18. mr. mueller
“Hey you!” came a grunt from an automobile as it pulled into the
parking lot of La Bou Bakery. Martin squinted looking through the
heat waves rising from the black-tarred surface.
“You sun of a gun. Is that you?” came a yell from the red Fiat
convertible as it drove up to the shade of the blue and white striped
canvas awning hanging from the facade of the white concrete building.
“Martin, over here.”
Martin moved slowly over to where the car was now parking, stood at
the passenger side and tried to place the face of the driver.
“What the hell have you been up to? I haven’t seen you in years. You
still live in the valley?” It was Mike Mueller manager of the Fresno
Community Theater or FCT for short.
Martin and Mike had been classmates and jack-off buddies during their
high school days. Mike had often wanted to try anal intercourse with
Martin during their budding pubescence adolescence, but Martin had
always found an excuse to butt out. “I’m surprised I recognized you,”
he said looking up at Martin through his sunglasses.
A moment of silence passed as Mike pushed his seat back and squeezed
himself free from the wretched seating in the sportscar. He opened
the driver’s door and slowly raised his massive weight to standing
position and kicked out his left leg to loosen the underwear bunched
at his crotch. He turned to Martin and they shook hands over the red
leather interior.
“We haven’t seen each other since Norma Child.”
Martin knitted his eyebrows, trying to remember this man’s name.
“It’s great to see someone from the past. Do you remember our days at
Bullock High?” He adjusted his borrowed hairpiece, which he was
wearing like a hat because his quality model had blown off and he was
too lazy to pay for a real one. “Wow, you don’t look too good,
Martin. Did you have a lobotomy?”
“Oh Yeah.” It finally clicked. Martin remembered the face but not the
name. “Nice car. Sorry. I’m on medication. I’m a bit hazy.”
“Aren’t we all. What are you on?”
“They’ve given me Morotox.”
“That’s a good one. I took it when I wrenched my back during sex.
There are no real side-effects.”
“No. I mean, yeah. I still live here, in Fresno.” He walked to meet
Mike under the awning. “Dee and I have a house off of Fruit.”
“Dee! Boy, she was sure a lot of fun. Remember that time at the
Zombie Hut for the senior dinner?” He put his left arm around
Martin’s shoulders. “Watching the Hula dancers while eatin’ poi with
our fingers. Boy, that was strange tastin’ stuff.” He opened the door
of the french suburban bakery and motioned for Martin to enter first.
“We haven’t seen each other in so long! You used to be so sporty,
what happened to you?”
Martin stood in place and answered, “Uh. I had an accident at work.”
Mike burst into laughter before Martin could finish explaining. “Did
a client get violent?” He let go of the door. “You’re still in
advertising, aren’t you?”
“No. I mean yeah, I still do advertising but I just quit Madd & Son.”
“Why? They got mad and threw a filing cabinet at you?”
“Even better.” Martin started to smile. “The scar on the right is
from a coffee mug and this scar …” He pointed to his stitches. “… is
from a pastry box filled with donuts that landed on my head. The
reason why I looked all bruised is because Mr Thorndorn, my new boss,
kicked me in the face.”
There was a moment of silence as Mike looked at Martin in
astonishment. “Jesus, you’re joking.” He reopened the door.
“No, I’m serious. It really happened at my new job. Realife hired me
the other day. They’re paying sick leave until I start. I’ll be
working in their advertising department.”
“Is that why you have a new haircut? Is that the corporate doo?” He
laughed. “Tell me Martin …” He put his arm around Martin’s shoulder
again and guided him into the bakery. “… do you really think you are
going to sell gm seeds and chemicals the way you look. Martin, you
look like a case in point for going bio.”
“I know. Dee frightened me when I came home from the hospital the
first time. I had to go back after I saw her. I spent a couple of
nights there for observation.”
“If she looks so bad that was probably a wise decision.” He chuckled.
“I’m surprised that they let you out. But I am a little lost. First
you went to the hospital because someone hit you over the head with a
pastry box. Then you went back because you saw your Dee? “
Martin laughed. “Yeah. See, they gave me some pills and I had a couple
of drinks at the Rusty Cow. When I got home I saw Dee lying on the
sofa. She had passed out doing her exercises. I didn’t know that. I
panicked and had a coughing fit and started wheezing. The phone was
ringing and when I tried to answer it, I tripped over the coffee table.”
Mike mimed speechlessness, hand to mouth.
“I’m okay. It looks worse than it feels. I’ve got a whole range of
drugs to keep the pain away and I don’t feel a thing. But I know what
you mean.” He waved his hand over his head. “Until I heal I’m free
and …”
“They can’t be serious,” Mike interrupted. “You know Martin, we got a
wig department. Come down to the theater, we’ll fix you up.” He
laughed heartily at an image of Martin in drag that came to mind.
Martin remained silent. “You were saying?”
Martin had lost his train of thought.
“You were saying something about your job.”
“Oh Yeah. I started work at Realife on sick leave.”
“Well, that’s a good deal. The way you look, I suppose you can keep
that going for a while.” He leaned in closer. “Tell me Martin. What
really did happen to you?”
“I told you. I had a run in with a coffee cup, got kicked in the
face, and it really did happen with the pastry box.”
“Once again …” Mike took a step back in disbelief, hand to chest. “…
this proves that reality is scarier than fiction.”
“I don’t know where the box came from but it landed point down and
ripped the hell out of my head.” He held back a sneeze. “That’s why I
got these twelve stitches and this wacko haircut. It looks pretty
bad, huh?”
Mike only nodded and looked away smiling.
“I’m on my way to Realife. I need to sign some documents so I thought
I’d drop off a few donuts, see if Mr. Cole is around and bring the
receptionist a new coffee mug.”
“Whoa. Well, I’ll be a pecker, run that name by me again. Mr. Cole,
works at Realife? He’s not the big honcho there, is he?”
“No. That’ll be Mr. Thorndorn.”
“Yeah right, Mr. Thorndorn. You said it before. Now it clicks. I’ll
be stupid. Mr. Thorndorn.” He snapped his fingers. “Realife! Now I
get it. Yeah, and you’re now working for them? Wait a minute. How did
he kick you in the face?”
“That detail, I am a bit vague about. But afterwards he asked me to
come to work for Realife.”
“Well I’ll be a son of a possum. What a wonderful coincidence! So you
know the people at the Realife?”
“Not that well. I just started. I was working with them on another
project before, though.”
“Here, I’ll let you in on something. Did you know that Realife is
renting the FCT for some millionaire gala event? That’s why I didn’t
get it at first. They’re calling themselves The Young Millionaires.
Miss Powers is the one I’ve been talking to when I call up,a
receptionist with a sunny air about her. I can’t remember her first
name. Something like Mandy or Fanny.”
“Candi Powers. And that was her cup that smashed on my head.
I gave it to her.”
“This is sounding like some weird theater piece. Who smashed
the cup on your head?”
“Mr. Cole.”
“And what happened to your nose?” Mike stepped up to the display case.
“I said, Mr. Thorndorn kicked me in the nose.”
“Yeah, you did tell me that. And did Miss Powers stitch your head
together with a stapler?”
“I know it’s hard to believe.” Martin snorted a laugh and a wrench of
pain jolted through his nostrils, which caused his eyes to water and
his nose to bleed. A trickle of blood rolled slowly down his jaws.
Mike watched, wondering momentarily how long it would take before
Martin became aware of his injury and licked up his blood.
“It was partly my fault, damnedest thing. I smashed into Mr. Cole
with full force. I was running to the bathroom because I had to
sneeze and blew a big wad of snot in my hand. There was this delivery
boy involved. I don’t know where he came from. Yeah. That’s why I got
kicked in the face.” He reached up and touched his upper lip as Mike
moved over to the napkin holder. “Oh my god! It’s bleeding again.”
Martin wheezed.
Mike handed him a pile of napkins. “Boy, you don’t feel anything.
Listen to me,” Mike said, and tapped Martin, who was holding the wad
under his nose, on the shoulder. “There’s this organization called
the Young Millionaires and they meet once a year in cities around the
country. Here, let me buy you a donut. What do you want?” Mike could
not make out Martin’s muffled wish and just ordered a jelly filled, a
chocolate glazed, an old fashion and a glaze twist.
“… and a café Lachito.”
“Café Lachito for him and a café au lait to go for me,” Mike told the
man behind the counter. “And put deux pains au chocolate in another
bag pour moi.”
He handed him some money and waited for the order. Martin reached
into his pocket, pulled out some loose change, and held it out to Mike.
“Martin,” Mike turned quickly and knocked Martin’s handful of coins
to the floor. “Whoa. I’m sorry.”
Martin bent over, searching for his fallen treasure with one hand
while still holding the napkin to his nose with the other.
“That’s okay, sir. I’ll do it.” The bakery attendant raced around the
counter and assisted Martin in his search for the lost coins as Mike
casually looked on.
“Excuse me sir. I saw you walk in.” He rose and handed Martin the
coins. “I want to apologize for causing you so much pain.”
“Why? What did you do?” Martin counted his change.
“I was the one at Realife with the pastry box.”
“Oh my god!” Mike exclaimed. “So the whole story is true. You did get
clobbered by a pastry box.”
Martin nodded.
“So you work for the Realife, too?”
“Not any more. I got fired after the accident. The boss fired me on
the spot. Luckily, I got this job at La Bou. They felt sorry for me
when I told them at the interview what’d happened and they gave me
this position.” He returned to the other side of the counter.
“What did happen?”
“I slipped on the wet floor when this police dog jumped on me, and up
went this heavy pink box loaded with donuts and landed on this guy’s
head.” He looked over at Martin. “I’m really sorry, sir.”
Martin accepted his apology with a nod.
“You know, Martin, it’s no secret that Thorndorn is a very rich man.
He started Realife and put Fresno on the business map.”
“Here’s your change. Your coffees will be ready in a second.”
“Thanks.” Mike took the coins and carried his paper bags over to a
high marble table.
Still using only one hand, Martin picked up his bag and followed.
“Fertilizers and Gen-seeds from the central valley spread around the
world. Mr. Thorndorn belongs to this club called the Young
Millionaires.” He opened his paper bag and pulled out a pastry.
“Never heard of the organization before. Probably has something to do
with the Free Masons, the KKK or the Olympics.”
After a brief pause, Martin suddenly asked, “Whatever happened to
Martha Spitz?”
“I don’t know Martin, you’re the sports bum.” He took another bite of
his pastry. “Boy, you threw me on that one. Morotox, huh? Now what was
I saying?”
“The Olympics.”
“Oh yeah. These rich young honchos get together once a year to
hobnob, discuss joint ventures, lobby each other for favors, rub
shoulders, brown nose and what not. Mr. Thorndorn is 49 this year and
it’s his last year as a young one.” He took a bit of his chocolate
croissant. “I suppose after that he becomes an old millionaire or and
an old fart. That’s why it’s in Fresno this year, they’re holding
this big convention in the fall,” he said chewing, and wiped the
crumbs that hung on his lips with a paper napkin. “They want the FTC
to put together some sort of big variety show for the closing. You
know, numbers from well-known musicals, costumes, pageantry. There’ll
be a gala buffet after the show.”
“Your cafés au lait are ready,” Paul announced.
“I hadn’t either until his secretary, Miss Powers, called me.” He
returned with the coffees and shouted, “Martin! This is perfect.” He
pointed to Martin who had exchanged the bloodied napkins for a jelly
donut and was now dribbling synthetic cherry jam from the corners of
his mouth. “You want to be in a cabaret show? This will be perfect,
especially now you’re working for Thorndorn. I’ll ask Miss Powers,
too. It’ll be great to get a few employees from Realife. Oh, this
will be great. So, what d’ya say? You up to doing it?”
“Sure. What do you mean?” Martin had not been following.
“I’m asking ya’ if you would like to be in the pageant I’m putting
together at the FTC. We are even talkin’ to Niel Jung about coming up
from Vegas and doing a guest appearance.”
“Uh. I don’t know. See …” Martin remembered the last time he had done
work for Mike Mueller. It was for the Child One Woman show. Martin
was a big fan of Norma Child and knew that his school friend was
interning at the FTC. In a promise he would later regret, Martin said
he would do anything Mike wanted as long as he could somehow meet his
fan after the show. Mike took him up on the offer, got Martin drunk
the night before the concert and finally got down his pants. This
bittersweet memory of his first and only contact with homosexuality
and Norma Child made him break out in sweat whenever he heard
’Butterflies are free at the zoo.’
“I don’t know. Uh. What do I have to do?”
Mike put his hand to his chest, fondled the gold chains entwinded in
his chest hair, and coyly said, “Don’t worry, Martin. You’ll be in
costume. I think you’d be a perfect king of france. I’ll call you
beforehand. We’ve still got some time. Here, give me your current
number.”
Martin instinctively reached into his breast coat and pulled out a
business card.
“Thanks. You’ll get a big dick out of it.” Mike coughed and glanced
at Martin to see if he had caught the slur. “Naw, let me see. You can
be the king of france and I’ll ask that Powers woman if she’d like to
do Marie Antoinette.” He looked at the card. “This is from Realife.
Don’t you have a number?”
“Pardon?”
“Hard On? Oh Martin, you are a real scream. I need your cell-phone
number.” Mike took out his cell-phone and tapped in the numbers as
Martin spoke. “I will give you mine.”
Martin punched a few buttons with his thumb and before handing him
his cell-phone, instructed Mike to say his name and number.
“Oh you got one of those voice control phones. How convenient.” He
handed the phone back to Martin who slipped it inside his new burnt
orange company jacket. “We got some time, it’s not for a few months.
Give me a call in a couple of days and we’ll talk about the dates.
Don’t tell Candi. I’ll give her a call this afternoon. We’ll bud.
I’ll be running off.” He tapped the table with both hands, collected
his goods and blew some crumbs off the surface. “Don’t bother to ask
me what’s going on at the theater. It’s some high school production
about returning to eat dog vomit at the end of the world. Funny, I
was thinking about Norma Child’s show the other day.” Martin suddenly
shivered.
“Now the kids are talking about dog vomit and we sang about
butterflies. And the world hasn’t changed one bit. Makes ya’ think,
doesn’t it. Say hello to Dee.” He held up his hand to his face as if
telephoning before waving and exiting the bakery, leaving Martin to
finish chewing on his jelly filled.
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