Red Meat Cures Cancer (21 page)

“Fine.”

Sometimes when you’re away from home, even for a day a two, you see the true physical condition of your house when you return. You could go years without noticing the chipped paint or the faded shutters, the weeds in the driveway or the rusted mailbox. And then, having been gone, you pull up with fresh eyes and you realize the whole place needs a lot of work. So much work, you’re not sure where to begin. You stop for a minute and wonder how your house ever got so dilapidated. When did you start letting it go? How did this happen? You won’t be able to remember. And it’s frightening because repairing the damage will take certain resources and you must assess whether or not you’ve got them. The patience. The time. The money. The desire. Maybe you do, but maybe you don’t. And maybe you’re all alone. And if you
don’t
have the resources and you
are
all alone, you face a difficult decision. Will you let your house fade even further, personally holing up inside the deteriorating structure? Or will you sell it and quietly move far away, forgotten by all but a few?

My house needed a lot of work.

29

Tenderloin

King was out when I returned. It was just as well. I didn’t really want him making a big fuss over my first prison homecoming. At this rate, there’d be others anyway. Then again, where the hell was he? Didn’t he know I’d been in jail?

I stood still for a moment in the front hallway and listened for the normal noises I’d missed: the ticking of the clock on the living room mantel, the clanging of the water heater from the basement, the crunching of soy nuts by King as he espoused the virtues of tantric sex. I was alone and lonely, a most unfortunate condition. Usually I was one or the other, but not both. The combination was a killer.

The telephone rang, and I let the machine pick up.

“Sky, it’s Trip Baden calling. I don’t know what kind of a midlife meltdown you’re going through, but you better get your shit together. If you think I’m gong to let some scuzzy, low-life flesh peddler like you prevent me from getting what’s legally mine, you’re woefully mistaken. Your career is officially over at Tailburger and I want my half of your pension. You have one week to call my lawyer, Herv Alverson, and begin the paperwork. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court. Good-bye!”

I went to the refrigerator, twisted open a Molson and sat down in my dreary kitchen. This symbolized freedom to me, however pathetic it sounds, and so I sat, feeling sorry for myself. But hey, I felt entitled to a bit of self-pity, having lost so much (add girlfriend, self-respect, watch—Fingers Tremble duped me on a Jar Jar Binks trivia question—dignity and possibly liberty to my aforementioned list of job, pension and reputation). Hard to say which loss was the worst, although Annette was most on my mind. “At least I have my health,” I consoled myself, swilling down the last sip of beer and choking back the cough of a man with early-stage emphysema.

I was paralyzed. Couldn’t call Annette. She didn’t want to hear from me. Couldn’t call Cal. He hated me. Couldn’t go to work. I didn’t have a job. Couldn’t call my kids. I prayed they would miss this part of their father’s demise. Couldn’t watch television. I was too afraid to face the character assassination that was undoubtedly taking place on the local news. I grabbed a pile of mail from the counter and started sorting through it. Cable bill. Electric bill. Request for a donation from Roxby’s legal defense fund. Columbia Compact Disc Club offer (mental note: check for Bread Anthology CD). Publisher’s Clearinghouse packet. Crooked Creek club dues. Another Publisher’s Clearinghouse packet addressed to someone named Ski Torne. Credit card offer. Gas bill. Cornell tuition bill (mental note: remind Sophia you weren’t kidding about her getting a part-time job). Another credit card offer. J. Crew catalog. Late notice from mortgage company. Victoria’s Secret catalog (whoever sent me this—you’re cruel). Telephone bill. The end. (Pause). My conclusion. Looking to the mail for comfort was like looking to Liz Taylor for marital advice.

Moving toward the hot shower I so badly needed, I heard a rumbling outside. Sure enough, out the front window I saw a lime green van, covered with rust and bumper stickers, sitting in my driveway. I couldn’t see what the bumper stickers said but instinct told me the collection included “Practice Random Acts of Kindness,” “Think Globally, Act Locally” and “Jesus Is My Copilot,” not to mention every other annoying saying ever foisted on the American car-driving public.

Just when I thought no further ill fate could possibly befall me, I was proved wrong by a gangly punk with a bad goatee and two earrings who spryly hopped down from the driver’s side of the van, and a strange woman in dreadlocks who did the same from the passenger’s side. Hand in hand, the two of them, both clad in sandals, sunglasses and knitted, tricolored, Rastafarian lids, strolled toward my house. They only looked moderately dangerous so I opened the front door to greet them.

“May I help you?”

“How could you, Daddy?” the female asked.

“Yeah, how could you, man?” her companion followed. It was Sophia and my biggest nightmare: Tweeter, the non-Choate townie.

After all the times I’d supported my daughter through lost loves, unfair teachers, catty girlfriends and cosmetic surgery, I thought that she would be the first to support me in my hour of greatest need. Her dear old dad was fighting for his personal and professional life, and what he really needed was a hug. But did I get that? Of course not. Instead, I stood in the foyer of my own home getting verbally attacked by her and a guy wearing an Insane Clown Posse concert jersey. Too stunned to react, I threw up my arms and shrugged while my persecutors sauntered in from the front stoop.

“Daddy, this is Tweeter,” Sophia called out as she headed for the bathroom. “I’ve gotta pee so bad.”

Suddenly I was left alone with David Soul.

“So, Tweeter, is your name short for something?” I asked, extending my nicotine-stained hand to shake his.

“Nope. Just Tweeter,” he responded, returning my traditional gesture of greeting halfheartedly. “My folks named me after a speaker, I think. It was either going to be Woofer or Tweeter.”

“I see. I think you got the better end of that bargain.”

“I like to think so.”

The thought of this cretin having sex with my daughter made my brain go numb. I had avoided imagining it before, but now with him standing in front of me I couldn’t, so I allowed myself to go into some kind of protective parental shock.

Sophia returned from the bathroom still steaming.

“Daddy, Ethan told me what you did, and I think it’s awful.

How could you support the exploitation of women with that prostitution contest?”

“It was just marketing, Sophia. Prostitution is legal in Nevada. Those women are professionals.”

“That doesn’t make it right. Men have been making sex objects out of women since the beginning of time, and this only adds to the problem.”

“Sophia, I’m not saying it’s an ideal situation. But it is legal, and I was under extraordinary pressure at work. You’re going to have to forgive me, or at the very least, try to understand.”

“I don’t understand, Daddy. Is it true that crippled little kids were entering the contest? That really bothers me.”

“That part of the story has been blown way out of proportion. They weren’t all crippled, and I had no idea that was happening anyway. Think of the illegal entrants as horny high schoolers. You remember that time of your life Soph, don’t you?”

“
I
sure do,” Tweeter piped up.

“Shut up, Tweeter,” Sophia snapped. “Daddy, this sets the cause of females back about twenty years. My fem lit professor says we’re getting physically, spiritually and emotionally raped by the white man in power. That’s you, Daddy! You’re part of the problem.”

“All right, Soph, that’s enough. This hasn’t been the best day of your father’s life. I just got out of jail, and I need some peace and quiet. Do you understand?”

I’d really had it with my daughter at this point, and I knew if she pushed me any further I’d probably say something I regretted.

“Daddy, we can’t just drop this.”

“Okay, fine! Tell me then, what does your fem lit professor say about your breast implants? Are they part of the problem?”

“No. There’s a difference.”

“Those aren’t real?” Tweeter interjected, a surprised look on his face as he pointed to Sophia’s chest.

“No, they’re not real. God, Tweeter, don’t be stupid,” Sophia barked.

“What difference?” I persisted.

“The difference is that with my augmentation procedure, I exploited myself. It was an act of self-empowerment. I had a choice.”

“I can’t believe those aren’t real,” Tweeter observed, scratching his scraggly beard.

“Shut up, Tweeter!” Sophia shouted.

“These women in Nevada have a choice, too,” I protested. “They don’t have to have sex for money.”

“You just don’t get it, Daddy,” Sophia said, telling me in her customary way that the conversation was over as far as she was concerned. Life’s a funny thing. Just twenty-four hours before I’d been in prison debating the merits of
The Shawshank Redemption
with a serial rapist named Fingers Tremble, and now here I was arguing about the merits of legalized prostitution with my daughter and a guy most likely conceived during Lynyrd Skynyrd’s second encore at the Gator Bowl in 1976.

“Sophia, don’t be mad at me.”

Silence.

“Well, are you staying for a bit?”

“We’re just passing through, Sky,” Tweeter informed me.

Sky? Did this kid just call me Sky?

“Call me Colonel, Tweeter.” Although I’d never served a day in my life in the service, I wanted Tweeter to fear me.

“Got it.”

Sophia looked at Tweeter as if she was waiting for him to say something.

“Daddy, the reason we’re here is because Tweeter has something to say to you.”

Tweeter looked back at Sophia and audibly gulped.

“Go ahead, Tweeter,” Sophia urged.

“Well, Colonel Thorne . . .”

“You don’t have to call him Colonel.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Well, sir . . . uh Colonel, uh Mr. Thorne, I wanted to talk to you about me and Sophia.”

Tweeter placed his index finger under the loose-fitting neckline of his jersey and began to shift his weight from side to side. This couldn’t be what I feared it was. It just couldn’t.

“What about you and Sophia?” I countered nervously.

“Well, you see . . . we’ve been living in my van . . . that green one outside.”

“I saw it. So what?” My heart sank under the weight of his words.

“Well, we’d like to get married. And I wanted to ask your permission.”

Sophia moved over to Tweeter, placed her arm around his back and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I would need to handle this gently, delicately and with finesse.

“You know you seem like a nice guy, Tweeter. But I’ve got to tell you something. There’s NO WAY in FUCKING HELL you two are getting married!”

“I just thought that maybe . . .”

“MAYBE NOTHING!”

“Oh, Daddy, how could you be so mean?” Sophia broke into tears after my outburst. “Tweeter and I are in love. Can’t you see that?”

“It’ll pass, Soph, I promise you. And all you’ll be left with is a rusted-out van covered by a ‘Honk If You’re Horny’ bumper sticker. I can’t let you make that mistake.”

“I
hate
you, Daddy! I hate you! We
are
going to get married, whether you like it or not. C’mon, Tweeter. We’re leaving. (Pause) I bet Trip would understand.”

Sophia knew that remark would hurt me.

“Sorry, Colonel,” Tweeter said as he shuffled out and shut the door behind them.

I watched Sophia and Tweeter climb back into the van and added my daughter’s name to the growing list of things and people that I’d apparently lost. This was just one of her phases though. I was certain about that. Twenty or thirty years from now, everything would be back to normal.

30

Indecent Exposure

Soy nuts. Organic polenta. Ready-to-drink, nondairy, blended chai tea and spice soy beverage, Tofutti vanilla snacks. These monstrosities were my brother’s idea of problem solving.

“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.