GRAFEK: The Meat Bar: A Love Story Vol. 2, Issue 1
Brian Ekberg
The Meat Bar: A Love Story
By Brian Ekberg
Volume 2, Issue 1
"Haven't We Meat?"
***
Oh man, welcome back to me! You're probably wondering just where in the
hell I have been for all this time! That is, if you remember who in the
hell I am! See, things have been crazy ever since I got deported -- and
that is another story altogether -- but now that I am back, it is time for
Tito Tito to tell you the entire story. And believe me, sir, there is so
much to tell. Clevis, my brothers Gil and Pepe, Mr. Hunt and Mr. Wilson;
hell, even Mr. Ekberg is back for this one! I hope there is enough time
left in the day! Whew!
Anyway, things have been really different since I finally got my green
card. And I don't even know why the call it a green card anymore. It
is pink, man! But I guess calling it a pink card would end up with people
saying, "Hey Tito, what the hell are you talking about, man? Are you
loco or something, sir?"
See there? I'm still saying "loco." I told myself, probably two
or four years ago, right after the trial between Gil and Clevis, that if I
ever got my green... er, pink card, I would never speak Spanish again!
Well, that is not entirely true. You see, I do not want to come off to you
like I am forgetting my Spaniard roots, or anything like that! Far from
it, bro! But if I am going to be an American citizen, like I am, then I
have to start speaking like an American citizen. Hang ten, dude!
Besides, my brother Gil, he would probably string me up by my neck or my
ankles if I were to tell him these things. Not that he would have much
chance of doing that, where he is. But, caged up or not, Gil Grubenfuhr is
one proud Spaniard. I remember him saying to me once as a child in
Parsippany (where we grew up), "Tito Tito, you know that we are Spanish
and that is the most important thing in your life. You may think that
having a lot of money and a lot of women and a lot of Chevy Novas is the
most important thing, but I am here to tell you once and for all, that is
wrong!"
"You see, people may forget your name and, God willing, they will
forget your face. But they will never," he would be screaming at this
point, "forget
that you are a Spaniard; a proud Spaniard! The blood in you ebbs and
flows in Madrid. Barcelona pours through your soul!" At this point, he
would usually begin spitting all over my freaking face, man! "And as
God as my witness I, Gil Grubenfuhr, Spaniard, am here to tell you that
they will never take my ancestry away from me or my brothers!" Then Gil
would usually pass out at that point, or at least trip and fall off the
table he was standing on and bash his head on a chair or something. Me and
my brother, Pepe, (we're triplets, the three of us) would have to pick
him up, dust off his clothes, wipe the blood off his matador hat and carry
him home; and he would be wheezing the whole time in some weird tongue of
his.
One time I asked Gil why, when he always falls on his head and we carry
him home, he starts mumbling around in that crazy language. He dismissed
me with a wave of his hand or something and says, "Tito Tito, the
spirit of the Bull rides inside me. Perhaps it is something you will never
understand."
"Yeah, well I don't understand a single thing you talk about," I
would say to him when he would be talking crazy like that. "You talk
crazy, sir!"
"Silencio!"
That means shut up if you do not know.
***
So where, was I, anyway? Man, I have so many things to say I get lost
sometimes. Tito Tito is on fire! I'm hungry like the wolf!
Yes, as you can guess, Tito Tito is still a huge Duran Duran fanatic! Big
surprise huh, sir? I have been big-time disappointed that we have not seen
a new album from Duran Duran this year, but hell, I understand that art
takes time to make. After all, I am an artist! And even though it has
been probably two years since The Jumping Spaniards last performed, that
does not mean that I am not regularly expressing my ass all over this
freaking town! Far from it, gringo! Oops! I am going to start charging
myself like two or four dollars every time I speak Spanish while my feet
are firmly planted on American soil! I hope I do not go broke, sir!
My jumping skills have almost declined to the point of no return. My
ankles are like two fat piles of gargoyle molasses or something! Boy oh
boy, do I have to get in shape. And do you know why my legs have gone
flabby and my stomach now hangs down to my knees? That's right! Much
less jumping!
I do not know if you know this or not, but know this: Jumping is good
goddamn exercise! It is the kind of thing that will make your heart beat
and your knees sweat! Believe me, as a former professional meat
thrower/entertainer/jumper, I have known a thing or two about
jumping. Remember a couple of years ago when I had that 31" vertical
leap (which my brother was always proud to say, was more than half my own
height)? No longer, sir! I would be lucky to be able to leap over a
goddamn flea circus in a single bound!
But that's okay, because I am still happy! I have taken the Duran Duran
act in a different way. Since I am more or less bound to a wheelchair (do
not worry, it is only because I am very fat), I now have learned to do
various tricks and wheelies and pop jumps on my RGK Performance
Wheelchair, with its 100 percent precision made to measure strength
enhanced Titanium or Chrome Moly frame and micro stainless castor forks
with court castors and the laser blue streak lightning flash paint job!
Let the good times roll, indeed! Now when I am belting out a medley of
"Rio" and "The Reflex" and all the other Duran Duran classics,
man do I look good on the stage, as I spin around like a freaking top or
something. That is, unless I topple off the stage and land in the salad
bar, like that time I did in Denver when I was visiting Mr. Hunt. Whew!
Have you ever smelled Roquefort dressing when it gets under your armpits?
Try picking up a stripper then, sir!
I probably go through two or four RGK Performance models a year. I put a
lot of
wear and tear on them, you can believe! So much so, that I have mountain
bike tires installed on them. Can you even believe that one?
Even though my transportation has changed, my act has pretty much stayed
the same as it always was. You know, come out on stage, sing some Duran
Duran hits, jump (or now, wheelie) around and then reminisce with the
crowd about the good old days. Of course, I am contractually not allowed
to hurl any meat products on stage. Gil calls it "copyright
infringement," but I am still trying to talk him out of being so strict
about that one. (Good luck, Tito!) I also refuse to work with
temperamental primates, for obvious reasons.
***
I remember the last time I saw Mr. Hunt; this was probably a year or so
ago. He was at the airport getting on a plane to "Switzerland"
(wherever in the hell that is!) and I was working my day job (at the
time) as one of those cart drivers for handicapped people in the
airport. I came screaming down the lane at probably sixteen miles per
hour, when I nearly struck this dude in half with my cart!
"Hey gringo!" I screamed. (I wasn't charging myself by the word
back then!) "Watch your ass, sir! Can't you hear my beeper alarm going
off like a thousand car batteries exploding on Venus, man?"
And then the guy cupped his hands to his ear and yelled, "I can't
hear you, idiot! That frickin' alarm is too loud!" So then I turned
off the alarm and got off the cart so I could talk to his face
better. "Look pal," I said, "I did not mean to squish you or
nothing. It is just that I have got a load full of testy handicapped nuns
waiting at Gate A21 and if I do not get there, Continental Airlines is
going to hand me my walking bags!"
Then, all of the sudden, I looked deep into his eyes, and I recognized
him! It was Mr. Hunt! I did not even know who it was, even though I was
talking to him for like 65 seconds!
"Hey! Mr. Hunt! I cannot even believe it is you man! You look so
freaking different dude!"
And he really did look different, dude. His hair was cut shorter and was
totally black. Remember how red it had been? And he was now wearing a
beard and these dark glasses that made him look like a really, really tall
and skinny Tom Cruise in "Top Gun" except with really light skin and
not nearly all the muscles and good looks!
At first he was acting like he did not even freakin' recognize me or
anything, so I started to yell even louder, hoping he would know who I was
by the sound of my voice!
"Hey MR. HUNT! Dude, it's ME. TITO TITO! We used to work in the Meat
Bar together! You worked with Mr. Wilson in the ACCOUNTING DEPARTMENT!
You handled all the MONEY!"
That is when Mr. Hunt said, "Keep your voice down Tito!" He did
recognize me!
"Hey look man, I know I am a lot fatter than I used to be, but I still
look the same. Same as when we worked together at the Meat Bar? Look,"
I lifted up my shirt to show him my chest, "Here's the Meat Bar logo
tattoed on my chest like a goddamn piece of cattle branding metal! Oh man,
remember how much I screamed when I got it? Mr. Ekberg thought it would
have been a great idea for me to walk around town with my shirt off. `A
walking billboard' he said. Too bad the cops did not see it that way,
huh sir? How is Mr. Ekberg anyway?"
"Tito, shut the hell up. I'm late for my flight. It's been nice
seeing you!" Then he began to walk off.
"Okay then, Mr. Hunt," I said. "Where are you flying to
anyway?"
And as he looked side to side like he was looking for someone who may be
on either side of him, he whispered, "Switzerland. And keep your yap
shut."
Like I was supposed to know what a yap was!
***
I got a letter from Mr. Wilson about six weeks ago. You know how he is,
with his big words and his pretty drawings of bats and things. He told me
that he had just gotten married and was now living in Tampa, Florida the
Sunshine State. I wondered to my brother Gil, when I was visiting him
last week, if Mr. Wilson had been to Disneyland yet.
"Disneyland is in California," he said to me at the visiting
booth. He had his phone to his ear but the plastic wall between us was
pretty smudged, so I couldn't really tell if he was laughing or
sobbing.
"Oh, I meant Disneyworld," I said.
"That's in Orlando," Gil said.
"Man, if I lived in Tampa I would be going to Disneyworld like every
damn day, man!"
"Orlando!"
"Can you believe it how lucky Mr. Wilson is? Disneyworld all day, Epcot
Center all night! Mia madre!"
"You idiot."
Then there was this long-ass pause while Gil was rubbing his temples and
after about seven minutes or something he said, "What did Mr. Wilson
say in the letter." He didn't say it like a question but I answered
him anyway.
"Well he was telling me about the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and how he went
to the new stadium and nearly got thrown off the big boat in the North end
of the end zone because, as you know, he is a huge Carolina Panthers
fan..."
"About ME, Tito. What did he say about ME."
"Oh. Nothing, man. But he did say that he had heard from
You-Know-Who."
"Do not mention his name in my presence!"
"Who, Clevis?" I asked.
"Silencio!"
"Even if I were to tell you that Mr. Wilson says that Clevis moved to
Vietnam?"
"Clevis moved to Vietnam?" Gil leaned into his telephone receiver
like he was paying $2.95 a minute to talk to me.
"No, I was just asking."
"You idiot," my brother said. "Wilson. That bastard. After all I
did for him. You would think that he would have more compassion for me
and my troubles. And I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts," (What the
hell do doughnuts have to do with this, Gil?), "that he is doing this
to me because of my Spanish ancestry. He's jealous of my heritage and
is taking his petulance on me by ignoring me in hour of need. Actually my
two-to-five year sentence of need. But you can be sure that my pure
Spanish blood seethes with anger at this slight and on the souls of my
ancestors I swear that vengeance..."
"Times up, Grubenfuhr!" came a voice from behind my brother.
I am glad Gil's still in shape because that guard who came in looking
like 250 pounds of the biggest slab of pork rinds you have ever seen
yanked my brother up by his yellow jumpsuit and pushed him through the
door even before he had a chance to wish his brother, Tito Tito, goodbye.
Okay Gil, see you next week!
***
But see, what I did not tell you was that Mr. Wilson really had spoken to
Clevis. I guess things had not been going so well for Clevis since he was
fired from the Meat Bar. And now that the restaurant had been shut down,
it was going even worse for him. I will read you what Mr. Wilson wrote in
the letter, since he has more words than me:
"Clevis hasn't been doing so well, ever since `The Incident.'
The last we spoke, he said he had been turned down numerous times from the
Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus for swearing at the
ringmaster and passing out when they brought in the monkeys. But
certainly, Tito, I'm sure you can understand that.
"After gallivanting about the country for several months, performing
his special-smelling brand of comedy -- all the while searching in vain
for a monkey-less circus in which he could perform his clownly duties --
Clevis has finally seemed to settle in at his job at the gas
station. During our last conversation, he said he found cleaning
windshields, `surprisingly fulfilling,' and the company he works for
seems to at least tolerate his insistence on wearing that dreadful clown
attire.
"However, and this is just between us Tito, Clevis sounded sad. It's
not something that can really be put into words. Perhaps it was the words
he used, his tone while speaking, or his informing me that he had lost
two-and-a-half fingers while, in his words, `juggling some firebombs at
a kid's birthday party.'
"I don't think he ever got over his fear of Pepe (the monkey, not
your brother) Tito. You know how they detested one another. I mean, can
you believe Clevis, searching for a circus that had no monkeys! What
folly! I'll tell you, Tito, you show me a circus with no monkeys, and
I'll show you some upset kiddies."
Oh boy, you got that right Mr.Wilson!
***
I still have a picture of that damn monkey. I do not even know why I keep
it around. Perhaps sometimes I think that it is just because I am strange
in the head. I mean, heck, having a picture of a monkey is one thing, but
having it framed in oak and hanging over your bed like it was a picture of
Greta Monroe or something? That's a different story, my friend!
Sometimes I will lie in my bed and look up at the picture of Pepe (the
monkey, not my brother). Oh boy is he mad in that picture -- it was right
after we bought him from the homeless guy for a couple pieces of foil and
a hair brush. What that dude needed with a hairbrush, I have no clue! That
monkey was pretty mad to have to leave his homeless friend, because he
nearly tore off Mr. Hunt's hair when we tried to shove him in the back
of the pickup truck we had rented. Mr. Hunt was yelling, the monkey was
screaming and hurling feces at him and scratching him on his forehead. So
then, Mr. Ekberg thinks this is the funniest thing since "Three 's
Company" and snaps a picture of the whole thing!
See? Right up there, you can see the side of Mr. Hunt's arm. And all
that blood on the monkey's teeth? That's Mr. Hunt's DNA, you can
be sure!
Well, when the flash of the camera went off, I guess the light scared that
monkey, because we thought we had been struck by a monkey tornado or
something like that! Just a big mess of fur and claws and stuff. I was
lucky that he did not slash my goddamn throat, the way he was thrashing
around!
Then I had an idea! I would try to reach the angered monkey by talking to
him in his own language! I was screaming at the monkey, hoping to calm him
down by chirping like the monkeys do! Hey, it was the only thing I could
think of, dude!
"Ooo OOO OOO!!! AAA!! AHH!!" I said as loud and high as I could. And
the monkey pretended he did not even hear me! And Mr. Ekberg is telling
me, "For the love of all that is Holy, shut your PIE CRACK," and I
am whooping it up like it is 1999 and Mr. Hunt is being slashed to death
by a furious monkey. You should have seen all the traffic that stopped to
see us. I felt like a freaking celebrity, I will tell you that! I started
doing a little dance to the beat of the monkey's screams and mine
(because it was sounding pretty good, you know?) and that was when the
monkey broke out Mr. Hunt's grip and leaped onto my skull and began
tearing at my head! Oh man did I have some bald spots after that!
Right before the monkey could tear my eyes from their sockets, Mr. Ekberg
caught the monkey full tilt on the side of his cheek! Wow what a good
shot! The monkey dropped like a sack of wet snot and splatted on the
ground at our feet.
"Pick him up, Tito!" Mr. Ekberg said and climbed into the passenger
seat. My brother, Pepe, was there, he is a good driver and had already
started the car. I picked up the furry unconscious monkey and threw him
in the back seat with Mr. Wilson, who did not look like he was happy to
share a seat with the monkey at all. Mr. Hunt got in the back of the
pickup. I don't blame him!
We drove back to the Meat Bar as fast as the wheels would spin and the
whole time Mr. Hunt is yelling through the back window of the truck.
Mr. Hunt: Who's idea was it to get this monkey?
Mr. Ekberg: We ALL decided to do it. We needed a mascot!
Mr. Hunt: MASCOT? You call that furry demon a mascot? Jesus, he almost
slashed my freaking ears off!
Mr. Ekberg: You'll be fine! I think he's got a lot of spunk. He's
going to work out great!
Mr. Wilson: I'm not so sure about this.
Mr. Hunt: Oh my freaking ears!
Mr. Ekberg: All he'll need is some training. Don't worry, we'll
get Clevis to do it!
Mr. Wilson: Is this monkey going to be around children?
***
Yeah, sometimes I look at the picture of that monkey and wondered whatever
became of him. But then, I say that about everybody. Beunice, Mayor
Nguyen, the Freezer Monkeys, the health inspectors, the cops, the National
Guard. I used to see them all the time and, sometimes, I miss them
all. Except for the monkey.
Next time I will tell you about how Pepe (the monkey, not my brother) got
his name. Mia madre!
Oops! That is two dollars for Tito!
Copyright 1999 Brian Ekberg
--
"Did you ever think we'd get to that point, where jobbing would be a
virtue?" OldPowhtn