Red Meat Cures Cancer (18 page)

25

Tailfire

Burton Roxby, out on bail and awaiting trial, came to see me at Tailburger headquarters the next morning. Suspended indefinitely from Congress, he appeared at my doorway dressed neatly in jeans and a flannel shirt, a mode of attire I’d never seen him in, given his religious adherence to dark gray suits. He looked thinner and shorter to me, a meek presence devoid of the nerdish bravado he once projected. I motioned for him to take a seat and then watched cautiously as he did so.

“Sky, I need your help.”

Roxby continuously fidgeted with his hands, oblivious of how guilty it made him look.

“Burt, I don’t know what I can do for you.”

“Look at me, Sky,” Roxby pleaded, pointing at his feet. “They’re making me wear an ankle bracelet to monitor my whereabouts. They’ve taken away my dignity.”

“You did that to yourself.”

“That’s not true. I was set up. That little girl was an instrument of the devil.”

“C’mon, Burt. Save your story for the jury.”

“Look, my trial is coming up. I’d like you to be a character witness.”

“Did you know that bill 214 passed through the Agriculture Committee and into law because of your little stunt?”

“I heard. And I’m sorry.”

“Do you have any idea how much money that will cost us?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not all. Plot Thickens added New York as a plaintiff in the SERMON suit against Tailburger. Now that he doesn’t need your help in the governor’s race, we’re getting screwed.”

“I can still help you.”

“I doubt it.”

“I’m innocent, Sky. I swear. You gotta believe me.”

“I don’t believe you! Not for a minute.”

“Sky, Thickens is an empty suit. He just follows the polls. Once I’m cleared, we can work together against SERMON. I’ll pull every string I can to make sure you and Tailburger are taken care of, but first I need you to vouch for my character.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. Help me and help yourself at the same time.”

There it was again, another opportunity to compromise my character for worldly gain—something I’d become quite proficient at since my first transgression. Roxby figured I had my price, just like every man he’d met in Washington, D.C., and all along the rubber chicken circuit of pork barrel politics.

“I can’t,” I repeated.

Roxby looked mildly surprised that I didn’t immediately crumble. He knew I needed to extricate Tailburger from the SERMON suit, but he’d overestimated my desperation. Ever the consummate politician, he simply switched tactics. The manipulative player I remembered was suddenly back and sitting in my office.

“All right, Sky. I’m going to level with you because I like you and I respect you. However, I must warn you that what I’m about to say may be shocking. (Pause) I’m a sex addict.”

“What?”

“I’m a sex addict. I can’t control my urges. It’s a disease and I’m getting help.”

“Will you spare me the monumental bullshit, Burt?”

“Men have needs that can’t always be met at home. Look at our former president. I’m not alone.”

Roxby actually was alone. Yeti, his understanding wife, filed for divorce following his arrest and then proceeded to lock him out of their house. Though this was the one positive result of the entire treehouse incident for him, it didn’t help when Channel 2 broadcast footage of him pounding on a back door demanding to be let in or else.

“You don’t understand, Sky. I’ve found the good book.”

“Which book is that?
Chicken Soup for the Child Molester’s
Soul
?”

“The St. James Bible, of course. I’ve cast out my demons and stepped into the kingdom of God.”

“You’re shameless, Burt. Stop embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m not embarrassed to walk with the Lord.”

“Are you done?”

“Will you be a character witness for me or not?”

“No! You’re a piece of dung! Now get out of my office.”

Roxby’s motives were so transparent I was ashamed to have kissed his useless ass for so many years.

“Sky, Princeton wants to take away my honorary degree if I’m convicted.”

“They gave you an honorary degree?”

“Yeah, a few years back. It was for my child-advocacy work.”

“Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Be a character witness.”

“No! Get out of here!”

“Sky, I still know people at the FDA. Remember, I worked there for seven years.” Roxby’s tone was slightly threatening.

“Sure, I remember. So what?”

“So don’t be surprised if I make a few phone calls and you find your precious beef being regulated like a drug.”

“What the hell are you talking about? They couldn’t even get cigarettes under their control.”

“Beef has a hypnotic effect. It’s as addictive as nicotine or sex. And that information, in the hands of highly paid lobbyist lawyers, is all I’d need to drag you down.”

“Get the hell out of my office.”

“I didn’t want it to come to this, Sky.”

“Get out!”

“Arms can reach out beyond prison walls.”

“Are you threatening to have me killed?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re an infinitesimal piece of snail shit and I want you out of my office!”

The Roxby bridge was irretrievably burned, a prospect that would have terrified me just weeks before. Something surged through my veins. I didn’t know if it was my Du Mai or my Chong Mai or maybe my yang heel vessel. But regardless of the tributary being used, what was coursing through my miraculous meridians didn’t feel like my chee. It just felt like anger and guilt, emotions I struggled to subdue, given the occasion at hand. Today was the dedication for the Tailburger Health and Life Fitness Center and the Fanoflincoln Pavilion.

The Link picked me up at headquarters in his new Continental. He wore a purple sweatsuit, a bold choice considering he now looked like Fruit of the Loom’s grape with a thyroid condition. Those who don’t exercise want to look like they do, but the Link’s crushed velour ensemble wasn’t fooling anyone. To make matters worse, his excitement about the ceremony had made him delusional. He actually asked me how his hair looked. To place that in context, not only was the Link a member of the Hair Club for Men, he was a victim. Still, glancing at the snarled rat’s nest he called his mane, I smiled dutifully and said, “Never better.”

“How do you like my sweats, Thorne? Pretty sporty, eh?”

“Sharp, Frank. Perfect for the event.”

“I thought so. I may have to take one of those newfangled machines for a ride. What do they call ’em?”

“Stationary bikes?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Jesus, what’ll they think of next? Moving stairs?”

It was a safe bet that this was the Link’s first visit to a gym of any kind. After talking about his irrational fear of fat nuns for the entire ride over, we toured the facility for half an hour with Sister Ancilla and the mother superior, a woman with a stern and forbidding demeanor. It was an impressive space, with long rows of gleaming equipment and open workout areas with mirrored walls. A snack bar, serving only Tailburgers, Tailfraps and other meatflavored products, sat in the middle, apparently a cruel hoax on those people actually trying to lose weight. Although burning two hundred calories on a stairclimber was a waste of time if you immediately ate our new twelve-hundred-calorie Mad Cow Burger, 5 percent of all profits would go to the crippled children at the Shriner’s Hospital. The Link tried to negotiate this figure down to 3 percent, but the nuns held firm.

The name Fanoflincoln and the Tailburger logo were visible everywhere throughout the facility. The Link wasn’t one to ask for a small, tasteful plaque. He wanted his money’s worth and, more importantly, he wanted something around for posterity’s sake. This blatant piece of self-promotion got me thinking about my own death. Not in an unusually morbid way, although I suppose there’s no other way to contemplate your own demise. Just seeing how happy the Link was, I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to have my name on something other than my tombstone. I didn’t have the money to donate a building anywhere, but there had to be something. Maybe I could give a local college like Nazareth a library carrel or a desk or a rare book that some fresh-man would pull from the shelves in fifty years and ask, “Who the hell is Sky Thorne?” A very good question.

Sister Ancilla showed us the karate dojo on the second floor, the Link’s one architectural demand. The mother superior’s refusal to call him Sensei for the rest of the day sent him into a temporary funk that he didn’t break out of until he saw the buffet tables being set up. “Can we eat now?” the Link asked like an impatient child.

“Let’s wait until after the ribbon cutting,” the mother superior replied tersely.

Outside, on the front yard of the convent, workers scurried to place the podium on the makeshift stage and line up the last few collapsible chairs. Minutes later, people from all over Rochester began filing into the narrow rows, and we found our respective seats up on the dais. The Link nervously played with the zipper on his purple top while studying the notes for his speech. Public displays of generosity were something new for the Link. Notoriously tightfisted in the past, and a fallen Catholic to boot, he planned to get back into the community’s and the church’s good graces with this single donative act.

“Make sure the crippled kids are up front,” the Link told me, looking up from the crumpled paper in his hands. “I want the media to get a good look at the little monkeys. Especially that Katie Chang Gomez from Channel 7. She’s always been out to get me. Maybe this’ll shut her up.”

I left the stage and attempted to orchestrate the intended seating pattern of handicapped children and church types in the first several reserved rows. This wasn’t easy. The Rochester area diocese had dozens of representatives present, including Bishop Clark, who would deliver the benediction. Dressed in full regalia, he naturally proceeded to the stage and took his place next to the Link, while the priests and the Shriner kids milled about in a state of confusion, unsure of where to sit. With the situation spiraling out of control, it became a free-for-all as the clergy and the lame fought for the open spots in a game of musical chairs gone bad. I did my best to get everyone settled and to relocate those squeezed out of a slot. About the same time, a sea of fezzed Shriners drifted in aimlessly and shuffled slowly into the growing throng.

To the Link’s delight, Katie Chang Gomez, as well as a whole slew of media personalities, was in attendance to report the gym’s opening. Channel 4’s Soledad Murphy. Channel 2’s Rock Bledsoe. Even Channel 9’s action weatherman, Stormy Winters, was there, evidently ready to report on the death toll in case a tornado blew through. Although this amounted to a major happening in Rochester, you would have thought it was a hostage crisis by the number of news vans parked out front.

Ned, Ted and Fred, just off the back nine at Tinkle Creek, ambled in and took seats. Dressed in matching argyle tamo’-shanters and knickers, they looked like a trio of oversize lawn jockeys as they argued loudly about who had the most triple bogeys and failed to notice Annette, who quietly slid into their row and sat down. She smiled broadly at me and, for a moment, my world narrowed to her lovely face and nothing else. Ted Truheart and his wife arrived, along with their new au pair, a former Turkish prison guard named Sekhmet. Chad Hemmingbone, Biff Dilworth and the rest of the Tailburger board followed.

By the time Bishop Clark was introduced by the mother superior, the lawn of the convent was a great American melting pot of golfers, reporters, Shriners, Catholics and the physically challenged. Shutters clicked continually and film rolled as every second of this moderately momentous occasion was recorded.

“Today is a gift from God,” the bishop started. “A great, glorious gift from God.”

“Don’t forget my little gift, Bishop,” the Link whispered aloud, overly concerned that credit for the day was being misplaced.

“Fear not, my son,” the bishop reassured the Link before continuing. “I want to welcome everybody to this wonderful day. This wonderful, wonderful day.”

Admittedly, I was contending with a few problems in my life, but it was hard to argue with Bishop Clark’s assessment as he presided over the dedication ceremony. The sun shone brightly from a clear blue sky, and the trees swayed gently from a light summer breeze that made the temperature perfect. Yes, everything was ideal for a brief, shining moment, right until I heard a faint sound in the distance.

What started as a murmur was soon a muddled rumbling, though the bishop, whose hearing had perhaps diminished in his older years, continued undeterred.

“So we say thank-you to God for blessing us with this day.”

The crowd applauded the bishop’s words, momentarily obscuring the growing din.

“Frank Fanoflincoln deserves our heartfelt thanks as well . . .”

More applause.

“...for it was his generosity and the generosity of Tailburger that made this beautiful structure possible.”

The Link beamed as the bishop’s words washed over him like baptismal water. But by now, the faint sound from far away had become clearly audible and the audience members craned their heads to see what was causing the ruckus.

And then it was upon us—an obstreperous mob of angry protesters at the gates of the convent.

“WHAT DO WE WANT?”

They shouted in a chorus 200 strong.

“NO MORE PORN!”

The reply came in a refrain even louder.

“WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”
“NOW!”

The protest leader appeared to be a leftover radical from the 1960s who hadn’t been told the movement was over. Although a number of the priests nervously got up and left quickly, apparently fearful their extracurricular activities with altar boys had been discovered, my heart sank when I saw the words printed on endless picket signs.

Tailburger
and
Porn
Is
No
Happy
Meal!
Tailburger
and
Prostitution
=
Deadly
Combo
Platter
Kids
on
Computers
Don’t
Need
Porn