Red Meat Cures Cancer (16 page)

23

Reaping

Calls from my kids came in waves: tidal waves. I wouldn’t hear from them for a few weeks and then all of a sudden they’d both ring me up on the same day, usually with problems that required immediate attention. The best I could hope for was that the predicaments of the moment didn’t require enormous financial outlays on my part. Upon my return from the taping of
Real Time,
however, I didn’t get that lucky.

“Daddy, it’s me.”

I could tell by Sophia’s muted tone of voice that she was upset.

“Hi, babe. What’s wrong? You sound a little down.”

“I don’t know.”

Sophia was stalling, a sure sign that she wanted me to coax the crisis out of her.

“Hey, this is your dad. You can tell me. What is it?”

“Well . . .”

“Out with it, Soph.”

“Daddy, I need laser surgery.”

My heart sank. I had read that doctors used lasers to get at precancerous lesions in the uterus and various other female private parts. “My poor baby,” I thought. I needed to be strong for her.

“Sweetie, listen to me. I don’t want you to be afraid. I will be with you through this every step of the way. We’re going to get you healthy. There’s nothing to be frightened about.”

“I’m not frightened.”

“You’re not?”

“No. Of course not. I mean, we’re only talking about my teeth.”

“Your teeth? You mean you don’t have a vaginal lesion?”

“No, Daddy. That’s disgusting. Is that what you thought?”

“Well, to be honest, yes.”

“The laser is for whitening my teeth.”

“You don’t need that. I spent four thousand dollars on your braces. You have beautiful teeth.”

“No, I don’t. They’re dingy and gross. They’re corn yellow.”

“They’re not corn yellow. They’re a natural pearl. That’s the color they’re supposed to be.”

“I don’t like them. They’re maize-colored. I’ll never get a job looking like this.”

“I thought you wanted to go to business school. Isn’t that why I bought you new breasts?”

“I thought I’d work for a while.”

As with the boob job, I tried to appeal to the feministic leanings of my daughter by stressing that people should like her for who she is, and that those who placed value on the superficial were generally not worth knowing. I told her that in today’s world, it was only the strong that held on to the principles of inner beauty that ultimately dictated true happiness. When that didn’t work, I told her to get three estimates.

Sophia’s brother did not disappoint me by failing to call shortly thereafter. His problem was of a different sort, but certainly no less dire or costly. Evidently the fever of day trading had gripped my son. Unfortunately, the requisite skills to be successful at it had not. Not only had he lost the last fifteen hundred dollars I’d sent him, he’d also managed to go deeper into the hole by getting a cash advance on a credit card he’d received in the mail.

“How much are you in for, Ethan?”

“About twelve K.”

“Twelve thousand dollars? Ethan, what the hell were you thinking?”

“Well, I got in on some shares of this hot IPO at seven dollars. Right after the opening, it shot up to a hundred eighty-five a share. It was all-time. Then the shares just took a dive and closed up at about three-fifty. Next I knew the SEC got involved and delisted the company. It was a huge bummer.”

“Goddamnit, Ethan! What’s the annual interest rate on your credit card?”

“I think it’s twenty-eight percent.”

“Holy shit.”

“Dad, don’t worry. Not all of the debt’s on the card. I borrowed some of the money from Skull. So we can pay him back without interest.”

“We?
We
can pay him back? No, no, no. This is all you. Jesus, son. I don’t understand. What are you doing out there?”

“Dad, I’m sorry. I just saw a chance to make a success out of something, and I wanted to give it a shot. I wanted to make you proud of me.”

And there it was. The lowest blow a child could hit a parent with: the old “I wanted to make you proud” paradox. What can a parent say in response to that other than, “I’m already proud of you”? And how mad can you get when your child justifies his behavior as an effort to please you? The conversation was effectively over.

“Ethan, I’m already proud of you.”

“No, you’re not. I’m a total disappointment.”

“That’s not true. I’m very proud of you. I just want you to exercise better judgment. And no more playing the market with other people’s money, mine or Skull’s. Do you understand me?”

“I do. Dad, I’m sorry I let you down.”

“It’s all right. Tell Skull you’ll pay him back as soon as possible. I’ll figure something out on this end, all right?”

“You’re the best, Dad. Thanks.”

“Okay. I’ll call you this week.”

Although Ethan had seen fit to call me the best, I felt like the worst after hanging up with him. I tried to remember if I’d been as scattershot in my decision making at his age. These are things you tend to conveniently forget as time passes, convincing yourself more and more that you had always made good choices befitting a mature person. But who was I fooling? It wasn’t until my marriage had broken up that I found myself looking beyond the next pay-check and planning anything in my life. Everything prior to that had just sort of happened to me and I willingly let it. The acorn hadn’t fallen far from the oak.

By the time I got off the telephone with Sophia and Ethan, it was almost 10:00 P.M. and I was hungry. Despite my renewed effort at dieting, including semistrict adherence to soybean-based foods (save the occasional Tailpipe with cheese), my paunch seemed to be getting paunchier. Like every aging American male, I was learning that suit pants could only be taken out so many times before your tailor cried,
“No más.”
“What to eat, what to eat, what to eat,” I asked aloud while basking in the glow of the refrigerator’s light. My Qigong training was supposed to reduce my stress, which, according to King, produced extra cortisol, a hormone that was causing me to retain more abdominal fat. “Not to worry,” King assured me. Pretty soon I’d be able to channel my chee toward my gut and eradicate the blubber around my midsection. Until then, it was soy milk and cereal.

I sat down with my bowl of Special K at the kitchen table. I noticed it was raining and watched the first droplets bead up on the sliding glass door that led out to my patio. Mesmerized for a few seconds, I was quickly brought to by frantic pounding on the front door. A little scared and a lot startled, I moved slowly through the foyer and peered out one of the small windows to the side of the entryway. To my relief, it was Cal.

“What are you doing here? Come in out of the rain,” I told him as I opened the door far enough for him to fit through.

“Thanks, Sky.”

Cal was shivering as he came across the threshold and began working his way out of his coat. Unflappable to a fault, he unnerved me with the crestfallen look on his face. When he wiped the rainwater off his brow, I could tell he’d been crying by the redness of his eyes.

“Cal, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Kyle. He’s in the hospital.”

Kyle was Cal’s nine-year-old son, a cute, towheaded rugrat who called me Uncle Sky.

“My God. What happened?”

Cal was distressed and began ranting.

“His birthday was last Saturday so we had a
Star Wars
party for him. I dressed up as Darth Vader and all the neighborhood kids came over. I had the cape. The helmet. The light saber. Everything was going great. We did all the usual shit—games, candy, party favors. You know the deal. Then I went to cook some burgers for him and his friends, but I couldn’t get the grill going. I was out of propane or something. So I ran out to Tailburger and picked up a bunch of those
Dongwood
burgers and Tailfraps. One week later, half the kids are doubled over and throwing up.”

“Oh, no, Cal. What did the doctor say?”

“He’s running some tests. He thinks it may be one of these bacterias—E. coli or something.”

“Is Kyle going to be okay?”

“He’s in the ICU. The doctor says it’s fity-fifty at this point. Jenny’s hysterical. They had to give her some sedatives—the kind they use on elephants.”

“Oh my God, Cal. I feel horrible.”

“It’s not your fault, Sky. You can’t control something like this.”

Whatever color was left in my face drained away. My biggest nightmare was coming true. The decision to undercook our burgers was going to kill someone—my best friend’s son and his
Star
Wars
party buddies.

“Cal, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“Wait, that’s not all. I’ve got something else to tell you.”

“No, Cal. This is really important.”

“Listen to me, Sky.”

“What?”

“I can’t run your campaign anymore.”

“That’s no problem. Don’t even think about that right now. I totally understand.”

This made perfect sense to me. Who’d want to spend one minute helping to promote a company that had poisoned their child? I understood. Tailburger was a despicable enterprise and I was its main proponent.

“No, you don’t understand. Today was the worst day of my life.”

Cal slumped down on the front hall staircase and rested his head in his hands. He started crying again.

“I’m getting out. I’ve got to get out.”

“Out of what?”

I wasn’t sure what Cal meant, but I sure knew how he felt. I’d spent most of my life trying to get out of things. Marriage. Debt. Awkward relationships. Working for Tailburger. Going to church. Potluck dinners. Parent-teacher conferences. And that’s just for starters. For all I knew, Cal’s list could’ve been just as long as mine or longer. Men are funny like that. Most times, we won’t tell even our best friends that we’re feeling disillusioned, depressed or even suicidal. We’d rather let them find us dead at the bottom of a ravine with a note in the front pocket of our favorite jeans. It’s less trouble like that.

“Are you and Jenny having problems?”

“No,” Cal replied through a muffled sob.

“Are you in debt?”

“No.”

“You want to get out of Rochester?”

“No. The industry. I’ve got to get out of the industry.”

The answer seemed a bit anticlimactic to me.

“Oh,” I replied, pausing for a moment. “Why?”

“Because of Christine.”

Christine was Cal’s fifteen-year-old daughter, a blond stunner who’d been blossoming faster than a hothouse flower.

“She’s not in the hospital, too, is she?”

Cal blew his nose on the sleeve of his dark blue shirt.

“No, no. Nothing like that. This is a different problem. I’m a bad father.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re a great father.”

“Just listen to me. Two weeks ago I’m coming out of services with Jenny and the kids when Reverend Showalter stops us. You know how he is with his post-church chitchat.”

I hadn’t been to church in such a long time, I drew a blank on Reverend Showalter.

“Is he new?”

“No. Been there about five years. Anyway, he asks Christine what she’s doing for the summer, and she pipes up and says she’s going to drama camp. Now, there’s no way in hell I’m letting her go to one of those fruity, out-in-the-woods, act-like-a-cantaloupe camps, so I say, ‘She’s getting a job.’

“At the time, I think I’m being a good dad by teaching her the whole value of a dollar thing. Evidently she didn’t think so. Two minutes later, she bursts into tears in the car and then storms out of the house when we get home. When she finally returns she’s calm and I think everything has blown over. Turns out I was totally wrong. Today, my regional supervisor tells me that my own daughter has applied for one of our sex phone positions—the ones we post in the classifieds. I’m devastated.”

“Shit, Cal.”

“Shit is right. It’s so goddamn depressing.”

“Did she get the job?”

“Will you shut up?”

“I thought you had to be eighteen to be a phone sex girl.”

“You do. She said she was eighteen in the application.”

“So she’s a tramp and a liar.”

Cal gave me a look that let me know I should stop.

“Sorry. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

My joking was the equivalent of laughter at a funeral—an involuntary reaction to extreme discomfort and upset. The guilt that I may have hurt Kyle because of my own personal weakness and inability to stand up for what I thought was right was overwhelming. Although I empathized with Cal’s Christine problem, and was trying to be a good friend, my mind was miles away—focused on Kyle and what I may have done.

“It’s all right. I just feel like I’ve got to talk to her about this, and yet I don’t want her to know that I’m involved in such a sleazy business.”

“You don’t have to tell her.”

“Then how would I know she’d done this?”

“I see your point.”

“You try and keep your kids away from this crap, but it just sucks them in. It’s pervasive.”

“You said it yourself. Porn has gone mainstream. Every year it loses a little more of its stigma.”

“I still don’t want my daughter involved. I can’t contribute to the demise of my own children anymore.”

“You’re not seriously considering quitting?”

“I am. I’m going to do it, as soon as I’m able. I’m selling my stake in the business.”

“Cal, slow down. You’ll never replicate the money you’re making in any other business.”

“I know that. It’s going to be much harder financially, but some things are more important. Plus, I should be able to sell it for a pretty good buck.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so. I just don’t feel good anymore about being in this business.”

Cal departed at midnight, unaware of Tailburger’s corporate policy of undercooking its meat. I should have told him, but I didn’t, and now I felt awful. Some coward I was. I’d started my life with the desire to have the fortitude of David Copperfield, and I’d ended up with the weakness of Pip. I had seven hours before work to worry about my next move in this ongoing and feeble attempt to save my own ass. Somehow, it didn’t seem like enough time.

The terrible thing about having a friend in moral crisis is that it forces you to examine your own morals. I’d been blithely lying, scheming and manipulating my way across the world landscape, blindly following orders and being what I’d generously describe as an all-around asshole. The question now: what was I going to do about it? Cal had inadvertently thrown me into my own ethical dilemma, and my carefully rolled ball of yarn was rapidly unraveling.