So, right, you had some questions.
Is it bad for you? Well, I’m not here to tell you how to live. What’s bad for you may be my idea of a honeymoon. Besides a vampire-like lust for tiny white rocks, some side effects include severe tooth decay and intense skin welts caused by constant scratching. Also, staying awake for weeks on end has been known to twist biological clocks into a blackberry thicket. But hey, chances are, nature being the way it is, stuff like that was bound to happen anyway. Right?
Where can I get some? Good question. Unlike hard street drugs of the past, there is no need to adventure downtown through dark alleyways and rat-nest crack houses. Meth has taken on a rural flavor in America. Don’t get me wrong, inner-city folks love this stuff, too—it just seems that you can’t drive down a dirt road or date your cousin without tripping over a meth lab. I’ve heard pseudoephedrine practically pours out of the faucets in the sticks. My suggestion would be to find the nearest trailer park or high school and ask around. I’d question the first person who looks like Pandemic.
Which reminds me, we should get back and see how Juan’s pal Deshler Dean is making out.
Waking up drunk is a totally different problem than waking up hungover. Deshler Dean will talk your ear raw regarding the finer points of both.
The Cliff Drinker has been quoted saying: “Basically, one’s like waking up with your car dangling over a cliff—that’s coming-to still drunk as shit. But a hangover is more like waking up crushed in the passenger seat at the bottom of the ravine.”
Deshler wakes up with the brain tingling. Still a tiny bit drunk, the Cliff Drinker’s front tires dangle over a Grand Canyon-size hole.
Never in his alcohol ingesting career has Dean worried about dying. He’s never considered waking up staked out on a fluffy cloud and plucking a harp as a possibility. However, peeling his face off a leather couch in the corner of a boardroom, he’s seriously considering the reality of purgatory.
“Johansson,” a man’s cheery, Sunday school voice says. “Whaddya have for us on your end?”
The room is trimmed in candy cane white and red. There’s a mural of a cartoon moose and some jitterbugging vegetables on the opposite wall. The space is long and hollow. Deshler is ninety-seven percent positive he’s never been here before.
Someone stumbles through a PowerPoint presentation. The lights are dim and nobody notices Deshler’s heap rise. His first thought is: I’m a ghost. Maybe I’m haunting this boardroom. He barks out a phlegmy cough to check. No one at the packed table flinches.
The graphics on the wall have the heading: Healthy Wally’s Market Share. There’s a three-color pie chart—the remainder being yellow and green.
The ghost is forty-five percent sure he’s a ghost…possibly a poltergeist.
The ghost rolls its head from shoulder to shoulder. Its vision is dishwater clear at best. Here’s the kicker: no headache. No nausea. No bloodstains, even though the ghost vaguely remembers burning through several glasses of Rusty Knife.
Deshler considers lifting these phantom limbs off the couch, sprouting angel wings and flapping away. He briefly wonders what the difference between a phantom and a ghost is. Not now, he thinks.
“That’s great, Johansson, that sounds very solid. Tell your people keep fighting, we’ve got our big bullets in the gun,” the happy voice says. The tail end of each sentence bounces around the room. It’s Dexter Toledo. But Dean wouldn’t know that, not being an avid Nightbeat watcher.
Deshler sits up and discovers he’s surfing last night’s booze wave. His mouth tastes the way used floss smells.
“So, let’s review some numbers quickly. Bust-A-Gut is steady, the Logistics Department says the dome’s popularity is growing with the Mozza-Burger. Winters, oh boy, folks,” the man’s voice dissolves like sugar in water. “This Flu Burger whaddya-callit is shooting through the roof. I mean, the numbers are huge. They are kicking tail feathers. This makes the Monte Cristo look like a bologna sandwich. Everything else is history. Long story short, people are gaga for those hamburgers. What a surprise and what a gift. These new findings make the heart attack angle we were using look doggone silly.”
The group grumbles, upbeat and pleased. Deshler hears one guy grunt, “Yesssss.”
“I know, I know, we’re all excited about the Flu Burger, but you all must keep a lid on Healthy Wally’s plan to fight it. We’re almost there. That being said, Nightbeat is on tonight. I trust everyone will watch. This episode should be interesting to say the least.”
A squirrelly bald guy lifts his voice above the rest: “The Flu Burger is really taking off in rural areas, too. Big time. The Northwest, Oregon, of course. The Midwest is picking up steam. It’s going better than planned.”
“That’s fantastic. I know it was a bear, switching the campaign focus at the last minute. But we couldn’t have asked for such a gift. I’ll pass this information on to Miss Dayton when I speak with her.”
“Dexter, sir, where is Wally? Not to sound skeptical, but we’re all sort of worried. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“That’s understandable. The boss is traveling. Don’t forget, there are dozens of new stores opening around the country. She’s personally inspecting them all. Bottom line, Wally Dayton would love to be here, and she will be soon, but we’ll have to soldier on alone for a while.”
The crowd mumbles to each other.
“Ron, can you get the lights, please,” Toledo calls. “Ah, what a treat, folks. The Man of the Hour is up and at ’em! Welcome, Mister Dean.”
Golf course whispers flood around the boardroom table. “Welcome back,” one woman says.
Deshler is only twenty-five percent sure he’s never been inside this room and zero percent sure he’s a ghost. He stands and his legs sway off balance.
A short black guy rises at the other end of the room and locks eyes. “Well, Deano, you think you’re still up to giving us a few words? Or do you need to freshen up a bit?” This guy owns the happy voice. Toledo wears the same straw golf hat he sported during the Nightbeat interview.
Dean wants to run fast. His voice is a rusty tuba, low and out of tune. “Well, now, I…eh, perhaps I could tidy up?” He notices pink speckles of vomit on the left pant leg. His fingers buzz electric, cycling through his memory bank, trying to figure out what few words this man is referring to.
Toledo chuckles, the room follows quietly. The guy actually holds his sides.
“Oh, come on, Mister Dean. You’re working double shifts for Winters and Bust-A-Gut, but you can’t find time for us?” This cracks the boardroom up.
Dean jumbles across the floor. He wants water. He wants aspirin. He’s heard Pedialyte is great for this type of sickness. He wants that, too.
“I really need to find a restroom, excuse me, please, uh…Mister…” he rumbles the words slow. “M-mister?”
Dean takes a haunted house leap when he spots Malinta. Her towering blonde head sits at the end of the table to the right hand of the happy guy. Dean smiles. Malinta makes eye contact, then drops focus to a stack of paper, then back up to Dean. “Mister Toledo,” she says. “Gee, I think I can fill in while our…while Mister Dean powders his nose. I have a report about my interview.”
“That’d be great, Ms. Redding,” Toledo says. “Take as much time as you need, Dean. We’re bunkered down here for the rest of the day, as you know.”
Dean’s vision jiggles a little. If drunkenness were measured like a keg of beer, he’d be sputtering foam. Hangover city is just around the corner. And that city is a collapsing son of a bitch.
Deshler’s one hundred percent positive he’s been to this boardroom now. He’s just not sure why. But, he is reminded, I’ve imagined things before. What did the doctor call them? Alcohol Induced Hallucinations.
Ernie the Keebler Elf discussed his vote for Governor.
He and Abraham Lincoln played a game of RISK. Abe won.
His band signed a $500,000 record contract. (Still possibly not a hallucination)<
br />
Pepsi beat Coke in a blind taste test.
A poster of a goo-goo eyed moose with a red sweater greets Deshler as he avalanches into the hallway. The antlered beast snacks on Healthy Wally’s Carrot Stick Poppers. The hall lighting is blunt white. Tall, palmy plants line the wall.
“Nope, nope, nope,” says his bullfrog throat. “This is not the real thing. Hallucinations.”
Deshler swears under his breath, doing his best not to act like a fresh escapee from the padded cells. Just like in the boardroom, everyone in the office stares as if he is their embarrassing child. He waits for the elevator. Two other women inspect the Cliff Drinker up and down, smile and bite their lips.
The elevator is wrapped in mirrors. Deshler checks his hair and notices he isn’t wearing a shirt or shoes. His creamy skin is sleep-creased from the couch. He decides the best bet is to go home and pass out. Whoever this boardroom is, they can wait.
On the street, Dean is relieved to find a wallet, keys and cell phone in his pants. The frosted pavement pin-pricks his bare feet as winter air jacks up the hangover’s intensity. His muscles are cold and glassy. He’s ready to shatter apart any second.
“Mister Dean, Mister Dean,” a young guy says, jogging down the street. “Dexter says to call him later. He wishes you could have stayed longer. He apologizes for Ms. Dayton’s absence, she’s traveling.”
The guy’s smooth face has intern written all over it. The young man drops his jaw and takes in the full shirtless package of Dean. “Whoa, dude. Can I call you a cab?”
“No, I’m perfectly fine. I love frostbite,” Deshler rumbles.
“Sir, Mister Dean. Here, take this,” the intern says, slipping off a puffy green ski parka. “You need it.”
“No, man, no, please,” he tries to shrug off the coat.
“You can just return it to me tomorrow, you know?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Oh God, your feet. Here, borrow my shoes, too. Sir, wow, is there anything else? Wow.”
“I really don’t think you want to be doing this…” He waits for the name.
“Mikey, I’m Mikey Medved.”
“Just go back in and stay warm. I’m okay, Mikey.”
“It’s my honor.” Mikey shrinks back, looks embarrassed. “You’re…you’re the man.”
Gibby would wear the coat, Dean thinks. “Great point, I’ll take it.”
The intern scoots off to the office. The jacket is a size too large and drafty. The shoes flap on and off. He hums the first few lines to Broken Piano for President to take his mind from this tangled place.
When the atomic bomb detonated in Hiroshima, it ignited with a tiny trigger. A device no bigger than a fist. In an instant, this small switch erupted into a ball of hell. There is a similar switch in Dean’s skull. It just clicked on, ushering a Hall of Fame headache.
Standing, measuring this pain, Dean soaks up each awful ache. You deserve this, he thinks, you had this coming.
The vibratory blasts are so dense, Dean hardly notices his pants pocket buzzing. He ducks into a bus shelter to answer.
“Dean…McComb here.” The voice is tight and belongs to his new science geek troll friend at the record company. “How goes it? You talked to the other Lotharios?”
“Huh?” His hangover is dialed to black hole proportions. Matter disappears at algebraic rates.
“Dean, we talked about this one. The Suits, the big wigs at Moral Compass, get a little nervous simply handing over five hundred grand, my man. You know, they kind of like to catch their new acts live. Very hands-on management. The Purple Bottle is booked for tomorrow night. Tell all your friends. We can use a receptive crowd for the Lothario Speedwagon showcase. Trust me, the Suits have never seen anything like your band. They’ll flip.”
The wind hums through the tiny phone. “Excuse me?”
“Hello, Dean? This is Deshler Dean, right? Lead singer for Lothario Speedwagon. Signee to Moral Compass Records. Soon-to-be rich bastard. Does any of this fit the description, man?”
“What showcase? Lothario Speedwagon…the guys aren’t even in town. The band broke up.”
Husky silence.
His head slumps against the Plexiglas bus stop. A stiff drink sounds perfect. My mind, he thinks, works so much better that way.
“Do not pull my leg today, buddy,” the exec says with a car salesman’s tongue. “I’m fit to pop, I’m so excited for you guys. No pressure, but this is the deal breaker. But don’t sweat it. The day before I signed the Butthole Surfers to Capitol, they were way tighter wound than you.”
“Gibby?”
“Of course, they didn’t try to convince me that their band broke up, either.”
“The Butthole Surfers. Gibby Haynes?”
“Dean, hello? God, you are nervous. Remember going over the papers, you said those were the magic words. Anyone who signed the Surfers is good enough for you. We just talked about this again the other night, remember? At the Indian joint? I’m not a big fan of repeating myself.”
“I did?” Deshler says, crossing the record contract off the list of things he hallucinated.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I did!”
“So, anyhow, I hope you have something knockout planned for the show. But remember, these guys aren’t as—” A bus pulls up and roars next to Dean.
“What? I…I’m on the street, I missed that.”
“Not as hip. The Suits aren’t as hip as you and I. So, you know, tone it down a few notches. I think it’d be best for your career. You know, for the band.”
Dean thinks about his hero. Dean remembers reading a story about how Gibby was an honors student and captain of the basketball team in college. Haynes even landed a prestigious job at an accounting firm after graduation. The man’s life was set—success and money and a house on a cul-de-sac were easily within reach. Gibby, though, gave it up for the puke and sweat and scum of being a touring musician.
People needed to listen. Haynes sacrificed stability for art. He poured the piss wand all over it.
Dean thinks about the boardroom full of happy people he just left. He thinks about the boardrooms full of unhappy people at Winters and Bust-A-Gut—people who never seem to be satisfied with him, even though they say, “Good work.” People who want more from him, people who say, “Yesterday is history, what have you done for me lately?” People who say, “How’s your workload? Well, too bad, here’s more.”
Man, he thinks. I never want to step inside an office again. That shit isn’t for me. That shit isn’t for artists.
“Yeah, totally, we’ll knock ‘em out. We’ll, you know, blow that place away.” His head is a single pinprick from exploding. Lying thins Dean’s skin to slime. But am I lying? he wonders. “Yeah, man, we’ll be there at nine.”
“Dean, we discussed this, sound check is at eight. You guys need to play your best.”
What would Gibby do? Dean thinks.
With no idea where his bandmates are, or if they will ever speak to him again, or who the guy on the other end of the phone is, Dean summons the shit-faced gospel preacher voice he uses at concerts—the one that makes people’s heads jerk back and pay attention: “Lothario Speedwagon will be there and ready, count on it.”
Nightbeat begins the same way it does every episode. Sharon Smalley’s voice is cool and professional. A very popular anxiety drug over two-million Americans rely on may deliver explosive seizures. Which one? Stay tuned to Nightbeat. She says geologists think there may be a way to prevent a catastrophic volcano blast, but maybe not. Find out in our second half.
“But first,” our host says, “The drug epidemic sweeping our drive-through windows. Which drug and what drive-through? Find out after our commercial break.”
No sign of ads for Winters’ Flu Burger or Bust-A-Gut’s mozzarella madness. Plenty of airtime for department store clearance sales, anxiety medication that may or may not be linked to seizure and laptops.
“Methamphetamine in po
wder form, better known as crystal meth, is a serious problem,” Sharon tells us from behind the desk. “The government and pharmacists across the country have made it harder and harder to obtain over-the-counter cold-and-flu-medicines containing pseudoephedrine, the main ingredient in the drug’s production. However, America’s top hamburger chain recently made it much simpler.”
She reviews the same basic ideas covered a few pages back on meth’s production, popularity and effects. She sounds much more professional than that chapter, though.
“It’s cold and flu season in America and this year over three-million sniffly noses have turned to Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers for the cure. The chain’s Flu Burger is a hamburger laced with symptom-fighting medicine. However, the sauce’s major ingredient is the aforementioned pseudoephedrine.”
A greasy stack of meat and cheese, frosted in blue cough medicine, gets a pornographic close-up.
A man with a scatter of teeth and a complexion of purple-red scabs is interviewed. His caption reads: Ryan Miller, Chattanooga, TN – Age 18 – Meth Addict. “Yeah, we used tuh have trouble getting the cold medicine fer our lab. But then we got the idea tah use the Flu Sauce from Winters. It takes uz some werk, but we gidit jus right for crystal. After a while, we jus paid off the night manager for gallon buckets of it, so we did’n have to scrape it off the meat n’more.”
Sharon is back on screen. “And that is how a methademic begins. No one we interviewed saw the beginning. And nobody sees an end in sight. An unnamed source from the FDA claims the green light for this product was a snafu, a one-in-a-million glitch that should have never occurred. The FDA denied further comment to Nightbeat.
“This, of course, begs the question: ‘Didn’t Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers foresee this problem?’ A spokesperson claims that, no, they felt that was the FDA’s territory. The spokesperson, who appeared on our program last week and still wishes to remain anonymous, claims, and I quote, ‘Winters’ only interest is providing great taste and flu relief to hungry sickness sufferers, you ignorant expletive deleted, expletive deleted, expletive deleted.’
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