Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned (20 page)

"Permit me to hold on to some of my trade secrets," said Fox. "You'll find out in very short order."

"I don't know about dumping a ton of horseshit on the sidewalk," said Clyde.

"Almost
a ton," Fox corrected.

"I don't think it's a very nice thing to do to the garbagemen who'll have to clean it up," she said.

"Ah, but that's the sweet part," Fox continued. "The city sanitation department will never agree to remove a ton of horseshit on the sidewalk."

"Almost
a ton," Clyde said sweetly.

"It's something in their bylaws," Fox went on. "They won't touch it for love or money. Starbucks will have to hire their own private carting firm, you know, the Linguini Brothers or something, and that's really going to cost them. They'll be at the mercy of the horseshit mafia, but it's the only way they're ever going to get it out of there."

"Sounds like a plan," I said encouragingly.

Actually, it sounded like sheer madness but it did represent the kind of cinematic action sequence that Sylvia Lowell had found so lacking in my manuscript. Even I, as an author, could appreciate that Hollywood would not love many chapters of conversations between three crazy people temporarily keeping their heads down in a basement apartment. I could appreciate what Hollywood wanted but I wasn't going to give them what they wanted. Besides, I reckoned, when was the last time anyone in Hollywood actually read a book? No self-respecting author should ever write for Hollywood. You shouldn't write for the Sylvia Lowells or the Steve Samets of the world either. And especially, whatever you do, you should never write for yourself. In fact, if you're going to write at all, you might as well write for the customers of Starbucks. They are the mindless, faceless, meaningless mainstream without whom no author or artist can be successful. They are the ones, between the sidewalk and the stars, between the windmill and the world, who let Mozart, Van Gogh, Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allan Poe, Anne Frank, and Jesus die in the gutters of eternity.

Time glided by quickly and softly on dragonfly wings. Fox got the truck and the horseshit. Clyde and I took in a few movies, had a romantic candlelit dinner in a small Italian restaurant, and walked hand in hand blithely and blamelessly through the little sun-dappled streets of the Village. By the appointed night, however, all of us seemed more than ready for Operation Elephant Dump Number Three. Fox, as aware as anybody that the heat would be intense, had already schemed with Teddy and a group of homeless people to stage a well-timed diversion at a point several blocks away from Starbucks. We waited on a side street in the Ryder truck and, when the sirens had all passed us by, we moved on the target. In no time, we were backed up to the sidewalk in front of Starbucks and Fox and I, wearing gloves and overalls he'd requisitioned for the project, got out of the truck and tied two strong ropes to the base of a nearby lamppost. Clyde waited in the cab of the truck with instructions to signal us if a cop came by, but none did. I don't know what we would have done if one had, but these are the chances you take in the life you live. Ninety seconds later, Clyde pulled carefully away from the curb, allowing the ropes and the heavy canvas to deposit, with a large, deep, soft whumping sound, slightly less than one ton of horseshit onto the sidewalk in front of Starbucks. Sixty seconds later, we had the rope and canvas back inside the now-horseshitless truck and we were out of there.

Fox dropped Clyde and me off at the apartment and drove off to get rid of the truck somewhere. I immediately took a shower and when I got out was mildly surprised to find Clyde, wearing only a bra and panties, sitting in the middle of the floor with the one-hitter and a bottle of expensive cognac. Three full glasses were positioned around her on the floor. She'd just taken a deep hit off the one-hitter and was patting the floor next to her, smiling through the smoke. Modest fellow that I was, I put on some jeans and proceeded to share the one-hitter and the cognac. I remember at one point she kissed me and I could taste the cognac on her lips all the way to the depths of my soul.

By the time Fox returned several hours later, all of us were walking on our knuckles. Fox, after dropping off the truck, had stopped by a small park and passed around a few bottles of cheap wine with Teddy and his friends. Somewhere during that time they had concocted the grand scheme that was to be the climax of the campaign against Starbucks. Fox refused to divulge the precise nature of the plan except to say that the principal figure of the operation was, indeed, Teddy. After some cajoling from myself and Clyde, Fox still steadfastly refused to reveal the inner workings of what he called "the greatest little adventure of them all." He preferred, he said, for both of us to observe it as it unfolded, to bear witness to a carefully crafted spontaneous action of which neither of us was involved in the planning stages.

"It always makes for more compelling reading, Walter," he said, "when the author himself is unaware of how the story ends."

So I went into it unaware of the plan, unaware of what would happen, and unaware that it would be the last time the three of us would ever be together.

twenty-nine

What you're reading now I pieced together after the fact, partly from what I witnessed myself and partly from little comments made in passing by Fox or Clyde. I don't know how Fox got Starbucks to hire Teddy, but they did. If they'd gone into his record for about twenty seconds, I feel certain they wouldn't have touched him with a barge pole. Maybe a new resume was created just for Teddy so they'd hire him. Anyway, they did, because we could see his large, dark form moving back and forth occasionally near the front windows. Sometimes Teddy would wave to me and motion for me to come into the place, but after Elephant Dump Numbers Two and Three, I felt it was the better part of valor not to darken Starbucks's door.

This went on for about a week and things seemed pretty quiet. The horseshit, of course, had all been cleaned up and carted away at Starbucks's expense by the Linguini Brothers or whoever the hell it is who carts large piles of horseshit away from gourmet coffee shops. Clyde probably knew more about what Fox was up to than I did. Maybe he'd confided in her and told her the whole plan. I don't know and I'll most likely never know and I suppose that in any way it really doesn't much matter. Fox was right about rage and sadness being just beneath the surface of things people often think of as funny. He was wrong, however, in not foreseeing what sometimes happens when you play with people's lives. I'm not getting up on a moral soapbox here because I'm as guilty as Fox, maybe more so, depending on how you look at it. These days, of course, I prefer not to. Like Starbucks customers, there'll always be plenty of guilt to go around.

As near as I can figure it, here's how the whole fiasco went down. Through some nefarious connection or quirk of fate, Mordecai Hoffman, an Orthodox Jewish firebrand and rabble-rouser, received information that the new Starbucks location was situated precisely upon the site of one of the first Jewish cemeteries in New York. Whether or not this bit of historical trivia was correct is probably not relevant now and it certainly wasn't relevant to Mordecai Hoffman. Mordecai, like many self-styled political and/or religious leaders of the day, was forever looking for a cause to get behind, and a parade to get in front of. He jumped like a Cossack onto the Jewish cemetery issue, and soon there were all manner of half-baked, biblical-looking Orthodox rabbis along with a ragged, but rabid, group of zealous followers showing up daily to picket Starbucks. This, of course, though quite a colorful sight to see, did little to deter the stubborn Starbucks aficionados from reveling in life, liberty, and the pursuit of a decaf
mocha latte.

When I think about it, I know it had to be Fox who slipped the little cemetery tidbit to Hoffman because what happened next was about as clear an example of an organic binary munition as was humanly possible to create. This was because its components were not comprised of cockroaches and gecko lizards. The organic binary munition was comprised of two highly divergent groups of human beings. The first element was the aforementioned band of Orthodox Jewish picketers and troublemakers. The second element-well, I'll get to the second element in just a moment.

First, though, there had to be a triggering mechanism, which was Teddy getting fired. This, quite naturally, was no surprise to anybody except, of course, Teddy.

It happened one afternoon about a week after Elephant Dump Number Three, and I suppose it happened for the same inviolate reasons everything else happens in this world: "Between the gutter and the stars, people are what people are." You can't blame Teddy for being Teddy and you can't blame the people at Starbucks for being the people at Starbucks. It is the way of their people; it is the way of all people. Anyway, there was, presumably, some sort of misunderstanding, which led in turn to some kind of altercation. Maybe Teddy suddenly started believing he was mixing a secret, sacred, traditional kava potion for a manhood ritual among South Pacific Islanders. Maybe he thought that as king of his imaginary African kingdom, he was entitled to compensation for sales of all Kenyan and Tanzanian gourmet coffee blends. Maybe his wig just snapped from the tedium and the ennui of working every day at Starbucks. For whatever reason, two burly security guards, who looked like midgets on either side of Teddy, escorted him out of the place that afternoon right through the throng of cheering Orthodox Jewish protesters who'd mistaken him for a black Jew from Ethiopia who they assumed had been involved in an act of passive resistance. Everyone thought that was the end of it, of course. Everyone but Fox.

The following evening around nine o'clock, at Fox's instigation, I drifted by Starbucks to witness what Fox had said would be "The Show." Clyde, I noticed, was already there, smoking a cigarette, drinking a non-Starbucks coffee, and carrying on an animated discussion with Mordecai Hoffman. I did not see Fox anywhere, but shortly after nine, Teddy showed up surrounded by the other element in the organic binary munition: about two dozen Black Muslims, all decked out in black suits, white shirts, black bow ties, and funny-looking black monkey hats that ironically did not appear to be vastly dissimilar to the ones some of the Orthodox Jews were sporting.

"Jesus," said Clyde, who'd found her way over to me. "
This
ought to be good."

"Did you know this was going to happen?" I asked.

"I didn't know any more about it than you did," she said. "It just sprang out of the whole cloth of Fox's mind, I guess. He wanted me to see whatever is going to happen with 'fresh eyes,' he said. Maybe he thinks I'm going to write a book."

"Are you?"

"One author in the family is quite enough, Walter. Isn't this
fun?"

"Well, it is-um-interesting, certainly at least in a sociological sense."

"Brighten up, Sunshine," she said, putting her hand on my cheek. "Give me a kiss."

"Give you a kiss?" I said incredulously. "There's about to be a race riot with the possibility of blood in the streets, and you want a kiss?"

"What better time for a kiss?" she asked, with an innocence that actually caused a pang in my heart.

The night was already dark and the mood was turning dark and I kissed her long, deeply, and lovingly, and wondered again about this odd, charming, streetwise girl I was kissing. When I finally came up for air, I noticed that the leader of the Black Muslims, whom I subsequently learned was named Jabreel X, was leading his troops through the crowd of Jews into the Land of Milk and Honey, which, in this case, was Starbucks. I would not exactly say the Jews parted like the Red Sea, but it must be reported that the Black Muslims enjoyed a relatively unimpeded progression through the crowd and into the store. Once inside, they stood around and glowered at patrons in surly fashion while Jabreel X sought out the store manager to inquire about the circumstances of Teddy's termination from his recent employment. It is not a pleasant thing for your average yuppie customer to suddenly turn around and see two dozen Black Muslims standing casually around, not ordering anything but paranoia and bad vibrations. All politics and social commentary aside, it's just not good for business.

Clyde and I moved in a little closer and we could see the store manager and Jabreel X huddled together in what appeared to be a serious, rational posture. Jabreel X did not need to make threats, of course. With a store full of Black Muslims loitering about, Jabreel X could be saying he wanted a tin of breath mints and still seem threatening. Clyde and I watched. The Jewish picketers watched. A small but growing crowd of spectators watched. Even a few cops pulled up in a squad car and watched. The discussion appeared to be going on interminably and so the cops did not move in. No laws, evidently, were being broken and no one had called for help. Then, a rather bizarre incident occurred. Teddy, obviously growing bored with the conversation between Jabreel X and the store manager, proceeded to tie what appeared to be a bright green Starbucks apron or tablecloth around his neck like a cape or a royal cloak. Then, grabbing an empty sixteen-ounce coffee cup and placing it upside down upon his head, he began marching regally around the store, exhorting and issuing apparent commands we could not hear to the few remaining customers and to the Black Muslims, who appeared to be dumbfounded by this unexpected, aberrant, and totally undignified behavior.

"Oh, Teddy," said Clyde.

It didn't take long for Jabreel X and his followers to realize that they'd been had, and that the mild-mannered black man they'd championed, who'd lost his job at Starbucks and was now marching around like a king in a storybook, was obviously cooking on another planet. The Black Muslims, looking to the man as chagrined and sheepish as it is possible for a Black Muslim to look, filed quickly out of the store, but this time the Red Sea didn't seem to part quite so easily.

It started with a bit of pushing and shoving, continued with some name-calling, and before anybody knew it, the sidewalk in front of Starbucks was the scene of a full-blown melee.

More cops had appeared on the scene, but the action was clearly beginning to spill over into the street, with Mordecai Hoffman and Jabreel X commanding like field generals their opposing armies of the night. And the cops were caught in the middle of the fray. Fists were flying, people were being shoved to the ground, and the front window of Starbucks was shattered by a skinny Lubavitch Jew swinging a picket sign over his head like a human helicopter. In the midst of this churning cauldron of depravity, there gradually materialized two figures I recognized:

Fox Harris, who was standing on the fringe of the mob, arguing with a cop, and Teddy, who was just now descending majestically from the doorway of Starbucks as if he expected a royal coach to be waiting for him. I had half dragged Clyde across the street and, against her wishes, we were watching the scene from the relatively safe vantage point of the opposite sidewalk.

"Oh, Teddy," she whispered. "Stay inside."

"There's Fox arguing with the cops."

"I'm going back over there," said Clyde defiantly.

"You're staying right here," I said, encircling her in my arms.

"Let me go, Walter!" she screamed.

But now there was no place to go. Cops were suddenly pouring out of the woodwork, separating the warring factions, and arresting the unruly masses, most of whom just as suddenly began fleeing into the night. Indeed, a small cordon of cops had rapidly formed directly in front of us, effectively sealing off any attempt at approach by Clyde or myself. So we watched with fresh eyes as the cops placed Fox in handcuffs and hustled him out of there in the back of a squad car. We watched as Teddy walked obliviously toward the cops, ignoring their commands to stop. We watched as they hammered him with nightsticks and sprayed him with pepper spray.

And yet he seemed to shake it off, standing for a moment alone, like a wounded bear in the light of a streetlamp. Then he turned and charged the cops. Gunfire crackled in the cold night.-Then Teddy fell to the sidewalk.

Clyde turned away, burying her head in my chest, sobbing convulsively, then breaking into a long and lonely wail that found its only counterpoint in the sirens of an approaching ambulance. After a short period of time, they put a sheet on Teddy and pulled it over his head. After a little more time, they carried him off, put him in the meat wagon, and took him away.

Soon the night became very quiet, indeed. Almost all you could hear was the sound of traffic on the avenues, like the muted drumming of the warriors from some imaginary African kingdom.