Red Meat Cures Cancer (2 page)

Until now, it had all been academic really. My financial commitments, the same things that keep everybody at the grindstone, rendered the idea of quitting Tailburger useless. Some time back, having realized this, I accepted my fate as a salaryman, put my head down and began the final drive to retirement: a full thirty-year trek. But now, with only one year to go until I’d have twenty years vested with the company and could opt out early for a reduced Tailburger pension, and with my parents having both recently passed away, I saw my last best hope for a trip to Tahiti.

SOMEWHERE OVER PENNSYLVANIA

Flight 789 to Reagan National reached cruising altitude and I turned on my Palm Pilot to do some strategic planning. Strengths * Weaknesses * Opportunities * Threats. This mode of business analysis could easily be applied to my personal life.

Strengths: I’d never killed anyone. I took a certain pride in that. I’d given blood twice; once willingly. I’d seen
The Graduate
forty-eight times. The Rolling Stones a dozen. I loved my two children, even if I didn’t always want to be around them.

Weaknesses: My cigarette habit (unfiltered Commodores) was up to three packs a day (you have to die from something). God was no longer a regular visitor to my world. Somewhere along the way, I’d let the big guy slip away without so much as a good-bye. More and more, I felt lonesome. And while we’re piling on here, lately I’d become obsessed with the amount of hair I saw in the tub after I showered. When my plumber put me on to a product called the Hair Snare to prevent clogging of the drain, he had no idea how much concern it would cause me.

Opportunities: Despite my preternaturally shitty luck and lapsed faith, I still believed there existed some kind of perverse happiness in my future or perhaps a close facsimile I could settle for while retaining a shred of self-respect. I also believed in redemption and second chances. Scratch that—third chances.

Threats: Trip Baden, a painful reminder of my biggest loss—my late ex-wife, Jess—and a man whose eyes were set squarely on a piece of my Tailburger pension. This requires some explanation.

Jess and I met in college and quickly fell in love. She was this wonderfully refreshing combination of sophistication and innocence, and the only woman I ever met whom I thought I could marry. So I did. And we were happy for ten years until, stupidly, I got immersed in my career climb and she fell into the arms of the golf pro at Wedgewood, a country club for middle management that I went into debt to join. By then she’d given birth to our children, Ethan and Sophia, forever tying our fates together. And though we’d both made mistakes, and were equally at fault for our marital problems, I refused to forgive her for what she’d done. Instead of being understanding, I was self-righteous and hard. Instead of going to counseling, I demanded a divorce.

Then one day, I woke up and I wanted her back. But by the time my anger faded and I realized I’d let go of the greatest part of my life, she was gone—married to Trip Baden, a claims adjuster whose greatest thrill in life was denying insurance coverage to people seriously injured in auto accidents. At least, that’s how I liked to think of him. Everybody else called him a software tycoon. Whatever he was, there was no mystery, as far as I was concerned, as to how he’d bamboozled
my
wife. Baden caught Jess when she was down. He said all the right things, manipulating her mind and ego like some wayward EST instructor. On good days, I told myself he brainwashed her. On bad days, I was certain she loved him.

No matter the truth, I couldn’t take it at the time. Suddenly this horrible claims adjuster/software tycoon was living with my wife and raising my kids in a thirty-room mansion on the shores of Lake Ontario, and I needed an appointment just to see my family. So started a period of extreme bitterness for me as I grew more and more resentful and learned to despise everything about this guy, right down to his name. I mean, Trip Baden? What kind of a name is that? Like a bad third-string quarterback, he entered my life in the middle of the game and starting calling plays.

Fortunately, Ethan and Sophia never took to Trip, who, according to them, heaped his attention and riches on Butte and Missoula, his two daughters by his first marriage. With their presence merely tolerated by Baden, my kids continually helped me from the inside by probing for cracks in their mother’s second union and providing me with constant updates. They knew how much I loved their mom and together, the three of us never gave up on the idea of a reconciliation. At least not until September 8, 1994, when U.S. Airways flight 427 from Chicago to Pittsburgh crashed with Jess aboard. On that day, the flame I’d kept burning for years dimmed but did not go out. And though it was likely just a gesture to make me feel better, the kids insisted that Jess, in quieter, confessional moments, had openly spoken of coming back to me. It may have been a fantasy, but it kept me going in my darkest hours after her death. Since that time, I’d put love at the bottom of my to-do list, preferring to stay uninvolved and unhurt.

So why was Trip Baden still a threat after all these years? It turned out that Mr. Softy had financial problems. Oracle had come along with a product that made his company’s technology and stock nearly worthless. Now Trip, magnanimous at the funeral ten years ago (he said he didn’t want anything from me back then), had returned to claim his stake in Jess’s estate. Since she died without a will, 50 percent of her property, including the portion of my pension that she was entitled to when I retired, was, in theory, his.

Of late, my bad luck in love was matched only by my misfortune in business. Not only were our sales down, but Tailburger was facing unprecedented scrutiny from the media and the government on food safety issues. We were used to fighting back against the fitness freaks, but according to the new breed of activists, beef was unhealthy and dangerous. There was no defense against a tearful mother on television testifying in front of Congress that her five-year-old Petey went out for a Jolly Meal and never came home—the latest victim of the E. coli 0157:H7 bacteria. At the rate of 12.3 dead Peteys per year, we were losing the press battle. So now, every time a burger from Jack in the Box offed someone or a bill was proposed that would raise our cost of doing business, the Link called Rush Limbaugh and sent me down to D.C. to explain our food safety methods and to bitch about overregulation to anyone who’d listen. Bringing the center of every patty up to 159 degrees Fahrenheit, in order to kill bacteria, already cost us millions each year in energy and manpower, and had an ill effect on the taste of your average Tailburger. All in all, I was pretty fucking tired of our representational democracy. HR 214, which promised consumers more detailed product labeling and increased meat inspection standards, could not make its way out of the Agriculture Committee.

My major contact on Capitol Hill was Burton Roxby, a class-mate of mine from high school, who’d spent seven years at the Food and Drug Administration before running for Congress. I held him personally responsible for the dual annoyances of Saint-John’s-wort and Ginkgo biloba. Representative Roxby, from the 28th Congressional District of New York, which encompassed Rochester, was now the third-ranking Republican on the Agriculture Committee and, by necessity more than anything else, a good friend to Tailburger.

Wholly nonaltruistic, Roxby’s pleas on behalf of the farmers and corporations of western New York were about nothing more than keeping his campaign coffers fat. We flagrantly bought his vote on all bills related to food inspection, sanitation and handling, among others, and made enormous contributions to his biannual race for office. Though I couldn’t pin it on him, I knew he was misappropriating a portion of his campaign funds to put up a mistress at the Watergate apartment complex. It was common knowledge that when Roxby wasn’t home kissing constituent ass, he was sport-fucking his beltway bimbo into oblivion.

I hated Roxby. I thought he was scum, and I was sick of seeing his smirking face on the reelection campaign requests for money that arrived at my house every fifth day. I had it on good authority that he put a portion of Tailburger’s donations (read legislative bribe) toward his alma mater, Princeton, to make himself look like a major donor and increase his odds of getting an honorary degree. This was important to him, since he’d never actually graduated.

The Link hated Roxby, too. Tailburger needed him though, so he tolerated the Congressman’s continuous stream of bullshit. “Roxby’s a prick,” the Link would often say. “But he’s a beeflovin’ prick!” Every dollar we threw at the beef industry these days seemed to end up in Roxby’s pocket. Tailburger gave thousands to the National Cattlemen’s Meat Stampede, the largest cattle farmer’s association, and the Corral Foundation, the Meat Stampede’s right-wing, red-meat think tank, a body that advocated the repeal of most if not all laws related to our main product. In turn, these organizations spent our money supporting Roxby’s campaigns. The whole scenario was maddening.

I met Roxby at the Cosmos Club, a Doric-columned work of classical architecture located along Mass. Ave.’s Embassy Row, not far from the White House. This womb of exclusivity had the antiquated ambiance of a private establishment for men and now, after forcible litigation, for women. I was allowed in only because of the reciprocal relationship between the Cosmos Club and Crooked Creek, a club in Rochester that I belonged to, my father belonged to and his father before that belonged to. My membership in Crooked Creek was a mistake of fate as far as I was concerned, but membership had its perks, one of which was the undeniable feeling, within its four walls, that you were better than other people. Although this Darwinian delusion lasted for only the hour or so while you ate lunch, you really got a healthy charge out of it before you were cast back out into the faceless hoi polloi. Another plus, Crooked Creek
was
one of the few things I had that the Link wanted and had been denied. Whenever he asked me to sponsor him, I told him there was an extremely long waiting list. This was a lie.

Inside the Cosmos, imposing hand-carved mahogany walls and deep green marble floors kept conversations hushed, and a newly installed metal detector made sure you didn’t steal the silverware. Like all bastions of money and melba toast, the Cosmos Club had taken it on the chin when the tax laws changed and made only 50 percent of business meals and drinks deductible. Membership and usage dwindled, and the drapes now looked like set pieces from
The Shining.

Entering the foyer, I saw my alleged ally from afar. Like all politicians, Roxby wanted everybody to be his friend. He’d mastered the art of telling you what you wanted to hear. To see a grown man participate in one lifelong popularity contest, so desperately desirous of the love and approval of acquaintances and strangers alike, was peculiarly disheartening. From my experience, politicians were the most insecure people I’d ever met. I didn’t know where it came from. Maybe their mommies didn’t let them suckle at the tit long enough, or maybe their daddies didn’t tell them they were good enough, but whatever the sad condition, Burton Roxby had it bad.

“Schuyler Thorne, how are you? My God, you look great. Are you lifting?”

“Burt, you’re a bigger liar than I remember.”

“Get out of here. Let me guess. Nautilus circuit, right? Three, maybe four days a week? It’s showing. God, it’s really great to see you, Sky. C’mon, I’ve already got a table.”

Buried in the back of the main dining room, we ordered iced tea and embarked on more obligatory small talk. As he prattled on about his collection of pre-Colombian art, I tuned his words out and took a look at what Mother Nature and time had done to him. Roxby was a smallish but fit man, about five feet five inches tall, who clearly grappled with a Napoleon complex on a daily basis. Completely bald, having shaved his head two years after his comb-over became a joke, he craved political power and was deathly afraid of losing it. His dark eyes, set a bit too close together, and his large ears, both bent outward by the birthing canal, gave his face an unfortunate Mr. Potato Head quality.

“I don’t think Tailburger has anything to worry about. The provisions of HR 214 are not as burdensome as you think.”

“C’mon, Burt. I’ve read it. We’ll end up baby-sitting every burger if that thing passes. Listen, the Link doesn’t want to leave this to chance. To be blunt, 214 is going to kick our ass financially if it comes out of committee and gets signed. We need to know what it’s going to take to kill it.”

“Sky, you know this is a very sensitive subject. My loyalties are, of course, first and foremost, to the people of the 28th Congressional District. I have held bills up in the past, but only to give them my full scrutiny for the sake of my constituency. As you know, I’ve got an election coming up and I think this bill may be in the best interests of the people. Of course, I always give every piece of legislation my fullest. . . .”

“Cut the shit, Burt. I’m not wearing a wire. I need to know what it’s going to take to bury this fucker.”

“Quite frankly, Sky, you’ve got much bigger problems than 214.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about SERMON.”

“Oh, Christ. What now?”

SERMON, a.k.a. Stop Eating Red Meat Now, was a sworn enemy of Tailburger and every other organization in the beef business. These tofu-munchers, headed by a zealot named Muffet Meaney, had been spewing their vegan bile in our direction for years. I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t been battling the one propaganda machine more shameless than our own. The look on Roxby’s face told me he was either serious or severely constipated.

“Sky, they’re going to bring a class action lawsuit against you guys that will make the tobacco settlement dollars look like chump change. As we sit here, SERMON’s leadership is strong-arming NAAG and every rep on the hill to support one collective movement toward carnegeddon.”

“Nag?”

“The National Association of Attorneys General.”

“Carnegeddon? What the hell are they suing us for?”

“They’re talking about trying to nail you guys for consumer fraud and racketeering. They want to make this a RICO suit.”

“Consumer fraud? About what?”

“About the danger of eating beef, of course. For concealing it.”

“We never concealed anything. Eating beef is not dangerous.”

“I’m with you, Sky, but some very powerful people say it is risky.”

“What do they expect to get out of this?”

“You name it, they want it. Funds for every child affected by tainted meat. Antibeef education dollars. Grant money for studies on irradiation. Stepped-up inspection requirements. And the mother of them all: recouped Medicare and Medicaid money for the government’s cost of treating heart disease and stroke.”