by Adam Resnick
My second thought was: Hold on, sister. Not so fast. That razzle-dazzle might have worked with the moth lady, but now you’re talking to someone with half a brain. I wanted answers and no amount of Southern-fried double-talk was going to stop me.
“For my own sanity,” I began, “please explain to me why a razor blade—or as you call it, an ‘object’—is necessary or even helpful in the preparation of a milk shake?”
“Thank you for that question, sir. Technically, the name of the part is an agitator slat, which helps create texture uniformity during the mixing process, and I can assure you, our franchisees have been notified of the incident and will do the necessary equipment checks to ensure this piece of apparatus remains secure in the future and I would so appreciate your address, Mr. Resnick, sir.”
Boy, she was good. My lungs hurt just from listening to her. I changed my strategy. Instead of grilling her, I’d give her some real words to chew on.
“I mean, thank God it was me and not a little kid. I have a young daughter. Thank God she didn’t go along with me. She eats a lot of crap, not that we encourage it, but it’s very likely she would’ve asked for a milk shake if she’d gone along with me. And I can assure you, this call would be quite a bit different if that were the case. As it would be for all families.”
A brief silence.
“May I get your address, please, sir?”
When the call ended, I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. But then it suddenly sunk in: Rumblenuts Corp was sending me something.
Lorrie and I discussed it over dinner. What could it be? She predicted anything from a formal apology to a couple of grand. Meanwhile, I had it from a good source that her mother was telling everyone I was a “gigantic asshole” for not “going after their wallets.”
As the days wore on, I tried not to think about it, but my brain had other ideas. Finally, about a week after the call from Ms. Kurstetter, an envelope arrived, and I tore into that fucker like an ape skins a plantain.
Inside was a wallet-sized cardboard folder with the restaurant’s colorful logo. I cracked it open, and there, staring up at me, safely tucked into four small slots to keep it in place, was a Rumblenuts gift card for forty dollars. Printed inside the folder were the words “Enjoy with our compliments at any of our 8,000 restaurants nationwide.”
I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect this. Gift cards are what franchisees pass out to Cub Scouts for picking up litter or nudging junkies to homeless shelters—the whole “we’re part of the community” jazz. Not that I was expecting a payday, but considering the circumstances, I anticipated something a little more personal. Perhaps a Rumblenuts Certificate of Merit:
In praise of Adam Resnick, who alerted us to a potentially deadly situation rather than running like a bitch to a lawyer or the local pennysaver.
But what I really struggled with was the awkward amount. Forty dollars. It wasn’t just that it was cheap; it was uniquely cheap. There had to be some thought behind it. Were they trying to send me a message? Had it been in error? Or did it have something to do, perhaps, with biblical numerics?
I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time trying to decode the logic and motivation behind the forty-dollar gift card. I probably put as much thought into it as Robert Ballard and the French-American expedition did in finding the Titanic. Eventually, though, I calmed down and settled on what I believed to be a plausible scenario.
Please now, allow me to share it with you—minus the tedious repetition of words like “debris field” and “rusticles.”
Could someone dim the houselights, please?
Inside a large conference room filled with polished wood and green leather, a cadre of fast-food executives sits around a long oak table with hand-carved legs that was once used by James Madison to draft a portion of the Virginia Resolution.
CEO: Let me understand this: I told you turds a year ago to get a foothold in Angola, and now you come back and say you built ten joints in Angola, Indiana?
EXECUTIVE #1: We’re in the process of finding out what happened, sir.
CEO: Goddamn it, I said Africa! Deepest, darkest Africa! Ten years from now they’ll have more burger joints than shrunken heads and we’ll be sitting here with our nuts in a Dixie cup.
EXECUTIVE #2: We’ve begun collecting data on factors such as instability in the region and, uh, what kind of stuff they eat. . . .
CEO: Come on, man. These are people who eat fungi and drink water with piss in it. We’ll be welcomed like kings.
An assistant furiously scribbles notes on a legal pad.
CEO (glancing at his watch): Okay, what’s next? I got a suckjob penciled in for eleven-thirty.
EXECUTIVE #3 (nervously): Well, sir, there was a little something, a sort of incident that occurred at one of our Manhattan restaurants—
CEO: Not interested. Deal with the franchisee. He bought the barn, he can muck it out.
EXECUTIVE #3: Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Uh . . . (Glances at another executive.) Jim?
Jim, a solid company man who’s spent the past thirty years hiding in his office, stands up, holding a small plastic bag.
CEO: Whadda ya got there, Tutankhamun?
JIM: Sir, this is a razor blade—a piece of a razor blade, actually—that a customer found in his milk shake at the New York location . . .
CEO (laughs): Oh, he found it, did he? I’ll tell you where he found it—in aisle nine over at Kresge’s. Come on, man, this shakedown’s older than Moby-Dick.
JIM: If only that were the case. It seems the blade is actually part of a mechanism inside the machine that somehow broke off during the mixing process and, well, found its way into the customer’s cup.
CEO: Jesus Christ, they’ll padlock this whole taffy box! How many dead?
EXECUTIVE #4: No one. The man who discovered it wasn’t injured.
CEO: Have we made plans to kill him?
EXECUTIVE #5: With all due respect, sir, after the little mess we had in Sacramento last year, we felt it best to explore a more cautious solution.
CEO: Goddamn it! I’m sick and tired of being extorted by these cross-eyed Eskimos every time they find a geegaw in their applesauce. Do they think they’re chowing at 21? When you walk into a toilet, expect some shit.
EXECUTIVE #6: The good news is, the man who found the blade doesn’t seem to be looking for money. We’ve tapped his phone, monitored his email, one of our operatives has already fucked his wife. There’s no indication we’re looking at trouble here.
EXECUTIVE #7: None whatsoever.
EXECUTIVE #6: Great point, Bill. I’ll let you take it from here.
Bill throws Executive #6 a dirty look and rises reluctantly.
BILL (addressing the CEO): Sir, after consulting with legal, PR, and Father Sweeney—who was kind enough to accept a retainer in case he’s needed to make a statement on our behalf—it was determined that if news of this little . . . flub . . . ever leaked to the press, the fallout would be short-lived but costly.
EXECUTIVE #8: The brand is fairly bulletproof at this point, but if customers start fretting about their food pipes getting sliced open . . . well, I just don’t think we want to be there. Ken, you wanna hop in?
Perspiring heavily, Ken, a blimplike executive with diabetes, throws a lit cigarette lighter at Executive #8. Gripping the table for support, he makes it unsteadily to his feet.
KEN (to the CEO): Sir, we feel that under the circumstances, since the customer isn’t looking to sue us, we should . . . well, there’s no other way to say it really . . . compensate him.
CEO (glowering at Ken): Come again, Topsy? The guy’s not asking for money, but you want to give him money?
KEN: If he accepts it, I’m told, then we have something on him, but I’m a little fuzzy on . . .
EXECUTIVE #8: It means the guy can’t yap. (To Ken) Thanks for nothing.
CEO: For crying out loud, people. Kill this razor blade son of a bitch! Burn his house dow
n. Kill his whole fucking family and the goddamn cockatiel. (Pointing to Ken) Send blubber-butt down to do it.
Ken faints, hitting his head on the table on the way down. Another exec, Brian, stands up.
BRIAN: We’re not talking about a significant sum of money, sir. From what we gather, this particular individual isn’t very bright. Rather than approach it as a settlement, we feel we can get away with sending him a modest check . . . as a kind of a thank-you. No wrongdoing implied.
CEO: What are we talking?
EXECUTIVE #9: In the neighborhood of two hundred and fifty thousand.
CEO: That’s what you call saving me money?
EXECUTIVE #9: If word of the incident ever became public, the net loss to the company would far exceed—
CEO: No way. Huh-uh. Go Sacramento on this prick.
The room goes silent for several moments.
EXECUTIVE #10: Well, there is one other possibility, something Rusty came up with, but it’s a bit unusual, and I certainly don’t endorse it unless it works.
The other executives quickly murmur in agreement.
CEO: Who the hell is Rusty?
All eyes fall on Rusty, a young, puny, bright-eyed junior executive who until recently had been an intern in charge of the supply closet.
RUSTY (looking surprised): Gee, I, uh, wasn’t prepared for this, but . . . oh boy . . . here goes nothin’.
He’s quickly on his feet and starts pacing the boardroom like an old Kentucky trial lawyer who grew up in Brooklyn.
RUSTY: Maybe I’m a little old-fashioned, gentlemen, but the way I see it, if a man’s shopping for a horse, you don’t throw in the stable. This fella in New York only wants one thing: to feel good about himself. He’s a nobody, a schlub. He’s dying to be a hero just once in his life. So I say we give him that. We say, ah, “Thanks for pointing out the issue, pal, we got it all locked down. You’re a saint, a regular Clark Kent. Here’s a little something for not wasting too much of our time.” Then we toss him back in the lake with the rest of the carp.
CEO: What do you call “a little something,” son?
Rusty grins.
RUSTY: Not money. Not a check. Not even a savings bond for little Scotty’s trade school jar. What we give him is . . .
Long pause.
RUSTY: . . . a gift card.
General grumbling in the room.
RUSTY: Because that’s how nice we are at Rumblenuts. Even though our product is virtually priceless, and its quality so high that scientists have yet to devise a way to measure it, we’re willing to share some of that treasure with him. Because our food is not fast, it’s not shit, and it’s not sharp. It’s gold. And that’s what he gets for the privilege of complaining to us.
Rusty sighs and shrugs his shoulders.
RUSTY: But, hey, what do I know? I’m green as grass.
CEO (cracking a smile for the first time): And, uh . . . Rusty, is it? Exactly how large a gift card are we talking about?
EXECUTIVE #11 (suddenly hopping on board): A hundred dollars! Ha-ha! And not a penny more!
RUSTY: Too high.
EXECUTIVE #12: Rusty’s right! Twenty-five dollars!
RUSTY: Too low.
EXECUTIVE #12: Fifty clams and we put it to bed!
RUSTY: Too logical.
CEO (fascinated): How much do you think it should be, Rusty?
Rusty walks over to a large mahogany-framed chalkboard and starts to write down a figure. The CEO and the executives are on the edge of their seats. Finally Rusty steps aside, revealing the number 0. There’s a collective gasp in the room. Rusty laughs.
RUSTY: Come on, guys. It’s a gag.
He puts a four in front of the zero.
CEO: It’s glorious! It’s magnificent! (Beat) But, Rusty, it’s a very unusual number, don’t you think?
RUSTY: Yes it is, sir. And that’s precisely what we want. Something bold yet mysterious. Clear-cut yet confusing. Well-intentioned but obnoxious. Something that not only melts the brain but also has the ability to, dare I say, hypnotize.
He waves his hand through the air like an illusionist. The other executives trail it with glazed eyes.
CEO: Do you think this fellow in New York’ll go for it?
RUSTY: We just need to soften him up first, with a little courtesy, a little professionalism . . . and a whiff of magnolia.
A few minutes later, the executives and the CEO are huddled around Mitzi Kurstetter, a buxom, poof-haired blond bombshell from the secretarial pool who also happens to be Rusty’s sweetheart. She sits at the conference table, holding a telephone receiver and reading from a prepared script Rusty has provided.
“Mr. Resnick? This is Mitzi Kurstetter calling from Rumblenuts Corporate, following up on the piece of metal you chanced upon in your milk shake . . .”
The call plays out. When it’s over, a tape recorder attached to the telephone is clicked off and the executives cheer Mitzi’s performance as well as her ass and blow job lips. The CEO claps Rusty on the back.
CEO: How would you and your lady friend like to join me at the club for brunch this weekend?
RUSTY: Gee, it’d be a great honor, sir.
The meeting disperses; the other executives pat Rusty on the shoulder on their way out. Rusty picks Mitzi up and twirls her around, saying, “I’m on my way to the stars, baby. And you’re coming along to wax the rocket.” Mitzi becomes too heavy for him. Winded, he lays her down on the floor.
• • •
If life is indeed a series of familiar scenes and passages, I still don’t get the razor blade thing. Was it a big deal, or just a forty-dollar deal? What if I had saved another person’s life—a child’s, perhaps—simply by being in the right place at the right time? Maybe that’s the sole reason I was put on earth. To take the milk shake for the other guy.
Anyway, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Curtain.
The Porter’s Screenplay
The nine steps I take each morning from my apartment door to the elevator occur unconsciously and in a bubble. I push the button and wait as the same mantra fills my head, ticking off like a jittery second hand on a cheap watch. I’m a disaster. I’m a lazy piece of shit. I deserve everything bad that happens to me. I’m not worthy of anyone’s respect. I should go blow some money. I don’t deserve to blow money. I’m not in the position to blow money. Fuck everyone. Ah, the sound of lapping waves. The ocean. Calming. Reassuring. I’m drowning. The undertow is sucking me under . . .
Francisco, the porter, is sloshing the mop across the tile floor in the hallway, leaving a trail of gray sudsy water. Latin music leaks from his headphones. Up-tempo, alive, foreign, awful. We stand there together every morning. Our conversation is a ritual that neither of us tampers with. It goes something like this:
“Hey, Francisco.”
“Morning, sir.”
“Hot out there?”
“Yeah, they say it rains today and it’s gonna cool everything off.”
“That’s good. We could use a little rain.” The elevator arrives. “Okay, see you later.” And I’m gone.
This is my idea of a perfect conversation. Why can’t all human interaction be like this? God bless Francisco. He gets it.
On one particular morning, however, something was out of whack. I glanced up at the elevator indicator and it was motionless: frozen on B—that subterranean no-man’s-land with washing machines, garbage cans, and a mysterious locker my wife refers to when she goes down to retrieve our Christmas decorations. Francisco kills the salsa.
“It’s coming in a minute. Hector’s fixing the lapper,” he told me. I don’t know what a lapper is or if I even heard it correctly, but clearly Francisco and I were going to have a larger space to fill today. I retreated back into my head. I’m so sick of Multi-Grain Cheerios. Why does she keep buying it? I told her to stop buying it. Everything’s a subtle “fuck you.” Except for the times when it’s not so subtle. I deserve it all. I’m a nightmare. I wonder what it feels like to s
ave a child’s life? The grateful mother embracing me and sobbing into my chest . . . the family inviting me over for a special dinner . . . my reluctant speech at the church service held in my honor where I tell the congregation, “I’m not a hero. God is the hero.”
Francisco: “You stay busy these days?”
The words came at me like a swarm of yellow jackets.
“Uh, yeah, trying to. Ha-ha. How about you?”
He ignored my question.
“You write for the movies? I saw your name one night, I think it was on Starz.”
I cringed.
“Yeah, sometimes.”
Francisco: “I forget the movie. On Starz.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t very good, whatever it was. Ha-ha.”