Red Meat Cures Cancer

by Starbuck O'Dwyer

  “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

  Biff could mount only an intellectual defense to such a direct attack.

  “Well, I happen to know a senior research fellow at St. Catherine’s College, Oxford, who would disagree with you wholeheartedly.”

  “Whoop dee freakin’ doo, Biff.”

  “I just don’t believe we should extend the number of species we eat. The whole thing is a bad idea, and that’s all I have to say,” Biff huffed, crossing his arms across his vest.

  “What do you think, Thorne?”

  “Frank, I’m inclined to agree with Biff for a more practical reason. Our customers are used to beef, and I think the idea of eating baboon may gross them out and cost us market share. It sure as hell grosses me out.”

  Annette nodded her head along with Biff, Chad and the rest of the board.

  “All right. I can see you’re going to fight me on this one. We’ll table the decision for the next meeting. In the meantime, Sky, I want you to do some focus groups and taste tests. I don’t want Tailburger to be last on the baboon bandwagon when it rolls across this country.”

  When any of the Link’s ideas were dismissed, nobody on the board gloated. We knew there’d be another along to take the prior one’s place momentarily. The Link would mutter “shitheads” loudly enough for the rest of us to hear and then get back to the business at hand, otherwise unmoved.

  “We’ve got to do something on the BSE front,” the Link said, using our company’s preferred reference to Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy or mad cow disease. “Now I hate to say it to you again, Thorne, but we got killed on Bill Maher’s show. I don’t know what you and Hitch were doing out there, but you looked like a couple of doofuses. People probably think they can catch this crap now.”

  The Link had told me every day since the airing that I’d “stunk up the joint,” during my television appearance, but he wanted the satisfaction of telling me in front of the board. Once he had done so, he got the faraway look in his eyes that we collectively dreaded, the one that signified his launch into the land of Lincoln.

  “So Thorne, I ask you and the whole board, ‘Can we do better? The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present...’ ”

  Halfway through the Link’s recitation of the Railsplitter’s words, the rest of the board members, except me, joined in to form a chorus.

  “. . . The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise to the occasion . . .”

  I didn’t say a word, afraid the anger inside of me would erupt. I was furious at the Link for ordering me to change the cooking policy—for threatening my job and financial security if our market share didn’t reach 5 percent—for literally driving me to the point of pornographic desperation that I’d now reached. But I was angrier at myself for the weakness of my character—for my lack of backbone when it came to making unethical decisions—for my failure to do what I knew was the right thing on so many occasions. I suffered while the others just kept talking.

  “. . . As our case is new, so we must think anew, and act anew!”

  “You’re damn right we do,” the Link exulted as they finished in unison. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he continued.

  The board groaned.

  “What about putting a Mad Cow Burger on the menu? We’ll cook it extra rare. I’m talkin’ over and off—smother it with bleu cheese and put it on moldy bread. Add a catchy slogan, ‘Go Crazy Like the Cow,’ and I see big sales.”

  “I see big lawsuits,” I said. “You have no idea what a mistake that would be, given the current regulatory climate, Frank.”

  I wanted to come out with it right there and tell everybody present that our stupid burgers had put eight kids in the hospital, but I held back. Embarrassing the Link that way would serve no purpose.

  “Damn lawyers have wrecked everything. Lincoln’s the only decent one who ever lived.”

  “Maybe here’s where we do our golf fund-raiser,” Ned said, to no one’s surprise. “It can benefit all the little boys and girls suffering from mad cow here in Rochester.”

  “Good thinking, big brother,” Ted added, adjusting his visor to cut the glare from the boardroom’s artificial lighting.

  “That would be great,” Fred chirped enthusiastically. “Can I sponsor the closest to the pin, Ned? I’d really like to do that for the kids.”

  “Hey, hey, closest to the pinhead,” the Link angrily called to his youngest son. “There’s just one problem, numbnuts. There aren’t any kids suffering from mad cow disease here. It’s only in England. We’re just fighting the perception of danger.”

  “Oh,” Fred replied despondently, his enthusiasm momentarily jettisoned. “Well, then let’s do a golf fund-raiser to fight that.”

  “To fight the perception of danger? What are you, stupid?” Chad Hemmingbone, who had lost his patience, asked.

  “Watch it, Hemmingbone!” the Link warned.

  “All I’m saying is that we could do a best-ball tournament. That’s all I’m saying,” Fred, now clearly on the defensive, futilely tried to explain.

  Annette, the most intelligent member of the board, announced that she had a mayoral commitment, mercifully expediting the end of our meeting. She smiled at me as she left, blissfully unaware of the pain I was enduring. The room gradually emptied until I was alone with the Link.

  “Frank, we need to talk.”

  “What is it, Thorne? And keep in mind I’ve got battlefield practice tonight. We’re reenacting Sherman’s burning of Atlanta.”

  “Look, it’s about our cooking policy. Some kids, friends of mine actually, got sick last weekend from eating Tailburgers. They think it may be E. coli.”

  “Are they sure?”

  “Well, no. Not yet. The doctors are running tests and the families have agreed to wait for the results before going to the press. But we’re sitting on a time bomb.”

  “Jesus H double Popsicle sticks. How in the hell did this happen, Thorne?”

  “It’s got to be our policy of undercooking the meat.”

  “What policy?”

  “The one you authorized. Remember? You wanted the insides soft?”

  “I never authorized that policy.”

  “What?”

  “I said I never authorized that policy.”

  “You did, too! You demanded that I roll it out. You made me ‘take it to the front.’ All against my better judgment!”

  “Funny. I just don’t remember that.”

  “I don’t believe this shit.”

  The Link smiled mischievously at me.

  “Just calm down, Thorne. Calm your Confederate ass down.

  I’m only yankin’ your chain. I know I called for that policy. And I’d do it again in a minute if I had the chance. Have you seen our sales lately? Shootin’ through the goddamn roof. Remember Ralph Nader? Patron saint of Tailburger?”

  I tried to compose myself, but it was difficult.

  “Sky, here’s what I want you to do. You say you know these people?”

  I nodded. “Well, sort of. My best friend’s son is one of the kids who’s sick.”

  “Good. Here’s what I want you to do. First, go talk to your friend. Tell him to get a handle on all the other parents. Then mention a possible settlement. But whatever you do, don’t admit anything. Do you understand me? If this thing turns out to be E. coli, we’ll pay up, but we’ve got to keep it out of the papers.”

  I drove straight to Annette’s house after work. She met me with open and unquestioning arms, the kind of limbs I couldn’t get enough of, now that I’d found them. For weeks, she’d been my sole source of comfort. Simple and straightforward. Loving and honest. Regrettably, all the things that I wanted my relationship with Annette to be would have to wait. I should have told her everything that was going on in my life and at Tailburger, but I couldn’t. I was a liability to her, although she had no idea how true that was. Even in the warmth of her embrace, I was a false actor, selfishly hidin
g my darkest secrets and greatest needs. I was obsessed with only one thing: Tailburger market share, which had almost reached 5 percent. If I could just hold on a little longer, I’d be home free and on my way to insular Tahiti.

  25

  Tailfire

  Burton Roxby, out on bail and awaiting trial, came to see me at Tailburger headquarters the next morning. Suspended indefinitely from Congress, he appeared at my doorway dressed neatly in jeans and a flannel shirt, a mode of attire I’d never seen him in, given his religious adherence to dark gray suits. He looked thinner and shorter to me, a meek presence devoid of the nerdish bravado he once projected. I motioned for him to take a seat and then watched cautiously as he did so.

  “Sky, I need your help.”

  Roxby continuously fidgeted with his hands, oblivious of how guilty it made him look.

  “Burt, I don’t know what I can do for you.”

  “Look at me, Sky,” Roxby pleaded, pointing at his feet. “They’re making me wear an ankle bracelet to monitor my whereabouts. They’ve taken away my dignity.”

  “You did that to yourself.”

  “That’s not true. I was set up. That little girl was an instrument of the devil.”

  “C’mon, Burt. Save your story for the jury.”

  “Look, my trial is coming up. I’d like you to be a character witness.”

  “Did you know that bill 214 passed through the Agriculture Committee and into law because of your little stunt?”

  “I heard. And I’m sorry.”

  “Do you have any idea how much money that will cost us?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not all. Plot Thickens added New York as a plaintiff in the SERMON suit against Tailburger. Now that he doesn’t need your help in the governor’s race, we’re getting screwed.”

  “I can still help you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I’m innocent, Sky. I swear. You gotta believe me.”

  “I don’t believe you! Not for a minute.”

  “Sky, Thickens is an empty suit. He just follows the polls. Once I’m cleared, we can work together against SERMON. I’ll pull every string I can to make sure you and Tailburger are taken care of, but first I need you to vouch for my character.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. Help me and help yourself at the same time.”

  There it was again, another opportunity to compromise my character for worldly gain—something I’d become quite proficient at since my first transgression. Roxby figured I had my price, just like every man he’d met in Washington, D.C., and all along the rubber chicken circuit of pork barrel politics.

  “I can’t,” I repeated.

  Roxby looked mildly surprised that I didn’t immediately crumble. He knew I needed to extricate Tailburger from the SERMON suit, but he’d overestimated my desperation. Ever the consummate politician, he simply switched tactics. The manipulative player I remembered was suddenly back and sitting in my office.

  “All right, Sky. I’m going to level with you because I like you and I respect you. However, I must warn you that what I’m about to say may be shocking. (Pause) I’m a sex addict.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a sex addict. I can’t control my urges. It’s a disease and I’m getting help.”

  “Will you spare me the monumental bullshit, Burt?”

  “Men have needs that can’t always be met at home. Look at our former president. I’m not alone.”

  Roxby actually was alone. Yeti, his understanding wife, filed for divorce following his arrest and then proceeded to lock him out of their house. Though this was the one positive result of the entire treehouse incident for him, it didn’t help when Channel 2 broadcast footage of him pounding on a back door demanding to be let in or else.

  “You don’t understand, Sky. I’ve found the good book.”

  “Which book is that? Chicken Soup for the Child Molester’s Soul?”

  “The St. James Bible, of course. I’ve cast out my demons and stepped into the kingdom of God.”

  “You’re shameless, Burt. Stop embarrassing yourself.”

  “I’m not embarrassed to walk with the Lord.”

  “Are you done?”

  “Will you be a character witness for me or not?”

  “No! You’re a piece of dung! Now get out of my office.”

  Roxby’s motives were so transparent I was ashamed to have kissed his useless ass for so many years.

  “Sky, Princeton wants to take away my honorary degree if I’m convicted.”

  “They gave you an honorary degree?”

  “Yeah, a few years back. It was for my child-advocacy work.”

  “Ironic, don’t you think?”

  “Be a character witness.”

  “No! Get out of here!”

  “Sky, I still know people at the FDA. Remember, I worked there for seven years.” Roxby’s tone was slightly threatening.

  “Sure, I remember. So what?”

  “So don’t be surprised if I make a few phone calls and you find your precious beef being regulated like a drug.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? They couldn’t even get cigarettes under their control.”

  “Beef has a hypnotic effect. It’s as addictive as nicotine or sex. And that information, in the hands of highly paid lobbyist lawyers, is all I’d need to drag you down.”

  “Get the hell out of my office.”

  “I didn’t want it to come to this, Sky.”

  “Get out!”

  “Arms can reach out beyond prison walls.”

  “Are you threatening to have me killed?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re an infinitesimal piece of snail shit and I want you out of my office!”

  The Roxby bridge was irretrievably burned, a prospect that would have terrified me just weeks before. Something surged through my veins. I didn’t know if it was my Du Mai or my Chong Mai or maybe my yang heel vessel. But regardless of the tributary being used, what was coursing through my miraculous meridians didn’t feel like my chee. It just felt like anger and guilt, emotions I struggled to subdue, given the occasion at hand. Today was the dedication for the Tailburger Health and Life Fitness Center and the Fanoflincoln Pavilion.

  The Link picked me up at headquarters in his new Continental. He wore a purple sweatsuit, a bold choice considering he now looked like Fruit of the Loom’s grape with a thyroid condition. Those who don’t exercise want to look like they do, but the Link’s crushed velour ensemble wasn’t fooling anyone. To make matters worse, his excitement about the ceremony had made him delusional. He actually asked me how his hair looked. To place that in context, not only was the Link a member of the Hair Club for Men, he was a victim. Still, glancing at the snarled rat’s nest he called his mane, I smiled dutifully and said, “Never better.”

  “How do you like my sweats, Thorne? Pretty sporty, eh?”

  “Sharp, Frank. Perfect for the event.”

  “I thought so. I may have to take one of those newfangled machines for a ride. What do they call ’em?”

  “Stationary bikes?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Jesus, what’ll they think of next? Moving stairs?”

  It was a safe bet that this was the Link’s first visit to a gym of any kind. After talking about his irrational fear of fat nuns for the entire ride over, we toured the facility for half an hour with Sister Ancilla and the mother superior, a woman with a stern and forbidding demeanor. It was an impressive space, with long rows of gleaming equipment and open workout areas with mirrored walls. A snack bar, serving only Tailburgers, Tailfraps and other meatflavored products, sat in the middle, apparently a cruel hoax on those people actually trying to lose weight. Although burning two hundred calories on a stairclimber was a waste of time if you immediately ate our new twelve-hundred-calorie Mad Cow Burger, 5 percent of all profits would go to the crippled children at the Shriner’s Hospital. The Link tried to negotiate th
is figure down to 3 percent, but the nuns held firm.

  The name Fanoflincoln and the Tailburger logo were visible everywhere throughout the facility. The Link wasn’t one to ask for a small, tasteful plaque. He wanted his money’s worth and, more importantly, he wanted something around for posterity’s sake. This blatant piece of self-promotion got me thinking about my own death. Not in an unusually morbid way, although I suppose there’s no other way to contemplate your own demise. Just seeing how happy the Link was, I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to have my name on something other than my tombstone. I didn’t have the money to donate a building anywhere, but there had to be something. Maybe I could give a local college like Nazareth a library carrel or a desk or a rare book that some fresh-man would pull from the shelves in fifty years and ask, “Who the hell is Sky Thorne?” A very good question.

  Sister Ancilla showed us the karate dojo on the second floor, the Link’s one architectural demand. The mother superior’s refusal to call him Sensei for the rest of the day sent him into a temporary funk that he didn’t break out of until he saw the buffet tables being set up. “Can we eat now?” the Link asked like an impatient child.

  “Let’s wait until after the ribbon cutting,” the mother superior replied tersely.

  Outside, on the front yard of the convent, workers scurried to place the podium on the makeshift stage and line up the last few collapsible chairs. Minutes later, people from all over Rochester began filing into the narrow rows, and we found our respective seats up on the dais. The Link nervously played with the zipper on his purple top while studying the notes for his speech. Public displays of generosity were something new for the Link. Notoriously tightfisted in the past, and a fallen Catholic to boot, he planned to get back into the community’s and the church’s good graces with this single donative act.

  “Make sure the crippled kids are up front,” the Link told me, looking up from the crumpled paper in his hands. “I want the media to get a good look at the little monkeys. Especially that Katie Chang Gomez from Channel 7. She’s always been out to get me. Maybe this’ll shut her up.”