Leah speaks with one Winters employee who wishes to remain anonymous: “Sure, we know,” he says. “But Leah, it’s not what we know or what we think. It’s what our damn customers want.” The camera shows the man, but blacks out his eyes. The viewer can plainly see gap teeth and a fresh scar on his chin the shape of a seven. The man slurs words and frequently stops to hiccup. “People want more meat. They want cheese. They want their bacon strips batter dipped and fried in shortening. Jesus, don’t be an asshole, it’s supply and demand.” In the dim light the man slugs back a can of beer and burps.
Stock footage rolls as he finishes speaking: assembly lines of Winters employees slap together freeze dried ingredients so fast their foreheads sweat.
“No, no I don’t think Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers is directly tied to the obesity crisis, that’s horseshit,” the man’s voice grinds deep: Fat Albert impersonating a semi-truck. “People can easily choose not to have a tender all-beef patty with natural Wisconsin cheddar for dinner. But they do. Are you calling our customers stupid?”
Leah shuffles some papers and clears her throat. She asks if the mystery informant has any final statements.
The man drunkenly smears his words. “Well, Lisa, clear your calendars and your colons because it’s not Olde-Tyme Hamburgers’ fault America has great taste. And we’re here to stay.” He concludes by flashing a wide smile, his teeth a seven-ten split. The man’s head wobbles and he pops open one last hiccup before the scene cuts out.
“But what can be done to stop this madness?” says our anchorwoman back in the studio.
Leah sits behind the desk now, too. “Well, Sharon, when we return I’ll speak to a gentleman who says the hamburger is the Hitler of our generation. He also says Christopher Winters won’t come close to capturing this ruthless dictator. I sat down one-on-one to learn how this man plans to wage a D-Day of his own.”
More commercials: Import beer. Fast cars. Funny sitcoms. Nightly news preview. Slacks sale. Anxiety drugs. And, oddly, hamburgers.
“People,” the show returns with a sunshine voice. He is a short dark-skinned gentleman behind a podium. He addresses a yawning crowd, crossing vocal styles between congressional filibuster and Muppet. “We need to fight these oppressors. We are shackled by Big Beef and its propaganda.” The man wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. His eyes bulge into a pair of globes. “This is the first day of the rest of your lives. Folks are addicted to everything from cigarettes, to shopping, to sex…even food. It’s not just drugs, ladies and gentlemen. Food addiction is real. And it is really killing us. Health Watch International is really going to put a stop to it.”
The screen cuts to a shot of Leah and this man sitting on a patio near the eighteenth hole of a golf course. “Dexter Toledo is the spokesman for Health Watch International, a health and wellness advocacy group taking on the impossible task of breaking America’s obsession with all things greasy and beefy.”
“Leah, these are wonderful times we live in,” Toledo says happily. He wears a white and red polo shirt and a straw golf hat.
“That’s not what I expected you to say, sir. Not with thousands of Americans dying from heart failure each year. Not with more children growing morbidly obese by the hour. Not with the restaurants one-upping each other with increasingly outrageous gastronomic stunts every day.”
Toledo closes his eyes and shakes his head the way people do when Jesus enters their hearts on late night church shows. “It’s a wonderful time, young lady, because we have the power to change all that. All of it. I’m not happy saving one person from heart disease and kidney failure. I want to save a million. I want to see cancer move ahead of heart disease as America’s big murderer.”
“You want people to die of cancer?”
His eyes widen a twitch. “Let me rephrase that. I want to live in a world where we have to worry about real threats like shark attacks, falling from ladders, and coconuts—not what’s for dinner.” His voice is peppy as Santa Claus after a pot of espresso. “Health Watch informs America of its options and how to fight Big Beef where it hurts.”
“Where is that?”
“In its wallet and its image. I want to show America how people are happier and healthier when they eat an apple off the tree, not a hot apple pie from a tiny cardboard box.”
The show concludes with Toledo providing stunning scientific connections between heart attacks and deep-fried bacon cheeseburgers. He calls for all Americans to break their addiction. “America, Health Watch is setting up a center near you. Health Watch challenges Big Beef to come up with more evil foods. In fact we dare them. It’s just going to give us more ammunition.”
“Wow, that’s a powerful message. Any final words, sir?”
Dexter Toledo stares deep into the camera with his first serious face of the interview: “Have no fear, Healthy Wally is on the way.”
What would Deshler do?
Dean strolls into work well-rested. Birds chirp new songs, colors reinvent themselves. The band didn’t work out for a reason, he thinks. I can be an artist, this pauses his walk down the hallway, mouth unhinged a little, just a hamburger artist. Lothario would waste my time and creativity.
His Gibby-centric orbit is misaligned—maybe permanently. He’s been reading Christopher Winters’ biography and brushing up on Hamburger Philosophy. “I Saw an X-Ray of a Girl Passing Gas” has been pushed into the darkness in favor of “Axis of Edible.”
Dean has a stack of notes under his arm. Ideas for new burgers, more writing than he’s penned during Lothario Speedwagon’s entire lifecycle. His feet skitter across the office floor, excited to speak. Anxious to be heard.
Winters’ Olde-Tyme Development Office is roomy and sterile. People smile when they see Dean. Exotic new burger smells pipe out from under closed office doors.
After pouring coffee and reading email, he decides to check on the new recipe. He sits behind his desk and phones the Olde-Tyme Test Kitchen. “So how does the secret sauce look?”
“Oh, well, sir,” the scientist’s voice cracks. “See, we…see we’re making progress, but I was told you were off the project. Something about, well, the Nightbeat show last night.”
“Wait, what? Slow down.”
“Sir, Mister Double Harry asked that we keep a lid on this situation.” The scientist’s voice is antsy to get off the line. “If you have questions, I’d go to him. I’m sorry. I really am.”
Deshler slams the receiver and dials with a swoop of finger punches. Harry answers. “Yep?”
“I just spoke with R and D.” Dean is out of breath, lungs can’t catch up to his confused brain.
“I’m sure you did, kid. Don’t twist yourself up about it. Let the project go. We’ve got lots more to worry over.”
“Ridiculous. Have you talked to Roland about your little move? Harry, this project is my baby.”
“Dean,” the double hamburger inventor says with a sigh. “Do you watch much television these days?”
Harry recaps last night’s Nightbeat, saying things like: “Well, now, we can’t prove that it’s anyone we know. But it’s pretty easy to narrow down all the gap-toothed employees with a damned scar like that on their chin.”
“Harry, I think I would remember something like that, don’t you?” Deshler rubs the puffy scar tissue below his lips. He regrets going to bed early. He regrets not answering the phone when Malinta’s name came up on the caller ID around eleven last night.
Or did I go to bed early? he wonders. Has the Cliff Drinker been out?
Harry isn’t listening and starts speaking before Dean’s lips close. “Now sure,” he says. Deshler can picture the smile on that wrinkled face. “It was most likely an actor, an imposter. But we’ve got to take all the precautions we can. This is top-secret stuff we’re working on. All you have to know is that the sauce prototype is about ready. It’ll be in test markets next week. Now, unless you have a confession to make, I need to go.”
“It couldn’t have been me, Harry. I was hom
e all night. I went to bed early,” he protests, all the while wondering if anyone’s ever gone to therapy for sleep-drinking. Our booze werewolf knows he didn’t go on Nightbeat last night. But can’t shake the thought that this does sound an awful lot like something a Cliff Drinker would do.
“Do you think I’m stupid? The show is live, but those segments are taped in advance. It could have been yesterday, it could have been shot two weeks ago. Can you account for all that time?”
“Uh, well…”
“Like I said, relax. All you have to know is we’ll be hitting the test markets soon.”
“That seems quick.”
“No, not really. You’d be shocked how promptly we can get things from research to marketplace. It’s being fast-tracked.”
After he hangs up, the rest of the day melts in the palm of Dean’s hand.
At a secret lunch with Thurman Lepsic, Dean’s head sinks into his neck even deeper. “Listen, Deshler, I don’t give a shit what you did on television. Hell yes I saw it,” his second boss says, voice bursting in brutal Molotov tones. “It stuck a firecracker in all our asses, but we’re moving forward.”
Lepsic sucks in his lunch: a springy lump of tofu and steamed asparagus. Dean doesn’t touch his club sandwich during the forty minute ass chewing.
“You smooth out whatever wrinkles you’ve caused. Just drop this whole I’m innocent shtick. It’ll only trip you up. You track down more information about this Hypothermia burger. Which reminds me, Findlay and I were discussing your services—”
“Where is Mister Findlay? I haven’t seen him in…” Deshler slows to a hush. He doesn’t remember ever meeting the CEO of Bust-A-Gut. Can’t even picture the boss’s face.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we should hold a family reunion. Never mind. What I need to know is what have you done for us lately?”
“Mister Lepsic…Thurman,” he says, reading a eulogy. “I’ve been spreading myself pretty thin. I haven’t had an—”
Lepsic, with wood-stained tan, flips the last nub of bean curd in his mouth. “Right now, gimme something. Gimme an idea, hotshot.” He wipes large lips and rests behind an empty plate, working a string of asparagus out from his teeth. “I’m not paying you to be a spy. I’m paying you for ideas.”
“Well, sir. We’ve got the Mozzarella Stick Burger. I haven’t read any reports yet, though I’m sure it’ll knock people out. But…”
Lepsic glances at his watch, pulls out a long cigar and lights up. The smell of smoke and the gluey thrill of tobacco squeeze sweat from Deshler’s hands. He hasn’t smoked a cigarette all day—something buried within his genetic code aches for nicotine.
He tries to summon the Drunk Deshler that wowed the Winters management a few days back. “But what if we made the burger even more irresistible.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s hear it. Let’s hear it,” Lepsic says, listening, eyebrows dancing.
“We’ve got a big battle to fight with Winters. So what if,” Deshler’s voice curls to a whisper. Cigarettes…cigarettes…cigarettes. “What if we put nicotine in the meat? I’m sure there’s some way we can get around the FDA. Restaurants duck those guys all the time. Winters is stroking them right now. If nothing else, just for test markets and maybe the first few weeks of launch. Give people an itch for this product. It’s like subliminal advertising, only subliminaler.”
Lepsic counts his fingers and adjusts several shining rings. He rolls the Havana Regulár between thumb and index, letting gray smoke glide to the lights. He gives a corner-of-the-eye glance toward the waiter.
Dean stares for so long that Lepsic takes a second, more concerned, glance. Deshler fills the gap with a low, invisible groan. The VP shifts eyes upward without moving his head. He licks his lips and locks back on Deshler. “Do you read any of our reports?”
“Yeah, of course,” Dean lies, guilty for dipping back into those Gibby-centric ways.
“I find that hard to believe, buddy.”
Deshler can’t get cigarettes off his mind. “It’s a great idea. I can take it to Winters if you don’t like it.” He awards himself a medal. He is a double agent of the highest degree.
A burst of smog flows out Lepsic’s mouth during a laugh: “Yeah, go ahead. Be my guest.”
Deshler stares and waits for the punch line.
“Dean, we already put nicotine in our burgers. Been doing it for years. Go right ahead, let your pal Roland Winters know. Christ, his dad invented that idea. We even put that stuff in our milkshakes.”
“Oh.”
“Get the hell out of here. I’m too busy for this shit. You owe me some brilliance, got it? I’m starting a tab.”
“So what does that mean?” Dean says.
“It means that I’m glad you didn’t sign a contract just yet. That little stunt on Nightbeat made you untouchable…in public at least. Do you know we have professionals who eliminate bad publicity like you? It makes holding someone off a bridge look like gym class. But I’m just saying. Anyhow, do what you do best. Keep your head low and we’ll keep signing the paychecks for now.”
That evening Deshler sits at a corner table of the Beef Club. The room is nowhere as empty as his drink. Lifting eyes from a fourth Rusty Knife, he catches many stares. Their meaty looks dig deep, their gossip crams his ears. He doesn’t feel drunk. He never does when he’s stressed. But Deshler wants the room to start spinning as fast as possible. Gibby probably would want that. A comfort and familiarity find the Cliff Drinker. He’s sorry for ever thinking about selling those Butthole Surfers bootlegs.
The Beef Club is a swarm. People from both camps tell stories. Bust-A-Gut employees say they knew Dean was working for the other guy. Winters employees say they’ve heard he’s a spy from Bust-A-Gut. One woman claims she heard in the ladies toilet, from someone who read a blog, that he’s actually a Health Watch employee. Someone else heard that he’s Roland Winters’ long-lost son and that’s why he’s moved up the old ladder so fast.
However, none of these people want to be seen actually talking to Deshler.
Drinking is the only thing that will push away all these pressures. It always works. It’s what makes the Cliff Drinker the Cliff Drinker. The crush of two bosses squeezes a fist around Dean’s head. The Rusty Knife jangles that force loose.
Double Harry was not fun during their phone conversation this morning:
“So where does this leave me?”
“Weeeeeell,” Double Harry said, real easy.
“Harry, come on. I love this company. It’s my calling in life.”
“Oh, we’ve got some work for you to do, don’t worry.”
After lunch some guys in janitor uniforms boxed Dean’s belongings up while he worked. They said his office is being moved and that’s all they knew.
“Get them while they are still lasting,” Dimitri sputters into a microphone. His hearty cheeks redden under California sunshine. The crowd of hundreds cheers so loud it reminds one cook of a Metallica concert. The mob fans throughout the Olde-Tyme playland.
So far, the Moscow Five and Juan Pandemic’s first public appearance together is going just like Delia scripted. The Space Burger team took a few days off after the television special to travel and give phone interviews. But today, beef-crazed maniacs are gathered under the smoggy Los Angeles sky for a glimpse of history.
A flimsy stage sags with the weight of the Olde-Tyme Space Burger team, the restaurant’s manager and the mayor. “You have heard me speak correctly, gentlemen and ladies.” Dimitri is Yakov Smirnoff warming-up a Vegas crowd. All smiles and exaggerated accents. “Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers is retiring the Space Burger in honor of Moscow Five!”
The crowd divides in cheers and boos. Three of the five astronauts—the happy ones—lift a hand and wave to the liquid horde. Yuri and Pavel’s swing in dramatic parade marshal arcs while Keith and Sonja gently step behind.
Secretly, Sonja hopes fans aren’t traumatized by what happens next. She likes people, she really does.
Half an hour before this insanity, Pandemic shoved himself in a corner of the tour bus. The gleaming new ride is painted green and says Space Burger in letters that can be read at seventy-five miles-an-hour.
“Finally,” Pandemic’s drugless voice said into the phone. It was loud and clear and proud. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a couple days, Dad.”
“Sorry, I’m busy. But I’m here now.”
“Did you see me on TV? I nailed it!”
“Yep, yes,” Dad sounded distracted. “The hair looked good.”
“I’m really working hard. I’ve been studying the company. I’ve been nice to all my interviewers. I think I’m really doing a great job. I’m sorry I was so mean, pop. You were right. Thanks.” He breathed deep, realizing he’d never before been within a mile of sincerity with his father. “Thanks for giving me this chance. I want to make you proud.”
“Tim.”
There was a long pause.
“Yeah?”
“Tim, I have some bad news.”
“What?”
Roland Winters, taking several little breaks, explained the situation to Timothy. The whole thing lasted less than a minute, but took hours on Pandemic’s end.
Tears leaked down and soaked into his nylon mustache. Salt water loosened the adhesive and it slipped a bit.
“But Dad,” he blubbered.
Roland Winters sat in his office sniffing a glass of scotch. It burned.
“We had a deal, we…” Pandemic’s lightweight frame tightened. His words, gummy with mucus. “I’m your son. How can you do this?”
“Mmmhhhh,” he oozed. “We never had a deal, Tim. I discussed your proposition with the Board of Directors and they denied it. It’s not really even my call. They think you’re too much of a liability to work with in any capacity. I really fought for you, I did.”
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