Read Online Broken Piano for President by Patrick Wensink - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Wensink
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express themselves, but their bodies and actions, as well. Part performers, part performance artists. When drunk, Deshler’s voice gets dreamy and he says things like: “They stitch together these Frankenstein monsters of guerrilla art and punk rock.” This talk sends his friends from zero to eye-rolling in no time flat.
Those eyeball spasms are nothing compared to his near-biblical quoting of Haynes. “One time, this foster home my brother and I were crashing at had a rad magazine collection. I read this interview where the journalist was talking about touring and asked Gibby, ‘Where do people usually get the most pissed off?’ And Gibby, wow that guy’s a genius. Do you know what he said? His answer was, ‘Between the ears.’”
Lately, thankfully, Dean’s kept these proclamations to himself.
A wind tunnel-tested yellow sedan pulls up to the awning. “Man, that’s heavy,” Deshler says, rubbing fingers together until they regain feeling. “Maybe some people will show up tonight and buy some tapes.”
“Yeah, tapes are a hot commodity. People love ’em,” the little valet says, doing his usual attention grab. “Speaking of which, I told you about my video camera, right?”
“Uh, it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I got it at the thrift store…VHS tapes… seriously ? You don’t remember?”
“Hmm. Wish I could say I did.”
“Let’s hang out after work. There’s this cool car wreck I shot. It’s right up your alley,” he says, searching Deshler’s eyes for any spark.
A sturdy, sailor-looking guy steps out of the car. His posture mirrors the city’s dueling skyscrapers. His gray suit looks like it’s never been worn.
Napoleon hustles up to the car door with a smile. “Welcome back, sir. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of your baby.”
“Back off, tubby,” the man growls. “Look at this beautiful machine. They’d have to peel you out with a shoehorn.” The man dangles keys in front of the valet’s bubble cheeks. “I’ve told you a million times, son, you’ll never get to drive this car. I need my man Deshler Dean to park it.”
This harpoons Dean’s attention. He doesn’t recognize the yellow car and an all-too-familiar confusion nestles in tight.
“Yes, sir,” Napoleon says.
The man stops and turns around. “Here, go buy yourself a burger.” He dunks a five in Napoleon’s breast pocket.
This guy reminds Deshler of a football coach when he steps up and gives a nod. “All systems are a go, buddy.” The man is quiet enough to keep Napoleon out of the loop. Dean stares hard into that face. It’s intense and focused and has probably made people pee themselves.
Deshler returns a stiff nod. This unfamiliar kind of talk boils a pot of spaghetti where his stomach used to be.
“I mean, this is gonna blow up big time ,” the sturdy guy says, showing off a white marble slab of teeth. “R and D is having trouble actually converting fried mozzarella into the shape of a bun. Some shit about structural integrity. Looks like we might have to use provolone. But seriously, who knows the difference?”
“I’m glad,” Deshler clears his throat. “To hear the mozzarella is going well.” He hopes this lie is enough to pass. Dean wishes he was humble enough to simply say he doesn’t know, but dark pride won’t allow it.
“You better be!” the man says, slapping Deshler’s white jacket shoulder. The coach’s skin is tanned. He could be on posters for California tourism. “It’s the best damn idea you’ve ever come up with.”
If you guessed this news jerked our hero back a step, you’d be right.
The man continues, “Hell, it’s the best thing Bust-A-Gut’s had in fifteen years. Better than the Monte Cristo, I truly mean that.”
“I do what I do,” Deshler says, wondering if he actually heard the word “idea” or not.
“Absolutely,” the man says, searching for credibility in Deshler’s eyes. Digging deep. The guy’s fingers pinch a sorry
Those eyeball spasms are nothing compared to his near-biblical quoting of Haynes. “One time, this foster home my brother and I were crashing at had a rad magazine collection. I read this interview where the journalist was talking about touring and asked Gibby, ‘Where do people usually get the most pissed off?’ And Gibby, wow that guy’s a genius. Do you know what he said? His answer was, ‘Between the ears.’”
Lately, thankfully, Dean’s kept these proclamations to himself.
A wind tunnel-tested yellow sedan pulls up to the awning. “Man, that’s heavy,” Deshler says, rubbing fingers together until they regain feeling. “Maybe some people will show up tonight and buy some tapes.”
“Yeah, tapes are a hot commodity. People love ’em,” the little valet says, doing his usual attention grab. “Speaking of which, I told you about my video camera, right?”
“Uh, it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I got it at the thrift store…VHS tapes… seriously ? You don’t remember?”
“Hmm. Wish I could say I did.”
“Let’s hang out after work. There’s this cool car wreck I shot. It’s right up your alley,” he says, searching Deshler’s eyes for any spark.
A sturdy, sailor-looking guy steps out of the car. His posture mirrors the city’s dueling skyscrapers. His gray suit looks like it’s never been worn.
Napoleon hustles up to the car door with a smile. “Welcome back, sir. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of your baby.”
“Back off, tubby,” the man growls. “Look at this beautiful machine. They’d have to peel you out with a shoehorn.” The man dangles keys in front of the valet’s bubble cheeks. “I’ve told you a million times, son, you’ll never get to drive this car. I need my man Deshler Dean to park it.”
This harpoons Dean’s attention. He doesn’t recognize the yellow car and an all-too-familiar confusion nestles in tight.
“Yes, sir,” Napoleon says.
The man stops and turns around. “Here, go buy yourself a burger.” He dunks a five in Napoleon’s breast pocket.
This guy reminds Deshler of a football coach when he steps up and gives a nod. “All systems are a go, buddy.” The man is quiet enough to keep Napoleon out of the loop. Dean stares hard into that face. It’s intense and focused and has probably made people pee themselves.
Deshler returns a stiff nod. This unfamiliar kind of talk boils a pot of spaghetti where his stomach used to be.
“I mean, this is gonna blow up big time ,” the sturdy guy says, showing off a white marble slab of teeth. “R and D is having trouble actually converting fried mozzarella into the shape of a bun. Some shit about structural integrity. Looks like we might have to use provolone. But seriously, who knows the difference?”
“I’m glad,” Deshler clears his throat. “To hear the mozzarella is going well.” He hopes this lie is enough to pass. Dean wishes he was humble enough to simply say he doesn’t know, but dark pride won’t allow it.
“You better be!” the man says, slapping Deshler’s white jacket shoulder. The coach’s skin is tanned. He could be on posters for California tourism. “It’s the best damn idea you’ve ever come up with.”
If you guessed this news jerked our hero back a step, you’d be right.
The man continues, “Hell, it’s the best thing Bust-A-Gut’s had in fifteen years. Better than the Monte Cristo, I truly mean that.”
“I do what I do,” Deshler says, wondering if he actually heard the word “idea” or not.
“Absolutely,” the man says, searching for credibility in Deshler’s eyes. Digging deep. The guy’s fingers pinch a sorry
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