Red Meat Cures Cancer (13 page)

18

Simmering

The mood at corporate headquarters was less somber than I anticipated. I said hello to Sheila, our receptionist, and made my way to the executive conference room for our monthly board meeting. Ned, Ted and Fred, dressed in bright green pants, multicolored shirts, white golf shoes and visors, had arrived early, as usual, in order to monopolize the doughnut tray.

“Hey, guys,” I muttered upon entering.

“Hey, Sky,” came back at me in triplicate.

“That was some stunt you pulled on Larry King,” Ned offered, his mouth full of glazed dough.

“Absolutely,” agreed Ted as he licked chocolate off his fingers.

“What’s going on with you and that chick?” Fred subtly asked while fingering a cruller.

“I’d rather not talk about it. Just a bad night all around,” I responded, hoping to deflect their interest. “What did you shoot this morning, Ned?”

“Sky, get this. I’m a hundred fifty, maybe a hundred seventyfive yards from the hole on the sixteenth at Shady Bush. I pull out a six-iron, stroke her smooth and put that puppy three inches from the cup. Prettiest thing you ever saw.”

“He shot a one-forty,” Ted blurted.

“Shut up, Ted. It was a one-thirty. We weren’t playing water penalties, remember?”

“Would sure like to join out at Crooked Creek, Sky. Heck of a club,” Ted agitated for a reaction.

“I know, Ted. I’d love to help you out there. The waiting list is just brutal. I’ll let you know when your name pops up.”

Biff Dilworth, wearing his trademark three-piece suit, sat with his legs crossed near the head of the table, reading the
Wall Street
Journal.
He didn’t engage in small talk prior to the start of our meetings, mostly because he hated the rest of us. Chad Hemmingbone felt similarly and usually arrived a few minutes late in order to avoid the inevitably mundane conversations one is subjected to at such gatherings. In contrast, Annette McNabnay, apparently over my earlier snub, smiled at me upon her arrival and asked how I was doing. As we chatted and waited for stragglers, the Link took great pride in introducing Sister Ancilla as our newest board member. Though her business acumen could be compared to that of a goat, she would add “moral insurance,” in the words of the Link.

“What kind of ball do you play, Sister?”

“Ball?” she replied, clearly confused by Ned’s question.

“Yeah, you know, golf ball. What kind of golf ball do you use?”

“I’m afraid I don’t play the game.”

Ted, being a complete turd, took offense to her characterization of his favorite activity.

“Hey, Sister, it’s a sport, okay? Not a game. Pinball. Now that’s a game.”

“I meant no offense.”

“None taken, Sister. None taken. Just watch what you say.”

Ned wanted to get back to his point despite the sister’s evident lack of interest.

“Anyway, Sister, the new Titleists are amazing. Great touch around the greens and long as Christmas Eve off the tee. So if you’re in the market, give ’em some thought.”

“I’ll do that.”

Fred, despite knowing that I thought he was retarded, attempted to engage me in conversation, much to his credit.

“Taking any vacation this summer, Sky?”

“I don’t think so, Fred. Too much going on with the new campaign to get away right now. What about you?”

“Yeah. I’m taking the whole crew over to the British Isles to play the legendary courses. St. Andrews, Balmoral, Carnoustie, all of them. We’ll get in fifty-four holes a day.”

“Bet the kids’ll love that.”

“You know, they’re only six and four, but I think it’s going to be a good experience for them, and Marcia, well, she can’t wait. I told her the RV I’m renting has a stove
and
an oven. Can you believe it?”

“No. It sounds wonderful.”

“She’s really excited.”

Once our entire assemblage had gathered, we proceeded as usual. After the minutes were approved, we formally voted Sister Ancilla onto the board and began the various committee reports. When the time arrived for marketing, I took the lead as committee chairman and recounted some of the initial problems we’d been having with the Torture campaign. Soon, the topic turned to a new giveaway scheme in light of the carnival worker comb set surplus. The Link got us started.

“How about a knife giveaway? Kids love knives.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Frank,” Chad Hemmingbone conjectured.

“Sure it is. What child doesn’t enjoy a good game of mumbletypeg?”

“That seems a bit violent to me,” Sister Ancilla said. “How about handing out copies of the Bible?”

The Link, who was not used to having his ideas dismissed so summarily, reasserted himself immediately.

“Sister, the name of the company is Tailburger, not Jesus Burger.”

Biff Dilworth, who was always pushing the educational angle, suggested we distribute great books. His idea was, of course, shot down by the Link.

“Biff, you old coot, will you please join us in the new millennium? Kids don’t want to read. Hell, half of them don’t know how to read. Books are not going to bring them by our stores.”

“Don’t we have a responsibility to our youth market to help them better themselves?” Biff persisted. “Sister, don’t you agree?”

“I do. I think books are a wonderful idea.”

The skillful use of Sister Ancilla to leverage an idea against the Link was something our fat führer had not anticipated and certainly didn’t like. His anger spilled out as he spoke.

“Are you two done? We’re not running the book-of-the-month club here. We’re running a fast-food company. Whatever we give away has to appeal to our current customers, seventy-eight percent of whom, according to our research, are illiterate. So we’re not gonna sell more burgers by giving away Moby Fucking Dick, Tom Fucking Sawyer or the Invisible Fucking Man. Are you tracking?”

“I think I’m tracking, Frank, but your foul language is entirely unnecessary,” Sister Ancilla responded, a bit bewildered by the Link’s profanity.

“Sister, I apologize. I’m just passionate about our product, and I want to see it sell.”

“God forgives you, my child.”

Suddenly the board meeting was turning into a confessional. What was next? Wafers and grape juice?

“Thank you, Sister. Now let’s hear some better ideas.”

“What about a nice titanium driver?” Fred asked.

“Now that’s a good idea,” Ned added.

“Hell of a good idea,” Ted followed.

“Are you three brain-dead?” the Link asked.

Chad Hemmingbone saw the limitations of the proposed offer.

“Don’t those go for three hundred dollars a pop?”

“Well, some of your Big Berthas do, but we could give away knockoffs,” Fred answered.

“Our patrons would be more likely to use them on each other’s windshields than on a golf course,” Annette McNabnay observed.

“Road rage could be a problem with a club giveaway,” Dilworth concurred.

Ted Truheart, still afraid the Link would release the pictures of him with his French au pair, said nothing.

“What about domestic violence?” Hemmingbone inquired.

“What about it?” I wondered aloud.

“Well, we have a high number of wife beaters among our clientele. I’m concerned we might be held liable for any clubbings.”

The Link was fed up.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Can we come back from the brink of insanity here, please? We’re not giving away titanium drivers. Okay?”

Fred wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“How about putters?”

“That could work,” Ned opined.

“That could definitely work,” Ted completed the triumvirate of stupidity.

The Link shook his head and turned his attention to me.

“Sky, what do you think? You’re the one who got us into this mess. How’re ya gonna get us out?”

I figured I could dance around the issue for a short time.

“Frank, I can report to the board that I’m in touch with an outside consultant, Cal Perkins, who is an expert in marketing and is going to work with me on some new ideas. I’ll have more to say next time but I’m excited about the possibilities.”

“Good, Sky. I’m glad to hear that, but you better move your ass quickly before this whole company is bankrupt!”

The meeting adjourned after a blood vessel popped in the Link’s neck and he needed to seek medical attention. Ned’s suggestion that we give away electric golf carts was more than his father could take. In all my years at Tailburger, the board had never made it through an entire meeting’s agenda, and today was no exception.

I saw Annette in the parking lot as the other cars cleared and sensed an opportunity. I felt a bit awkward approaching her, but I was determined to move on from Muffet, and asking Annette out seemed like the best way to do it.

“Hey, Annette, could you hold up?” I picked up my pace until I stood next to her.

“Sky, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m off to another meeting, believe it or not.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. This’ll just take a minute.”

Having turned her down once, I was now met with suspicion. The slight prick to her person that accompanied my rejection had healed, and there was no interest in reopening the wound, however tiny.

“Listen, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

She sighed. “Sky, I don’t know. I mean, didn’t you say you were getting involved with someone? What about that?”

If I’d been totally honest, I would have told Annette that I still had feelings for Muffet, and that somewhere deep in the lower recesses of my heart, I hoped we could be together again.

“That? That’s all over now.”

“Well . . .”

“I promise to get you home before curfew.”

Annette’s face lit up. For a moment, I had won her vague affections back.

“I guess so.”

“That’s a yes?”

“Yes. Give me a call.”

“Great.”

I stood and watched as Annette drove away. The sputtering exhaust from her car provided the soundtrack to a movie moment in my life. As she disappeared out of sight, it struck me that she was somehow important in whatever cosmic plan existed for me. With any luck, she’d help me forget all about the loss of Jess and the pain in my gut caused by Ms. Meaney, and would put me on the path to happiness. In many ways, I was at her mercy.

19

Breach

To ensure complete privacy for our discussions, Cal agreed to meet me at my house. Although I was still uncertain about entering the world of pornography, I knew it was my only option. To calm my raw nerves, I lit a Commodore and put on Mozart’s
Turkish Rondo.
With my wretched career nearing its tragic conclusion, I figured I’d better start appreciating some of the finer things. Cal came through my front door with his typical exuberance. He was in top shape, the result of regular running, and looked about fifteen years younger than me. It was true what they said. Money did make you more attractive.

“You make me sick, Cal. Do you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand,” I said, taking another drag on my butt.

“I’ve got some great ideas for Tailburger, Sky.”

“Good, come on in to the kitchen. I’ve got some beer.”

“It’s ten A.M.”

“Don’t worry. It’s light beer.”

Cal had a laptop with him that he flipped on and used to pull up his Lust Ranch site.

“We get six million hits a month on this sucker, and that number is growing.”

I looked at the comely female form on the screen and found my prurient interests piquing. To Cal, the same set of huge knockers registered as dollar signs. “What a shame,” I thought, rubbing my schwantz against the nearest table leg.

“What I propose as a first step is to place a large ad banner on the wallpaper. That way, every time a horny, and hopefully hungry, male logs on, he will see the Tailburger logo and the catch-phrase ‘Torture Yourself.’ You like that?”

“That’s good. I like it.”

“Alone, it’ll give you a one percent bump. Your consumers and ours mesh perfectly.”

“I don’t know if I should feel flattered or insulted by that remark.”

“C’mon, Sky, don’t tell me that surprises you.”

“It doesn’t. I’m just fucking around. What else do you have?”

“Today’s your lucky day. Construction on our actual Lust Ranch in Nevada is almost finished. Why doesn’t Tailburger sponsor some kind of contest to win a free trip out there along with a year’s supply of food? We’ll promote it exclusively through the site.”

“Cal, that’s good. We can call it the ‘Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes.’ ”

“Perfect. And the great thing is that you’ll hit one of your big target markets. Disgruntled teens.”

“Isn’t the site restricted?”

“Yes, but the kids find ways to get in. And let’s just say we don’t work too hard to stop them.”

“I don’t want to know anything about that end of the business. Just keep it legal.”

“Don’t worry about that. It’s all covered.”

“Christ, it really sounds promising, Cal. But how am I going to keep this quiet from my own organization?”

“We’ll run it through our marketing group. I’ll make sure the details are kept secret and you pay us under a consulting arrangement. It’s no problem. Plus, if someone at Tailburger wants to blow your cover, they’ll have to admit they’ve been trolling for porn on the Web. Do you think anybody would do that?”

“Well, I’m sure half the board trolls for porn, but they’re mostly cowards and I don’t think any of them would say anything. I’ll take my chances. I’ve got to get our market share up.”

“Then it’s settled. We start on Monday. I’m sure my people will have some other ideas as well.”

“Do you think this is going to work?”

“Sky, I’m telling you, we’ll get a Tailburger in the mouth of every sick, twisted pervert out there.”

“That’s all I want.”

“I know it is.”

Cal and I clinked our bottles of Bud Light together and drank. We had come a long way from our days in Mrs. Larrabee’s second grade class. “She’d be proud of us now,” I thought, “a couple of smut kings all grown-up.” Maybe we could put on a wing at Thornell Road Elementary School in her honor: the Harriet Larrabee Center for Budding Pornographers.

Although Cal was my best friend by far, I couldn’t help but feel like I was making a deal with the devil. Mozart’s music seemed too elegant a witness to our sordid business, so I suggested we move outside to the brick patio behind my house. In the arms of my Adirondack chairs we shot the shit about old times, sleeping out for tickets to the Stones, senior prom, Bills games and bachelor parties. By the time we finished, I’d made some kind of peace with myself. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.

After Cal left, Ethan called to catch up on my news. All had been so quiet on the Macrocock front, I feared he had forgotten me, his banker. Those concerns were quickly put to rest.

“Dad, how’s it going? It’s Ethan. Your son.”

Ethan clearly wanted to stress the familial connection.

“My son? Ah yes, I seem to remember such a creature.”

“Sorry I’ve been so tough to reach. Skull told me you called a few times. We’ve just been shredding.”

“Did you get your second round of financing?”

“Not yet. But we met with Eddie Wu, you know the guy who started Wahoo. He’s got the bones to do it if he’s willing. The dude was so cool. Came driving up in a new Testarossa. He’s worth like eight billion, and he’s only twenty-three.”

“Yeah, but is he happy?”

“C’mon, Dad.” Ethan laughed at my apparently amusing inquiry.

“Well, I’m glad to hear things are going well.”

“Hey, I saw the Torture campaign for Tailburger. Did you put that together?”

“I played a part.”

“Kudos, Popala. That Blatherskite video is da domb. You’re a Martian genius.”

“And that’s good?”

“Definitely.”

“Thanks, Ethan, but to be honest the campaign’s not going so well.”

“Hakuna Matada, mi poppa. Don’t let it stomp on your buzz.”

“I’ll try not to. Listen, how are the finances?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’ve been working like twenty-four-seven, so I was planning on heading down to Palm Beach with my posse. I could use some extra cash.”

“Palm Beach with your posse? For how long, Puff Daddy?”

“Just a few days. Everybody from Macrocock is going. This one dude’s stepfather has a place where we can crash.”

“Maybe Eddie Wu will pay for you guys.”

“I wish. We’d be stylin’ if that was the case.”

“I’ll send you a few hundred, but that’s it.”

“Dad, you’re all-time. Thanks a lot. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good-bye, Ethan.”

To be called “all-time” was the ultimate compliment in Ethanspeak. It put me in a pantheon of greats ranging from Jim Carrey to Austin Powers to the lead singer for Abundant Fuck, and it was certainly enough to keep me sending money, however ill-advised that course of action was. There are a million ways to tell somebody you love them in this world, but nothing is as effective, or as welcomed by a child, as a check in the mail.