"We'll all reconnoiter at the command post tomorrow after noon at fourteen hundred," she said.
"That's a good plan," I said. "Where's the command post?"
"It's a place that'll be very convenient for you, Walter. It's your apartment. It's not only strategically located near Star bucks, it's also not readily visible from the street."
"It's also a basement apartment," I pointed out, "which could come in handy in case Starbucks decides to resort to nuclear weapons."
"It's perfect," said Clyde, ignoring my facetious tone. "See you there tomorrow at fourteen hundred, soldier."
"Yes, sir," I said sharply.
Well, here we were again, I said to myself as I hung up the phone. We'd gotten away, or almost gotten away with, all our little hobbies thus far, and there were a number that, for various reasons, I've chosen not to include in this manuscript. I've left them out, in all honesty, either because they made me look bad or for fear of possibly becoming criminally liable for them in some way. As an author of quasi-legendary fiction you may choose whether or not you wish to protect the innocent. But there are several other matters that assume a more paramount importance. One: You must protect yourself at all costs. Two: If you must harm the innocent, make sure you don't harm the flow. For that, no one will ever forgive you.
I was quite frankly of two minds regarding whatever plans Fox and Clyde had cooked up for Starbucks. Part of me realized that, if I chronicled events faithfully just as they actually happened, it would undoubtedly make great fiction. But I also realized, of course, that crossing swords with this monolithic megamonster could be extremely dangerous to one's health. This hardly daunted my compatriots, however. They wanted blood. They wanted justice for the underdog. They wanted, above and beyond everything else, to have a good time. I must confess, in my heart of hearts, that I did not truly share their dreams, ideals, or desires. I wasn't afraid of blood, and justice was okay, too, and I didn't mind having a good time. But most of all, I wanted good material. It wasn't long in coming.
At fourteen hundred sharp on the following afternoon, I watched as Fox and Clyde invaded my humble abode. They came in full regalia and bearing enough luggage to stay for a month. Clyde looked very appetizing in a short leather skirt and black pumps and carrying her ubiquitous briefcase. Fox wore a military-looking khaki suit with a MacArthur-like field commander's cap and a long white silk scarf.
"All you're missing," I commented dryly, "are the Snoopy goggles."
"They're probably in his suitcase," said Clyde.
"This trunk," said Fox, for it was more of a steamer trunk than a suitcase, "contains practically everything we need to make Starbucks wish they'd never been born."
"Well, for God's sake," I said, growing a bit curious in spite of myself, "open it up."
"I said practically everything we need," said Fox. "First we need to sit down and have a little talk and make sure that we're all on the same page."
"He's not referring to the manuscript," said Clyde coyly.
"Fine," I said. "I'll make some coffee. Not the Starbucks variety, of course."
"Good," said Fox. "Got a smoke?"
"Sure, pal," I said, giving Fox a cigarette and taking one for myself, "but I thought you'd prefer the one-hitter."
"Not now," said Fox, waving the notion off as I lit his cigarette and then my own. "If I'm going to direct this campaign, I've got to keep my mind totally clear. Well, at least as clear as it ever gets. Let's start things off with a question for both of you. From whence does the name 'Starbucks' derive?"
"I've got no idea," I said, putting on the non-Starbucks coffee.
"Is this trivia quiz really necessary?" asked Clyde, reclining on the small sofa and stretching her body in a highly sensuous manner.
"Damn straight," said Fox. "We're getting to know our enemy. Walter, as a literary man, I'm surprised that you don't know the answer."
"There's a lot of things I don't know," I said, "and one of them is how to start this coffeemaker."
"Let me do it," said Clyde. "Fox is the troublemaker. I'll be the homemaker."
"That'll be the day," said Fox. "Anyway, comrades, the name 'Starbucks' comes from the nice first mate, Mr. Starbuck, in Melville's great epic, Moby-Dick. He pleaded with Captain Ahab to let Moby-Dick go, but Ahab was obsessed with the great white whale and wouldn't hear of it."
"What does this have to do with our latest little hobby?" asked Clyde, not unreasonably.
"Patience, my dear friends," said Fox. "As they say in the East, 'Slowly, slowly catchee monkey.'"
At this point, I went over to my little notebook and, as unobtrusively as possible, jotted down Fox's colorful phrase. Fox fairly beamed with gratification upon witnessing my small effort. Clyde, on the other hand, sent a dark scowl in my direction. Impassively, I placed the pen and pad back down on the desk. Fox continued his lecture.
"Melville, as you probably know, Walter, already had two huge mainstream successes under his belt before he wrote Moby-Dick. But Typee and Omoo were merely highly popular potboilers. They only reflected the culture; they didn't subvert it. But he put his heart and mind and soul into Moby-Dick, and when it came out, it tanked so bad that you could only find it in the whaling section of bookstores. Melville spent the rest of his life languishing in almost total obscurity as custom inspector number seventy-five. When he died, the New York Times misspelled his name in the obit. 'The important books,' said Herman Melville, 'are the books that fail.' Today, of course, we recognize Moby-Dick as one of the greatest works in Western literature."
"Where do I go to drop this course, Professor?" said Clyde laconically.
"You don't go anywhere," said Fox. "The course is required."
"The only thing that's required," said Clyde with some heat, "is that you open that fucking trunk right now!"
"Children, please!" I said. "How can we hope to succeed against Starbucks if we're fighting amongst ourselves?"
"Walter's right," said Clyde. "Now open the fucking trunk."
Fox, displaying as much dignity as he could under the circumstances, moved smoothly from the Melville lecture to the nuts and bolts of the battle plan itself. He fumbled briefly with the combination lock, then grandly flung the lid open on the steamer trunk. As if the contents of the trunk itself possessed some strange, mystical power, Fox's very demeanor seemed to be transformed, from that of the philosopher to that of the general. His manner was suddenly clipped, confident, and, oddly, almost inspirational. Like a man possessed, he began removing various and sundry items and what appeared to be a pharmacopoeia of potions from the trunk and placing them on the desk. Clyde and I watched in fascinated silence. At last, gesturing toward the desk, Fox spoke.
"This," he said, "is Operation Diarrhea."
This strange pronouncement was greeted by a silence in the small room. It did not seem, however, to deter Fox's forward progress in any significant manner. I glanced at Clyde but she appeared to be gazing at Fox with an expression that bordered upon rapture.
"Amazing," I said. "You're the only person I know who, in the space of five minutes, can move facilely from Herman Melville to Operation Diarrhea."
"I told you he was a genius," said Clyde simply.
I nodded in agreement because I totally agreed. Fox was crazy as a bedbug but he was also clearly and undeniably a genius. Incredible as it seems to me now, I was ready to follow him into battle. I was also, of course, ready to follow Clyde. Anywhere.
"I'll go over it slowly," Fox was saying, "in case anyone has any questions. The first thing we do is deactivate the dumper. Then we work from the toilet out. I will put the one unisexual toilet out of commission on Monday just before the place closes. I'll flush these two sponges, which will be wet and curled in a tube, and they'll expand in the pipe. Just for fun, I'll Saran-Wrap the toilet itself so the first diarrhea victim will really get a nasty surprise. Question, Walter?"
"Yes. You have quite a little apothecary there. How can you be sure all these potion
s will have the desired effect and how can you be sure nobody will get seriously hurt by ingesting them?"
"Good questions, Walter, good questions. No combinations of these products will cause serious long-term illness but any of the three will cause immediate and extremely unpleasant reactions. Clyde will place them in the appropriate sugars and creamers and syrups at the same time I'm working on the toilet. Now, Clyde, this is powder of the senna plant, which produces severe abdominal cramps. It goes in the sugar containers. And this is called cascara sagrada, an additive from the dried root of the Arizona and New Mexico thorny cactus. I got it in pure form right from the health food store. Taken in any form, it causes almost instant diarrhea, which is where this little project gets its name, Operation Diarrhea."
"An attractive name," said Clyde.
"Not as attractive as Starbucks is going to be once it goes into effect. Now the third product is the very potent syrup of ipecac, which, of course, goes into their syrups, and which, of course, causes what is known in the trade as severe projectile vomiting. Now, I'll be disabling the toilet, Clyde will plant the three additives, and Walter will be doing what he's already demonstrated he has a unique talent for, distracting the brewmasters or whatever the hell they call themselves. No offense, Walter, but of the three of us, you look the most like a normal Starbucks customer. So you'll talk to the people behind the counter about your recent coffee-tasting trip to Sumatra or something while I do the toilet and Clyde does the condiments. Then Tuesday morning, the day after the grand opening, all hell should break loose. The only customers who will survive Operation Diarrhea will be the ones who take their coffee black or those who use half-and-half in those little plastic containers.
"In a typical New York clientele there's bound to be a sizable handful of lawyers who will sue the shit—this time quite literally— out of Starbucks. This might not break their business operation, but it'll certainly give them pause. It'll also be fun to watch."
"So you don't think Operation Diarrhea will be enough to get them to close the store?" asked Clyde.
"Doubtful," said Fox. "But it's only our first shot over the bow. This is a war, and Operation Diarrhea is only the first battle. It doesn't matter what you do in war or life just as long as you win the last battle or learn the last and greatest lesson. If Operation Diarrhea isn't enough, we move on to Operation Elephant Dump Numbers One, Two, and Three. Then there's always La Cucaracha. You know what that means in Spanish?"
Neither Clyde nor I knew what it meant. We waited for the great general to enlighten us.
"It means 'cockroach,'" said Fox.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," said Clyde. "I hate cockroaches."
"So will Starbucks," said Fox. "But first things first."
Without further ado, he took a large flat object out of his magician's trunk and, as Clyde and I watched in silence, he unfolded a large collapsible bulletin board of the variety you might find in the Pentagon and began searching for a convenient wall upon which to hang it. With the help of Clyde and myself, the bulletin board was finally hung on the far wall, complete with multicolored flags and thumbtacks so it looked very official and military.
"This will be our flowchart," said Fox. "No pun intended. If the store closes, of course, we take it down and everybody goes home happy. But remember, as our campaign continues, it will become more and more difficult to carry on operations inside the store. If they don't have video cameras now, they'll put them up. Also, they'll put security in place and they'll know what we look like and they'll be watching for us. We may have to alter our appearances rather drastically and even that may prove risky. And don't forget, the Starbucks organization, or the Starbucks family, as they like to call it, has very deep pockets. We must fight like guerrillas. Like Jesse James and Robin Hood and Che Guevara and Ho Chi Minh. This is a campaign of attrition, of disruption, of harassment. Don't expect our first foray to be the knockout punch. But if we are persistent, clever, and courageous, we will prevail. And believe me, comrades, we will definitely get their attention with Operation Diarrhea."
I looked at the bulletin board, then over to Fox, and then I glanced at Clyde for her reaction, but she had gotten up and walked over to the kitchen. A moment later, she returned bearing a small tray.
"Coffee, anyone?" she said.
twenty-five
I'm not ashamed to report that during the remainder of that weekend I felt more than I ever had in my life like a kid waiting for Christmas. There was a new chemistry that sang in my soul, a new entity being born every time the three of us put our combined hearts and minds in a deliriously dangerous new little project. And if, as Fox alleged, the size of your enemies had anything to do with your spiritual stature, we were verging on becoming secular saints. You could look for a long time and never find a bigger, more insidious opponent than Starbucks. How could three little people in this crazy world ever hope to even dent the armor of one of the greatest of all modern one-eyed giants? We would soon see.
I had to admit that there was definitely something exhilarating, maybe even magical, that occurred inside me whenever Clyde and Fox became actively engaged in my life. It was surely the only time I truly felt alive. And, as a mildly disconcerting side effect, I had begun to see and think of the two of them almost as one person. Clyde and Fox were like one human force with the undeniable ability to stir my cautious, weary, weather-beaten soul. Yet I realized, unlike them, that what we were doing was wrong. Well, "wrong" is not quite the right word. The things we did were not really wrong, only perhaps in the narrowest legal sense. "Wrong" is again the wrong word. I take it back. The events we became involved in were not wrong. Futile, certainly.
Possibly star-crossed and highly addictive. The time we shared was like walking out on a precarious limb of humanity with the net consisting of only our little group of three.
As crazy as it sounds, I found myself looking forward to Monday night at ten o'clock, for ten o'clock, we had learned, was to be the daily closing time for this particular Starbucks store. Not that there is a great deal of difference between one Starbucks and another, which is part of the insidious poison that is inherent in any large chain establishment today. One may believe that "something different" might be the spice of life and might have an innate appeal to basic human nature, but nothing could be further from the truth. People are invariably more like me than they are like Clyde or Fox. We live in a world, I'm afraid, of cautious, careful, conservative little Walter Snows. Fox was not wrong in his assessment: I do look like the typical Starbucks customer. I probably even feel and think like the typical Starbucks customer. The only two differences are that I hate myself for it and I write down all my self-loathing.
Monday morning broke cold and clear over New York City. How ridiculous, I thought as I woke up, to feel excited, even vaguely privileged, to be involved in something as crude, crass, and meaningless as Operation Diarrhea. No good could come of it, I felt. And yet I felt strangely drawn to this unlikely, even unpleasant affair by forces beyond my control. It was almost like a heroin addict must feel when he (or she) places a bit more of the product on the spoon each time, gambling on just how much he might take without killing himself. The seeds had already been sown. Now the harvest, for better or worse, for good or evil, must be reaped.
Clyde had called late in the afternoon to see how I was doing and to ask if I had any qualms about the "new project."
"I just feel a little uneasy about using all those chemicals," I'd said. "You know how it is when pranksters sometimes slip various drugs into the punch bowl? It's not supposed to happen, of course, but every now and then somebody dies."
"Dear sweet little Sunshine," she'd said. I brightened considerably in spite of myself. "No one's going to get seriously hurt by consuming these chemicals. They might wish they could die, but that's all."
"You're sure of that?" I'd asked again.
"But of course, darling," she'd said breezily. "The only people who stand any chance of getting kille
d are the three of us."
I always felt better after talking with Clyde, and that conversation definitely made me feel better. I was still feeling pretty good at nine-fifteen that evening when the three of us headed out from my apartment for the short, two-block trek to Starbucks. Clyde looked fetching, I thought, in a pair of men's khaki slacks, a black knit top that fit her very snugly, and a khaki photographer's vest with lots of pockets everywhere to conceal many small vials of senna plant, cascara sagrada, and syrup of ipecac. Fox wore a trench coat concealing the now-wet sponges rubber-banded tightly together in a tubelike configuration small enough to comfortably go down the toilet before expanding in the pipe. The sponges were wrapped in Saran Wrap, which would double for a toilet bowl cover. "The rubber bands come off," Fox confided in us, "before the sponges go down."
"That's a handy thing to know," I said, adjusting my Yankees cap and the sweater that Clyde had tied around my neck. With a pair of faux horn-rimmed glasses and a bright red tie slightly askew, I looked perfect, according to Clyde, for the part.
"You look like the yuppie who came in from the cold," said Clyde admiringly.
"Are you sure it's not typecasting?" said Fox.
"All I'm sure of," I said, "is that if I don't come in from the cold soon, I'm going to freeze my ass off."
"Just be sure you take your coffee black," said Clyde, giving me a playful goose in the ass. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture and I will admit that it set my heart racing slightly. I waited to see if Fox would react in any way but he did not. He was totally focused, apparently, on Operation Diarrhea.
We walked about a block in silent contemplation. It felt as if we were three troublemakers in some kind of crazy spaghetti
Western. Moving in for the showdown. Moving in for the kill. II felt good. It felt more than good. It felt like Walter Snow was finally, vibrantly alive and a part of something special. Then, with about a block still to go, Clyde suddenly stopped and grabbed Fox by the trench coat.
"Wait a minute," she said. "There's something I'm not sure of."
Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned Page 16