Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned (16 page)

twenty-four

Nothing ever really changes, I suppose, in New York or anywhere else in this tedious, unpleasant, never-ending, nonfiction world. Fundamental change is virtually impossible for our species. Like little chirpies, we build our nests and construct our buildings, which time and terrorists and termites try to tear down. Like leaf-cutter ants, we construct our highways that connect many different places in such a way that eventually they all become so similar there's no point in going anywhere to begin with. Like beavers, we build our bridges so when things aren't going very well people can jump off and kill themselves, which is probably what I should have done the first time Clyde and I saw that Starbucks sign. But, of course, I didn't. I wanted to live. I wanted to paint. I wanted to complete my great Armenian novel. And, to be sure, eventually I did. But completing my literary opus did not bring fundamental changes to my life. Far from it. What it brought, or wrought, I should say, was a series of rather meaningless, superficial changes that everybody, including myself, thought at the time were important. They weren't, of course. They never are. I don't, by the way, believe the compilation of the novel had a thing to do with the disastrous events that occurred in I he lives of Clyde and Fox. Writing a novel is just what is sounds like-writing a novel. It doesn't harm children or green plants or chirpies. It's just putting someone you love between two covers without remembering to kiss them good night. Then you leave them there forever as you move on to your next project. But it can't be too lonely when you're sandwiched between two covers. People usually look in from time to time.

But let me redirect the conversation back to myself again for a moment. I was as much to blame as anybody for what occurred at Starbucks. What started out perhaps as one of our little hobbies moved quickly to a full-blooded passion, and then, in the end, to an unstoppable, unsinkable, unholy crusade.

It had not been precisely clear from the Starbucks sign exactly when the grand opening was to take place. Clyde had suggested that it was a good opportunity for me to do some "legwork." As always with Clyde, I acquiesced. It would not be difficult, she had suggested, especially since I lived in the neighborhood, for me to "sniff around a little bit." Then, she averred, we would bring in the "big guns." The big guns, I was given to understand, were Fox and herself. Though I was mildly piqued by this characterization of my abilities relative to hers and Fox's, I did not at the time let it show. There have been many times in my life when I have not let my true feelings show and I have seldom regretted it. Indeed, there is little in my life that I have truly come to regret, always excepting, of course, the loss of Clyde.

So getting back to that night we saw the Starbucks sign hanging on the old Unicorn, I guess I could say that that was the road-to-Damascus experience that led circumstances to be as they are today.

I did Clyde's bidding the following afternoon and it didn't take long for me to talk to a few workmen on the building and ascertain where things stood with the Grand Opening. As soon as I had the information, I called Clyde.

"The grand opening is this coming Monday," I told her.

"Good," she said. "We've got the whole weekend to get ready."

"To get ready for what?"

"For the grand opening, of course. You didn't think we were going to take this lying down, did you?"

"Well, no, but—”

"This is
war!
This is the first real chance you'll get to see Fox don his sword and shield!"

"I've seen him don his stethoscope."

"You haven't seen anything yet. This is going to be an extended, strategic, pitched battle of almost military precision. You are about to witness a battlefield genius on the level of Robert E. Lee at work!"

I started to say "Save your Confederate money," but I thought better of it. One of the many charming attributes that had accrued to the persons of Fox and Clyde over the years was their almost total disregard for whether or not they ever won or lost in any of their endeavors. Winning was never really important to them. What was important, Fox had once told me, was the way you selected your enemies. Donald Trump was a worthy opponent, he'd thought. So was taking on Bellevue Hospital. To tackle a big and powerful enemy, he'd said, was a mark of humanity and courage. Fox liked Rosa Parks because she'd single-handedly taken on the institution of segregation. He'd admired Natan Sharansky for going up against the entire Soviet Union. And he'd especially appreciated Don Quixote for taking on all the combined forces of evil in the world. "Who a man's enemies are," Fox had said, "tells you more about the man than his friends." So I did not point out to Clyde that Robert E. Lee's team had lost the Civil War. In fact, I did not point out anything because she was already giving me my marching orders.

"We'll all reconnoiter at the command post tomorrow after noon at fourteen hundred," she said.

"That's a good plan," I said. "Where's the command post?"

"It's a place that'll be very convenient for you, Walter. It's your apartment. It's not only strategically located near Star bucks, it's also not readily visible from the street."

"It's also a basement apartment," I pointed out, "which could come in handy in case Starbucks decides to resort to nuclear weapons."

"It's perfect," said Clyde, ignoring my facetious tone. "See you there tomorrow at fourteen hundred, soldier."

"Yes, sir," I said sharply.

Well, here we were again, I said to myself as I hung up the phone. We'd gotten away, or almost gotten away with, all our little hobbies thus far, and there were a number that, for various reasons, I've chosen not to include in this manuscript. I've left them out, in all honesty, either because they made me look bad or for fear of possibly becoming criminally liable for them in some way. As an author of quasi-legendary fiction you may choose whether or not you wish to protect the innocent. But there are several other matters that assume a more paramount importance. One: You must protect yourself at all costs. Two: If you must harm the innocent, make sure you don't harm the flow. For that, no one will ever forgive you.

I was quite frankly of two minds regarding whatever plans Fox and Clyde had cooked up for Starbucks. Part of me realized that, if I chronicled events faithfully just as they actually happened, it would undoubtedly make great fiction. But I also realized, of course, that crossing swords with this monolithic megamonster could be extremely dangerous to one's health. This hardly daunted my compatriots, however. They wanted blood. They wanted justice for the underdog. They wanted, above and beyond everything else, to have a good time. I must confess, in my heart of hearts, that I did not truly share their dreams, ideals, or desires. I wasn't afraid of blood, and justice was okay, too, and I didn't mind having a good time. But most of all, I wanted good material. It wasn't long in coming.

At fourteen hundred sharp on the following afternoon, I watched as Fox and Clyde invaded my humble abode. They came in full regalia and bearing enough luggage to stay for a month. Clyde looked very appetizing in a short leather skirt and black pumps and carrying her ubiquitous briefcase. Fox wore a military-looking khaki suit with a MacArthur-like field commander's cap and a long white silk scarf.

"All you're missing," I commented dryly, "are the Snoopy goggles."

"They're probably in his suitcase," said Clyde.

"This trunk," said Fox, for it was more of a steamer trunk than a suitcase, "contains practically everything we need to make Starbucks wish they'd never been born."

"Well, for God's sake," I said, growing a bit curious in spite of myself, "open it up."

"I said
practically
everything we need," said Fox. "First we need to sit down and have a little talk and make sure that we're all on the same page."

"He's not referring to the manuscript," said Clyde coyly.

"Fine," I said. "I'll make some coffee.
Not
the Starbucks variety, of course."

"Good," said Fox. "Got a smoke?"

"Sure, pal," I said, giving Fox a cigarette and taking one for myself, "but I thought you'd prefer the one-hitter."

"Not now," said Fox, waving the notion off as I lit his cigarette and then my own. "If I'm going to direct this campaign, I've got to keep my mind totally clear. Well, at least as clear as it ever gets. Let's start things off with a question for both of you. From whence does the name 'Starbucks' derive?"

"I've got no idea," I said, putting on the non-Starbucks coffee.

"Is this trivia quiz really necessary?" asked Clyde, reclining on the small sofa and stretching her body in a highly sensuous manner.

"Damn straight," said Fox. "We're getting to know our enemy. Walter, as a literary man, I'm surprised that you don't know the answer."

"There's a lot of things I don't know," I said, "and one of them is how to start this coffeemaker."

"Let me do it," said Clyde. "Fox is the troublemaker. I'll be the homemaker."

"That'll be the day," said Fox. "Anyway, comrades, the name 'Starbucks' comes from the nice first mate, Mr. Starbuck, in Melville's great epic,
Moby-Dick.
He pleaded with Captain Ahab to let Moby-Dick go, but Ahab was obsessed with the great white whale and wouldn't hear of it."

"What does this have to do with our latest little hobby?" asked Clyde, not unreasonably.

"Patience, my dear friends," said Fox. "As they say in the East, 'Slowly, slowly catchee monkey.'"

At this point, I went over to my little notebook and, as unobtrusively as possible, jotted down Fox's colorful phrase. Fox fairly beamed with gratification upon witnessing my small effort. Clyde, on the other hand, sent a dark scowl in my direction. Impassively, I placed the pen and pad back down on the desk. Fox continued his lecture.

"Melville, as you probably know, Walter, already had two huge mainstream successes under his belt before he wrote
Moby-Dick.
But
Typee
and
Omoo
were merely highly popular potboilers. They only reflected the culture; they didn't subvert it. But he put his heart and mind and soul into
Moby-Dick,
and when it came out, it tanked so bad that you could only find it in the whaling section of bookstores. Melville spent the rest of his life languishing in almost total obscurity as custom inspector number seventy-five. When he died, the
New York Times
misspelled his name in the obit. 'The important books,' said Herman Melville, 'are the books that fail.' Today, of course, we recognize
Moby-Dick
as one of the greatest works in Western literature."

"Where do I go to drop this course, Professor?" said Clyde laconically.

"You don't go anywhere," said Fox. "The course is required."

"The only thing that's required," said Clyde with some heat, "is that you open that fucking trunk right now!"

"Children, please!" I said. "How can we hope to succeed against Starbucks if we're fighting amongst ourselves?"

"Walter's right," said Clyde. "Now open the fucking trunk."

Fox, displaying as much dignity as he could under the circumstances, moved smoothly from the Melville lecture to the nuts and bolts of the battle plan itself. He fumbled briefly with the combination lock, then grandly flung the lid open on the steamer trunk. As if the contents of the trunk itself possessed some strange, mystical power, Fox's very demeanor seemed to be transformed, from that of the philosopher to that of the general. His manner was suddenly clipped, confident, and, oddly, almost inspirational. Like a man possessed, he began removing various and sundry items and what appeared to be a pharmacopoeia of potions from the trunk and placing them on the desk. Clyde and I watched in fascinated silence. At last, gesturing toward the desk, Fox spoke.

"This," he said, "is Operation Diarrhea."

This strange pronouncement was greeted by a silence in the small room. It did not seem, however, to deter Fox's forward progress in any significant manner. I glanced at Clyde but she appeared to be gazing at Fox with an expression that bordered upon rapture.

"Amazing," I said. "You're the only person I know who, in the space of five minutes, can move facilely from Herman Melville to Operation Diarrhea."

"I told you he was a genius," said Clyde simply.

I nodded in agreement because I totally agreed. Fox was crazy as a bedbug but he was also clearly and undeniably a genius. Incredible as it seems to me now, I was ready to follow him into battle. I was also, of course, ready to follow Clyde. Anywhere.

"I'll go over it slowly," Fox was saying, "in case anyone has any questions. The first thing we do is deactivate the dumper. Then we work from the toilet out. I will put the one unisexual toilet out of commission on Monday just before the place closes. I'll flush these two sponges, which will be wet and curled in a tube, and they'll expand in the pipe. Just for fun, I'll Saran-Wrap the toilet itself so the first diarrhea victim will really get a nasty surprise. Question, Walter?"

"Yes. You have quite a little apothecary there. How can you be sure all these potions will have the desired effect and how can you be sure nobody will get seriously hurt by ingesting them?"

"Good questions, Walter, good questions. No combinations of these products will cause serious long-term illness but any of the three will cause immediate and extremely unpleasant reactions. Clyde will place them in the appropriate sugars and creamers and syrups at the same time I'm working on the toilet. Now, Clyde, this is powder of the senna plant, which produces severe abdominal cramps. It goes in the sugar containers. And this is called cascara sagrada, an additive from the dried root of the Arizona and New Mexico thorny cactus. I got it in pure form right from the health food store. Taken in any form, it causes almost instant diarrhea, which is where this little project gets its name, Operation Diarrhea."

"An attractive name," said Clyde.

"Not as attractive as Starbucks is going to be once it goes into effect. Now the third product is the very potent syrup of ipecac, which, of course, goes into their syrups, and which, of course, causes what is known in the trade as severe projectile vomiting. Now, I'll be disabling the toilet, Clyde will plant the three additives, and Walter will be doing what he's already demonstrated he has a unique talent for, distracting the brewmasters or whatever the hell they call themselves. No offense, Walter, but of the three of us, you look the most like a normal Starbucks customer. So you'll talk to the people behind the counter about your recent coffee-tasting trip to Sumatra or something while I do the toilet and Clyde does the condiments. Then Tuesday morning, the day after the grand opening, all hell should break loose. The only customers who will survive Operation Diarrhea will be the ones who take their coffee black or those who use half-and-half in those little plastic containers.