Red Meat Cures Cancer

by Starbuck O'Dwyer

  “You’ve just been in jail. You need to focus on your nutrition.”

  “I don’t want anything with soy in it. It tastes like crap. What I need is a cigarette.”

  I desperately searched my kitchen drawer for a pack of Commodores.

  “Sky, you’re not in the clink anymore. You can’t trade your soul for a carton of smokes. You need to heal your spirit. Why don’t we meditate together? We’ll warm up your Dan Tian and try to channel your chi.”

  “Forget my chee. I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to the Sweet.”

  The Country Sweet, a late-night spot we’d frequented since we were teenagers, was the only place I thought I could clear my mind. The restaurant’s Monroe Avenue location in downtown Rochester was ideal if you wanted to hit three head shops and four adult theaters without leaving a two-block area. The Sweet, as the faux-oak paneled establishment was belovedly known, drew a dangerous collection of hustlers, dealers and derelicts . . . and those were just the people who worked behind the counter. Sticky floors and the smell of wet naps welcomed you to a joint where the food was scary and the bathroom, a place you entered with no guarantee you’d be leaving, was scarier. For old time’s sake, we ordered the 200-piece party pack, a delicious but visually disgusting load of the best chicken wings known to man, woman or beast. This was comfort food to me, not simply because it tasted so good, but because for years this had been the place I’d come for continuity. In a world where everything changed, the Sweet was the one thing that didn’t. Eating there was a well-worn ritual with three inviolable rules:

  You only ordered the hot sauce on your wings. Never mild. This rule was not without irony. Ordering mild sauce was a sign of weakness as a man, yet if you ordered the hot, crying was perfectly acceptable as long as you endured the lip-scorching pepper flakes scattered across the surface of the oversize pieces of burning sweet poultry.

  There was no talking while you ate. All worries could wait until your plate was cleared.

  Water was the only allowable beverage and you never drank it until you were done with all your wings. Too many had made the rookie mistake of sipping in between bites and lived (barely) to regret it.

  Adherence to the Sweet rules temporarily brought order out of chaos for me. Once King and I finished gorging ourselves, we got down to the business at hand. First I came clean about the undercooking policy and how I’d endangered Cal’s son, Kyle, and his little friends. Next I told him how I would atone for my sins if Cal gave me the chance. Finally, we spoke of the root of all evil.

  “I need your advice.” It killed me to say that to King, but I was out of advisers.

  “My advice? This is a first.”

  “I’ve got a plan to get my pension, and I want to run it by you.”

  “Your pension? Is that what you’re most worried about?”

  “Well, no. Of course not. Are you implying that Kyle’s health isn’t foremost on my mind? Why would you do that?”

  “I wasn’t implying anything.”

  “I know this is difficult for you to understand, but pretty soon, my finances are going to look like Willie Nelson’s. And without enough money, I’m going to be screwed. I could lose the house. Sophia’s tuition is due. I’ve got a stack of bills piling up. Without money, I won’t be of use to anybody.”

  “So get a job.”

  “After everything that’s been in the papers? Who do you think is going to hire me right now?”

  “I know I wouldn’t.”

  “Shut up.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Well, it sort of involves bribery.”

  “Sort of? Sky, may I remind you of what we’ve been working on the last few months? Truthfulness. Benevolence. Forbearance. Not bribery. Not moral trickery.”

  “I know that, but things are a bit complicated right now. I’m facing relationship purgatory and financial catastrophe, not to mention jail time and potential lawsuits from Cal, Tailburger and Trip Baden. Isn’t there a temporary exception from virtue when you’re flat broke and busted in every way?”

  “No. There’s not.”

  “Well, hear me out. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  I leaned in toward King and spoke to him under my breath.

  “I have a videotape of Muffet Meaney and me having sex.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “I mean it.”

  “You taped your sex with her?”

  “Keep it down. We did it together. Actually, it was her idea.”

  “Oh, man. You’ve got to let me see this tape.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t want you watching me.”

  “First of all, I won’t be watching you. That I can assure you of. Second, you said she was hot. I want to judge for myself. C’mon, you’ve got to let me see it.”

  “No. What about your own benevolence and forbearance?”

  “Forget that. I want to see the tape. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Simple. I tell the Link what I’ve got. He uses the tape to get Tailburger dropped from the SERMON suit by threatening Muffet. Share value goes back up. I get my pension back.”

  “It’s a perfect plan.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my ass is all over the tape. I release it and I’m a joke.”

  “Or a hero, depending on who you ask. Plus, no offense, but your reputation is for shit now anyway.”

  “True, but I don’t want Annette to find out about it.”

  “That is a problem.”

  “And I don’t want my kids to find out about it. They already think I’m some kind of porno king. If they see this tape and find out what I’ve been doing, it’ll probably scar them forever.”

  “Hey, Sky, I’ve got it. Maybe you’re not recognizable on the tape. Unless your house was professionally lit, I bet the picture is dark and shady. Have you watched it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s what you’ve got to do.”

  “Maybe tonight.”

  “Let’s do it now.”

  “You really want to see this thing?”

  We returned back home, where my desire to show my brother that I’d bedded a beautiful woman got the best of me. That was the only reason I was letting King watch, ’cause God knows I wasn’t ready for an appearance on ESPN’s Body Shapers. Halfway into a bottle of Dewar’s, I took one more tug before popping in the videocassette. This was one time I regretted my decision to buy a big-screen TV.

  “You got any popcorn?” King teased.

  “One crack from you about my size, my performance or the infinite whiteness of my ass and your viewing privileges will be immediately revoked.”

  “Got it, fleshmaster.”

  A few seconds later, the tape began to roll. First came Muffet mugging for the camera as I set it up on a tripod in my bedroom. She looked great, dressed in a pair of dark blue satin panties and a matching lacy bra, sitting up on the mattress on her knees.

  “How do you like these, Sky?” Muffet asked as she undid the front clasp of her Maidenform and revealed her delicious melons. Large, silver dollar–sized areolas with thick, half-inch-long nipples brought memories and my blood flow back.

  “My God! She’s smoking!” King exclaimed.

  “Shut up! I know! This is painful to watch.”

  “Why?” King asked, a bit perplexed.

  “Because I know I’ll never taste those beautiful breasts again.”

  “Good point. Hey, but at least you’ve got this video. Jesus, just look at her.”

  Muffet giggled as I came out from behind the camera, bared my ivory butt and joined her on the bed. We were both so hot already that initial foreplay was abandoned in favor of soft, slow screwing. Soon the pace and intensity changed.

  “Ooooh, fuck me, Sky. Fuck me, please. Fuck me hard with that big cock.”

  “Good Lord, she’s amazing,” King said excitedly.

  “You like that, Muffet, don’t you? You
like that big, hard cock?”

  “I do. You know I do. Am I your little slut? Am I your little whore?”

  “Yes! You’re my dirty little slut!”

  Without taking his eyes off the TV, King shuffled over to the wet bar, poured himself a shot of tequila and downed it.

  “Ahhhh,” he exhaled as he smacked the shot glass back on the counter. “Holy Christ!”

  “I forgot how good it was.”

  “You forgot this?” King shouted. “Nobody could forget this.”

  “I must have blocked it out of my mind for self-preservation.”

  “Sure. Sort of like a wounded animal gnawing off his foot in the wild. That makes sense.”

  Muffet rolled over on her stomach and demanded the love that is forbidden, as well as illegal in a number of states.

  “Fuck my little button, Atomic Fly!”

  After the action had gone on for quite some time, King, who now had the bottle of tequila in his hands and was several shots further along toward its bottom, looked over at me and just shook his head.

  “Atomic Fly? You are one sick motherfucker!”

  “I think we’ve both seen enough. I’m shutting it off.”

  “Noooo. It’s just getting good.”

  Despite King’s protestations, I walked to the VCR and stopped the tape.

  “That was amazing, Sky. I must say I have newfound respect for you and your big, hard cock.”

  “Shut up, King.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “Well, one thing’s clear. I can’t release the tape. My name’s all over it.”

  “Tailburger won’t have to actually release it. They’ll just need to threaten to release it.”

  “What if Muffet calls their bluff? I’ll have no control.”

  “She won’t.”

  “I don’t know. She’s unpredictable. And if they release it, I’ll never get Annette back. That’s for sure.”

  “I don’t know. After a performance like this, you may be in higher demand than you think.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Shit. You know who you’re like?”

  “Who?”

  “Jack Lemmon in Save the Tiger.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “You never saw Save the Tiger? Lemmon won the Oscar for it in 1973, for Chrissakes. How could you have missed it?”

  “I just did. Who cares? What’s the connection?”

  “Lemmon plays this garment manufacturer who’s got all these problems. His business is on the skids. His marriage has hit the rocks. And his mind is starting to leave him.”

  “I’ll regret asking this, but why?”

  “Well, it’s like he’s tried to play by the rules his whole life; you know, believed in honesty and integrity and honor, and it’s just not working anymore. So he’s losing faith in the system and in his fellow man, and at the same time he starts getting faced with all these moral dilemmas, like being faithful to his wife and setting clients up with hookers and whether or not to burn down one of his buildings to get the insurance money to get out of debt.”

  “God, this is depressing. Was his daughter engaged to a speaker component?”

  “Just listen. So after a while he gets real bitter that playing by the rules isn’t working and he starts making all these moral compromises. He sleeps around. He lies. He cheats. And eventually he decides to burn down the building.”

  “Tell me there’s a happy ending here somewhere.”

  “Just listen. I’m not finished. He goes to give this speech at some kind of garment convention and he starts having hallucinations of the soldiers that he served with in World War II, and he realizes how he’s dishonored their memory and compromised the very values that they fought for. It destroys him as a man.”

  “Jesus, I was low, and now I’m lower. What is the point of all this, King?”

  “The point is that you can’t let what’s happening destroy you.”

  “It’s not going to destroy me. It won’t. I’m predicting deep wounds, but no destruction.”

  “Qigong can be your salvation.”

  “Qigong and soybeans, right?”

  “Right. I’m telling you.”

  “I’m taking that under advisement, I promise.”

  “Have you read the book Bowling Alone?”

  “No. Is it the sequel to Save the Tiger?”

  “Not quite. It’s about the breakdown of the social fabric in America. This guy took a look at who people were bowling with, and it turns out that league bowling numbers are way off. Most people are just doing it with their families, but not with other workers or neighbors like they used to.”

  “So the answers lie in league bowling?”

  “No, but it does give you reason to pause. I mean, look at you and me. When was the last time we even went bowling, let alone league bowling?”

  “But you’re still sticking with Qigong and soybeans?”

  “I think for now.”

  “I’m going to bed, King.”

  “Good night. (Pause) Sky,” King called out to me as I trudged upward.

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Do you ever miss Mom and Dad?”

  I turned around and took a seat on the landing halfway up the stairs.

  “All the time.”

  “Me, too. (Pause) Dad was very proud of you.”

  “He was proud of you, too.”

  “No, he wasn’t, Sky. It’s okay. I can accept it. I didn’t do much to earn his respect.”

  “He loved you.”

  “I know he did. (Pause) He had to.”

  For all my brother’s self-assured philosophizing and proselytizing, he looked lost as I left him sitting in my study. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one who’d spent a lifetime looking for answers. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one traveling toward a nearing horizon without a glimpse of his own insular Tahiti. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one who needed to look into league bowling.

  31

  Dealing

  Two days after my arrest, New York’s attorney general, Plot Thickens, held a news conference in Albany to announce the launch of a statewide investigation into the marketing of Internet pornography to children. Thickens, now poised to challenge Governor Puma in the fall gubernatorial race, saw a crusade against porn as the perfect vehicle to win over the public.

  “You know, back in the League, we had a name for this kind of behavior: illegal procedure. I want to send out a message to all you sickos launching pornographic Web sites. If you make your filth accessible to children, I’m coming after your ass like a steroid-crazed linebacker on a blindside blitz. To paraphrase the brave men who served this country in Vietnam, ‘We’re gonna shoot first and aim later.’ ”

  Thickens, who’d staggered through some fourth-rate law school in Alabama, was dumber than a doorjamb. And in spite of his Academy Award–worthy vehemence, the reporters present weren’t convinced of his claims.

  “Mr. Thickens, isn’t it true that you’re grandstanding on this issue in an attempt to kick start your candidacy for governor?”

  “That’s absolute nonsense. This has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with protecting kids. Believe me, the issue of dirty pictures is near and dear to my heart.”

  “Mr. Thickens, did you read dirty magazines growing up?”

  “Uh . . . well, I may have thumbed through one or two in my day.”

  “Isn’t it true you’ve subscribed to Jugs Illustrated since 1972?”

  “That’s a total fabrication. For your information, I didn’t subscribe until ’74, and anyway, that’s different. The point is, I believe in family values.”

  I’m sure Plot’s handlers told him to stay on message, but it was difficult for a flawed man to do so once the press smelled fear.

  “Mr. Thickens, how many illegitimate children do you have?”

  “Three, wait . . . four, and I prefer the phrase ‘out-of-wedlock’ to describe my five wonderful kids.”

  “Is it four or f
ive?”

  “Did I say five?” Plot looked nervously over at his press secretary. “Let me get back to you with an exact number.”

  “So would you let these four or five out-of-wedlock kids read Jugs?”

  “That magazine, for your information, got me through some of my darkest days as a youth. It’s a vestige of my past, like my Converse high-tops or my Trans Am. These things keep me grounded.”

  “Are you comparing footwear with female genitalia?”

  “Look, my generation didn’t have the virtual-reality sex products that are so wonderful, uh . . . I mean so corrosive today. Jugs is a small indulgence on my part, but I’m an adult.”

  “So magazines are okay, but Web sites are off-limits?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. Hey, you’re twisting my words.”

  An hour later, the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta released a statement saying that food contamination caused five thousand deaths annually in the United States. It was bad news for Tailburger, which made it a perfect time for me to pay my former boss a visit.

  According to his secretary, the Link was admitted at St. Mary’s Hospital on Genesee Street, a rough part of Rochester where hookers and the homeless more than outnumbered the nuns. What I saw upon entering his private room was heartwarming in its own strange way. Ned, Ted and Fred, still dressed in matching striped knickers and tam-o’-shanters from their morning round, sat next to their father’s bed holding a vigil of sorts. Flat on his back, the Link was hooked up to some kind of respirator, his eyes closed. Soon, I was spied.

  “What are you doing here?” Ned asked angrily.

  “I came to see your father.”

  “Why don’t you go away? You nearly killed him,” Ted said, pointing his finger at me.

  “I never imagined this would happen. (Pause) How’s he doing?”

  “Like you care,” Ted scoffed.

  “Why did you get Tailburger involved with the porn industry?” Fred inquired, forgetting he’d spent half his life writing letters to Penthouse.

  “I was trying to increase market share. That’s all. It was just marketing.”

  “Just marketing?” Ned’s question dripped with disbelief.

  “I need to speak to your father.”