative is parking cars eight hours a day and, apparently, Malinta thinks it’s sexy when he struts around the Club like he knows something. Deshler is one tongue click from uttering: “Yeah, Roland, I’m in,” and embracing happiness for once in his life, when a man with a salt and pepper beard clears his throat.
“Sir, we’ve made some progress on the contest winner,” the man hisses into Winters’ ear.
“Great. Talk to marketing about it.”
“It’s you-know-who. Harry is picking you-know-who up right now. The CEO should come by the office and say…” the man strains from behind that salty, peppery beard. “Hi, perhaps.”
Winters eyes this man with shock. He’s beaming hot and his posture is tight. “Oh, well, oh. Yes, I should. Deshler, let’s sew this puppy up tomorrow over lunch.” The CEO is up and practically out the door. “Are you free?”
“Completely,” he says, thankful to have more time to think.
“Call Deb, she’ll schedule something.”
The waitress brings a third drink without a word. Deshler’s brain unhinges and he stares at the lights across the city. It’s relaxing, the warm buzz and the headlights going up and down the street. Fragments of Winters’ talk enter Dean’s consciousness, but fade to the skyline going to bed, getting dark, outlined in gentle orange streetlamps.
It doesn’t even bother him that the room is thick with that musty cellar scent.
The revolving door of Dean’s life swings and when he looks up, Malinta is sitting in Winters’ warm seat.
“What are you doing here? Drinking?”
“I’m…yes. It’s called a Rusty Knife, apparently.” His pool of confidence dries up, getting caught in the act.
“I know that.”
“Right.”
“You said you’d come with me, sober. And my coworkers said you were talking to Roland Winters.”
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