Broken Piano for President

by Patrick Wensink

  “I saved your ass,” young Winters whined, throat sprained sore from sobbing. “You needed me to do this and I did it. I’m going to be part of the company. It’s my legacy.”

  “Tim, I do need you to do this. Grandpa needs you to do this. You are doing an important job and we’ll compensate you for it. The problem is the Board…”

  “Bullshit, bullshit,” he screamed. “Grandpa wouldn’t let some board push him around.”

  “Timothy, I’m not your grandpa. God knows I try. I’ll say this once, the best way for you to get involved with the company is to do your job now. Show everyone you can be trusted, that you’re a responsible businessman. That’s the kind of thing these guys pay attention to. Okay?”

  Pandemic dropped the phone. He staggered to his bunk.

  Across the bus, Henry, Sonja and Keith chatted at the table. Henry filled them in on his life, ignoring the last six months embarrassing himself as Lothario Speedwagon’s bassist.

  The scrawny Russians are the first brother and sister in space, they claimed. They grew up outside of Moscow and joined the military prior to the space program. Sonja was on a submarine and Keith actually flew MiGs, but never saw combat.

  The topic quickly changed.

  (No, be serious.) Keith’s eyes were full of wonder. (Nobody actually eats Space Burgers for pleasure.)

  (I have,) Henry said, proud. (They’re good. Better than the Monte Cristo.)

  (Even starving,) Sonja said. (I thought they were disgusting.)

  (Space Burgers are not disgusting. Borscht is disgusting. Cabbage soup is disgusting.)

  Keith’s laugh filled the bus. His fellow flyers stared and rolled eyes. (Cabbage soup! I will be eating the cabbage soup until I live for one hundred years.)

  Sonja nodded. (Those hamburgers will be eating you, Henry. In the heart, yes?)

  (Look at me,) he began smiling, realizing the two were toying around. (I am healthy enough to be a cosmonaut, yes?)

  (You do not want to know the space life, my little Henry,) Sonja’s eyes went serious and small.

  (What was space station like?) Hamler asked in shattered Russian.

  (It was not what you do think. Not in the smallest percentage,) Sonja said, eating an apple. Henry couldn’t picture her wearing a big furry hat and pounding around in the Moscow snow. In the right light she could be from California or Arizona, he thought. Except for those teeth—those are a hundred percent Bolshevik. (It was a dark time and we are fortunate to be breathing the air now.)

  (Yes,) her brother added, staring at the other three spacemen playing cards. (Everything here is not as it was up in space. This is not the scene we saw. They can try to kill us, but—)

  Sonja snapped a spring-loaded squeeze on Keith’s shoulder, hushing him. She bit more apple.

  (So how will you protect us from more insane Americans?) Keith said, speaking slow enough for Hamler to follow. Henry could never picture when people were supposed to look like brother and sister. Especially these two: he had brown eyes, she had blue. He had a flat, boxer’s nose, she had a long, straight machete for a vodka-sniffer. (You cannot clothesline everyone. You all carry guns, yes?)

  (Every American must own gun, is law,) Sonja said with glittering eyes.

  (I am giving a gun, but most Americans do not,) Hamler said and flipped open his jacket, revealing the holster and dark butt of a semiautomatic pistol. Lately, his opinion of the gun had shifted from fear to pride. (I have never owned one before. I am telling of my boss to bang bang Americans who bang bang at Russians, yes?)

  The siblings nodded and Sonja said: (Let me see this weapon. This gun that will save my life.)

  (I think not to.) He closed the jacket curtain on the gun.

  (It will not be a problem. I have handled many guns from my time in the Navy.)

  (Yes, I have, as well,) her brother said. (We have great respect for weapons.)

  (This is not an option for today’s.)

  (Henry, we are friends. Do not be afraid.)

  Henry thought long. (I am not afraid. Nothing brings the fear to my heart. Except maybe for tall heights. But I am a charge-taking gentleman of the Earth.)

  Sonja giggled. (This is not the first gun we have known, Little Henry. It will be a trust we share.)

  Hamler shrugged, it spread his face wide. (The other cosmonauts will be seeing none gun, please.)

  The Russian siblings nodded and pointed near Hamler’s breast pocket.

  Hamler slipped the gun out with a fabric whoosh and passed it across the Formica table. Its black metal sucked in the light, every divot and crease outlined perfectly. The cosmonauts made approving noises in no language.

  (Is it loaded?) Keith said.

  (It is a beautiful machine. I am sure it feels beautiful to shoot. To bang-bang, yes?)

  Hamler eyed the room, ensuring nobody noticed the firearm. (Yes, its power is more than my human soul.)

  Keith glanced up from the gun: (May I hold it? It has been many years for me.)

  (Quickly. Please be careful.)

  Keith lifted the gun like its barrel was sculpted granite. He twisted it sideways and shucked out the clip. (Mmmm, this feels natural. Feels comforting.) A relaxed smile, the first Henry had seen, formed on the spaceman’s face—teeth just as rotten as hers.

  LA in the winter was so much hotter than home. The air conditioner was blowing on Henry’s face. Outside the window, people were wiping sweaty brows and wearing tank tops. It was a weird, peaceful balance. Weirder still when factoring in the loaded firearm. But Henry was calm—everything seemed to be in its correct place. He was getting close to the people he was protecting. And that was good. The more he knew about Sonja and Keith and Dimitri and the rest, the more acute his senses grew. Their budding friendship made Henry want to protect everyone so much more. This job was becoming fun. And that was something Hamler hadn’t experienced since lifeguarding the summer between freshman and sophomore year.

  Suddenly, Delia Ellery stormed through the motor home. “Hello! Does anyone have a watch? We need to be outside signing autographs. We need to shake hands. We need to sell hamburgers.”

  She was sweaty and out of breath. Her suit jacket sleeve rolled into a nub. “Scoot, scoot. Dimitri, please get everyone moving.”

  The cosmonaut leader stood and barked a few commands until the others rose and slid out the door, muttering Russian curses.

  Hamler walked back to Juan Pandemic’s bunk. The contest winner was wrapped into a knot, sobbing. “Dude, come on. You’ve got to get out there.”

  “I can’t believe him. What kind of father does this? God.” His mustache was wet fur, matted and sticky. His toupee had a serious cowlick, eyes cracked raspberry-red.

  “Juan, man, I’m sorry. We need to get through this today. Tomorrow’s a day off. It’ll be okay.”

  “I can’t do this, I can’t…” He rolled over and his back convulsed with sobs.

  Delia stomped up and pulled Pandemic’s leg. She convinced the heir to go and stand on the flimsy stage with the other five, then come back and be a bawl baby later.

  The crowd goes nuts. A line spills out the restaurant doors. People whisper about hoping there are enough Space Burgers to go around. American hero Juan Pandemic looks confused. He looks like he’s wearing a disguise.

  At the core of the mayhem, near the back of the stage, Sonja slinks behind Yuri and wraps his body in a Russian military submission hold. The unsuspecting cosmonaut’s limbs twist at bizarre angles, his face burns fluorescent tones.

  The audience waves banners: “Cosmonaut Fever,” “From Russia with Love,” “I Heart Space Burgers.” There is a flurry of excitement, jumpy and electric in the air. The noise speaks in tongues.

  Keith reaches into the cargo pocket of his jumpsuit. He slips behind Pavel before Yuri drops. In a kung-fu quick move, Keith’s foot buckles the backside of Pavel’s knee. Keith floats behind the now-kneeling spaceman and shoves the barrel of a black handgun shallow in the plump cosmonaut’s ear. He pulls
the trigger.

  The crowd noise strangles the huge gun crack quiet, down to a finger-snap. But every television crew in the greater Los Angeles area captures the murder as a fire hose of blood and chunks spray loose.

  Dimitri drops his waving hand. On the nightly news footage, he smiles along, like missing a prank. He turns back to Delia for direction. Her clipboard clatters to the ground.

  Skinny little Keith, his blue jumpsuit covered with a wet flash of red, turns and stuffs the gun in Yuri’s mouth and pulls the trigger with similar results.

  On the shaky video flashing across eleven o’clock televisions tonight, contest winner Juan Pandemic flops his hands at the crowd, oblivious to the carnage and splatter around him. His mind on another planet.

  Like choreography, Sonja grabs Dimitri’s limp arm, tugs it and trips their leader to the ground. The now silent crowd blocks all but Keith’s upper body in every camera shot. The beef-crazed mob stands motionless as the struggle tumbles across their view. The gun is clearly pointed toward the body of the chief cosmonaut. With the crowd noise at zero, three shots pop.

  By the final bullet, Juan Pandemic is now in a headlock. He’s so weak he might crumble into sand under Sonja’s surprisingly muscular arms. Keith, standing lean and edgy, motions for Hamler to leap onstage.

  Hamler recalls the violently ill feelings from murdering Christopher Winters. That disgusting stomach and chest seem like a game of double dutch standing at the edge of the stage, a mist of blood nesting in his beard.

  A tiny voice, stop-drop-and-rolling in the back of his brain, whispers crucial spy training: “Grab your gun. Save the day. They are not your friends.” Henry tightens his spine and goes for the holster. Suddenly, the firearm in Keith’s hand looks familiar. Suddenly, the sting of failure is all his body knows.

  Hamler lets out a defeated sigh.

  The bloody cosmonaut whispers in Little Henry’s ear.

  Defenseless, Hamler steps to the microphone and speaks in a shaky voice. “The Moscow Two want the world to know the truth. Do not attempt to stop them,” he says, nodding while Keith whispers more, jerking and angry. “Or they will begin ending civilian lives, as well. These three were not innocent. Do not attempt to stop the Moscow Two. They wish for all police to…” his voice echoes through the parking lot and dissolves into Los Angeles smog.

  A whirlwind mob grows from the center of the crowd. News cameras capture a stampede of burger-loving, death-fearing Americans. This is the point most cameramen are trampled—their feed whipping into a thrashing blur and growl of static.

  One camera’s sound rolls amongst the retreating avalanche. When it plays on Nightbeat, Hamler’s voice booms over the PA: “Please, these two say they only want justice.” There is a lot of static and the meaty slap of skin slamming skin. “These two say you do not know the real truth about outer space and Winters hamburgers.”

  Each heartbeat stomps into Deshler’s brain, swelling it larger—larger—larger. He pokes open an eye and recognizes all the posters. His bedroom smells moist, forest moist.

  Coiled into a ball on the bed, Dean is still tightly wrapped in clean office clothes. A necktie chokes across his Adam’s apple. He’s fifty percent sure he’ll find no bloodstains.

  The napalm power of Broken Piano for President shakes through Dean’s memory, jiggling the jelly of his eyeballs.

  He checks the nightstand and finds both wallet and keys in sight. This is looking like another Hall of Fame morning. Already, it’s one hundred percent better than yesterday at work.

  Though Deshler’s insides attempt a somersault, his lips burst open a large grin, thinking maybe he’s finally getting the hang of Cliff Drinking. Thinking maybe he can be a responsible drunk.

  Deshler reaches for the wallet to see how much money was blown last night, but instead picks up a folded sheet of white paper beneath it. A murky splotch of stale beer has spidered toward the edge and dried:

  Moral Compass Records

  2613 SE Pine St

  Portland, OR 97214

  503-234-6990

  This contract hereby employs the musical services of Lothario Speedwagon to Moral Compass Records. Upon signing, the artist(s) will receive a monetary advance of $500,000 against all future record sales. All profits from said recordings shall proceed directly to Moral Compass Records until the advanced sum is balanced. All profits after this point will be divided fifty percent (50%) to Moral Compass Records, twenty-five percent (25%) to Artists and Repertoire representative Antonio McComb and the remaining twenty-five percent (25%) to the artist(s) Lothario Speedwagon.

  This contract represents a legal commitment on behalf of the artist(s) Lothario Speedwagon to render all master recordings and copyrights for three (3) albums and/or eight (8) years of service to Moral Compass Records. In return, Moral Compass Records will handle all manufacturing, marketing and distribution costs for said recordings.

  Deshler Dean 11-29-11

  (Signature of Artist #1) (Date)

  ___________________ _______

  (Signature of Artist #2) (Date)

  ___________________ _______

  (Signature of Artist #3) (Date)

  Antonio McComb 11-29-11

  (A&R Representative) (Date)

  Malinta Redding 11-29-11

  (Witness) (Date)

  “This is so fake,” Dean’s diesel engine rattles. He recalls other bizarre things he’s written with help from his muse, whiskey. His band’s keynote song, for one.

  He reads the letter three times before rubbing fingers over the Braille-like notary seal and second guesses.

  “Could I have?” he growls and grabs a sip of warm High-Life by the bed. Dean coughs and swallows the old ale. “This, this is…a record deal,” he says, a little more lubricated.

  He turns on the clock radio and slips in a cigarette. John Cougar Mellencamp sings about R-O-C-K in the USA. The cigarette tastes like blood.

  This takes the cake as the strangest note Deshler has ever woken up with. However, it is a close race:

  Notes

  Three Months Ago: “Sir, your leotard is back from the dry cleaner.”

  Twelve Months Ago: “Call me. Franklin Delano Roosevelt – 416-278-1233”

  Forty-eight Months Ago: A medical bill for the birth of twin girls. $13,755.

  Six Months Ago: “Healthy Wally’s: 4442 S. Elm Street. 2:00 PM -DO not miss.”

  Twenty-two Months Ago: “Dean, give me back the keys to the Wiener Mobile.”

  “Well, I guess you’re still alive,” Malinta says from the doorway, looking like she tripped a landmine. Her hair is what friends call frizzy and hairdressers classify as beyond repair. The wound on her blonde head is naked and opened back up. It is pink and meaty in the dim light.

  “Hello, Miss Witness,” Dean says, feeling usual embarrassment disappear. “Can you maybe tell me what happened last night?” Deshler flaps the contract at her.

  “I can’t believe you never told me you are in a mother F-ing band, Dean. How long have we been working together?”

  “God, I don’t know.” The truth sounds lonesome.

  “What other mysteries are you keeping? Where’s the pile of skulls in your closet? Where’s the string of illegitimate kids? How many other secret jobs do you have?”

  “Beats me.” More lonesome still.

  “It’s like every time I get anywhere near you, you shove me away.”

  “I know. I wish I didn’t.”

  “So just don’t.”

  “My head,” he holds said throbber with two hands, “doesn’t work that easily.”

  “That is nowhere near funny, babe. You’ve got too much riding on this to screw up now.” Her voice fizzles into a sleepy hum.

  “Well, I’m not sure how much I have riding on anything. I might be fired at Winters…maybe the other guys, too. Everyone’s pissed.”

  “Just stay focused, okay?”

  “Did you crash here?”

  “Yes.” She rubs swollen eyes. “I coul
dn’t take your snoring so I slept on the couch.” She flops down at the foot of Dean’s bed and kicks a pile of pants across the room. “Our kids wouldn’t get a minute of sleep, if we had some. What with Daddy sawing away—”

  “Please don’t talk like that. Just remind me again where this contract came from,” he says, carefully holding the white paper like it was blood-soaked.

  “Dean, Jesus,” she hisses and spikes eyes in his direction. Deshler watches the tight, angry lines in her face melt as she warms. It looks like sympathy. “I went to the Beef Club and…” She rubs at the gash. “Aren’t you tired of this? Don’t you think we can find an easier way?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why is it always like this?”

  “I wish I knew,” he says, knowing exactly why.

  “So, everyone at the club said you were shitty drunk, spilling people’s drinks, crying. I’ve never seen the entire room so mad at one person. They were all talking about your television appearance. You’re lucky nobody kicked your ass again. I mean, come on, Dean. You’ve got a dod gamned job to do.”

  “Very ladylike.”

  “Jobs to do, I should say. You know?” Her eyes try to hammer something home. He doesn’t get it.

  “Like I said, those jobs aren’t necessarily mine anymore. Plus, I don’t remember that TV thing.”

  “Well, forget about it. I’ll take care of loose ends. We need you to focus.”

  Malinta leans her long giraffe frame across the bed and sinks her head into Deshler’s lap. Her legs curl together. Dean eyes over the contract, then her face. Malinta’s wound is hot and wet against his stomach. He dives in and kisses her. She clips Deshler’s lip with teeth.

  “Oh, God, you taste terrible,” she says with a bitter face. “I think you got sick last night, hon.”

  Deshler gives a relief pitcher’s nod. “That’s not out of the question.” He lights another cigarette and shares with Malinta. Things are silent and musty in the bedroom. This moment is good, wholesome and rare in Dean’s life. If the rest of the day were this calm, it’d be beautiful. But something inside the Cliff Drinker can’t help but kick it in the ribs. “Seriously, what’s with the contract?”