Monica's Pie
His classified ad read: MAKING SUPPORT group for Monica Lewinsky the intern. Voice mails at 773-501-0006. Thank-you my friends. Reklon. When Reklon Harponip placed his classified ad in the Chicago Reader, he had no idea of the number of people whom he thought were suffering like him. He was clueless--of everything. He was more or less shipped here by his overly intolerant, judgmental family--they whispered amongst themselves that like the devil, he belonged in America. "Reklon asks too many questions," they'd said. And with their blessings, he was off, setup with an apartment and bank account, and enrolled into college. Then, Monica � a true American spirit. She swallowed the whole enchilada then smacked her lips. She had it all. And that's what Reklon wanted--He Wanted It All! Monica Lewinsky found her way into every facet of Reklon splitting him in half like the red thong, "Monica's thong," that he wore under his boxers. He'd hand-stitched her initials across the thong's delta and swore on a box of Habana El Grande cigars that it would not come off until the "wicked" President, (Reklon had concluded that the President had leaked more than sperm,) was thrown out of office. Two weeks later the President was exonerated. In Reklon�s eyes this meant only one thing� Monica the role model was now Monica THE MARTYR. Monica had been like the flowing a samovar in a Turkish harem and now the President, her stepping stone to the top, had officially tapped her out. The red thong had to be displayed publically. Dropping trou, he unfurled it from that inner facet of his being and wore it as an armband, his symbolic show of his sworn solidarity to Monica in her fight for interns everywhere to sleep their way to the top. In the first two years of his U.S. residency status, he learned: It's not who you know, but who you blow that gets you there. He'd heard it more than once. * * * * * "Machiavellianism equals international business equals surplus capital equals jobs equals a thriving global economy," his college economics professor, Dr. Blacklump, had told Reklon three weeks prior to spring break. At the time, Dr. Blacklump was changing the grade on Reklon's midterm from a "D-" to an "A" while enjoying Reklon's pleasuring, curly haired head. Dr. Blacklump's cavernous, ivy-league voice enchanted him. "It's not sex. It's business in its truest, purest form. You, my friend, are a true Machiavellian. Here, have a Junior Mint." He had no idea what a Machiavellian was, but if it got him an "A" and a Junior Mint, then an internship to the top wasn't far off. The "A" had given him three more credit hours at virtually no cost, and he wore his newly acquired herpes sore with pride, for a week, bimonthly, knowing that Monica was probably wearing the President's. His total college expenditure, after tuition and books was twelve hundred dollars, which he had spent for copies of exams and Internet research papers over the past two years. His uncle/sponsor in Turkey couldn't have been more delighted. "My nephew, you make us all proud. When you come back you will be first American in family. Prosperous. Uncle Prendoupaz," read the thousand dollar MoneyGram. * * * * * He realized that day that he would have to find a meeting place that could hold the four people who responded to his ad. Never in his life had he organized a group of this size. The thought sent him into a dancing tizzy as he flailed his arms like snakes. They sliced through the air as the teardrop flames of three votive candles danced along on the mantel over the fake fireplace. He was giddy like a whirling dervish, chanting, "Praise be Monica! Praise be Monica!" In mid-spin, he tossed his favorite beret, the one that was natural black cashmere with gold piping, into the air. It got caught in the rotating blades of his ceiling fan. He watched, in slow motion, as the beret made two revolutions before being flung through the partition beads into his kitchen sink. In a split-second it was soaking along with a greasy, tuna and eggplant encrusted casserole dish. With the meeting just four hours away, his eyes widened as he fished out the beret. He rifled through his remaining beret collection. There were twelve others. All but one were threadbare shells; the other could only be worn by a shrunken head. They just wouldn't do for a meeting this important; he sopped the sweat on his forehead with the red thong. The black beret must be washed, NOW. Experience with the dryer, seeing the shrinkage it had done to his other cashmere beret, taught him that it was best to let it air dry, and that took time. He grabbed a bottle of Woolite and rushed with the beret to the laundry room in the basement. The beige cinderblock laundry room, he saw, would be a perfect place to hold the meeting. All he needed was permission from the building�s super, and Mrs. Troydhammer, the super's wife, was there, wringing out her thick, peach-colored support hose. Her brassiere with the rusty underwire cups that could lift and separate bowling balls appeared to be next. "Good evening Mrs. Troydhammer. May I trouble your fine self with question?" She looked at him and caught a glimmer of her reflection in his coal eyes as the fluorescent lighting flickered overhead. The sweat on his partially exposed chest glistened, drawing her red-rimmed eyes to the gold medallion hanging between his pecs. She stared, blushing, as the blue veins in her bulbous nose filled with red. "By all means young man. You�re 4B, right? Of course you are. Just what can I answer you for?" Her hand trembled, knocking to the floor one of her foundation garments, a torso-length girdle that could double as a trampoline. As they simultaneously reached down for it, they bumped heads. She grabbed hold of the girdle first and her calloused hand brushed up against his ass. "Me oh my. My dainties you know. Me oh my." "I'm having few friends over tonight for important meeting, and if it is no problem, I would very much like to hold meeting down here." "I see. Yes, I see. Is this for your studies?" "Yes-- for school Mrs. Troydhammer." "Mr. Troydhammer won't mind. He's out of town you know." A dryer buzzed. "If you help me hang my new curtains on Friday . . . " "Friday? I'll be quiet and stay out of way of other tenants. Yes, Thank-you Mrs. Troydhammer." ". . . then I don't see why not." "Many thanks Mrs. Troydhammer. Many gracious thanks." They washed their "dainties" side by side. Mrs. Troydhammer swayed with each scrub of her hose, hitting him with her meaty hip. Reklon gently bathed the beret clean, leaving the basement, feeling sorry for her; he thought she was drunk. He drew the blinds closed, then folded the bordered, block-printed tapestry on his futon into a meditation pad. Sitting cross-legged, he faced the candlelit, blown-up photograph of Monica hugging the President, hung over the mantelpiece. The sweet scent from the candles mixed with the baby powder scent of the Woolite on his hands; he shut his eyes tight, like a television minister making contact with God. A probe of the inside of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue caused him to smile. An eruption had occurred. "Yes! I carry mark of intern. Today, for second time in twenty-two years, I am blessed." He opened his eyes, and for the next two hours his eyes sparkled as he gazed into the photograph. In his mind he saw himself as the Leader of the Interns. Of course Monica is the Queen, he thought, but she was betrayed by a very, very bad man. I will not be betrayed. I will stand for interns everywhere. My people I will tell that to be an intern is to be second to the top. We serve to advance freely, like true Americans, by any means, to the top. A beeping truck backing up outside broke his train of thought. It was 7:30 P.M., a half hour to go until the meeting. My people will be here soon! he thought, as he unbunched his red armband and fixed it evenly between his elbow and shoulder. He felt the beret; it was still damp, but dry enough to wear as he pulled it on. Standing, he went to the window, raised the blinds, and saw his own reflection in profile as he arranged the beret so that it fit snugly, tilted to the left. "Praise be Monica!" he exclaimed, as he pinched the beret's nib and pulled up until it sat perfectly on his head. The laundry room was deserted. He moved a clothes folding table to the far wall and propped his photo of Monica against it. He placed a new lavender votive candle on either side of the photo. In front of the photo he placed his offering-- a box of Habana El Grandes, then he went upstairs to the foyer, to wait for his people. The first to arrive was Jerico, in a minivan. He was short and dumpy and wore a blue and yellow plaid vest over a puffy cream-colored shirt. His peppered gray beard didn't quite cover his pockmarked face as his swollen eyes peered out between his beard and red, leather-banded beret. "Man, you must be the dude who calls himself Reklon. Happenin' man?" "Yes, I am Reklon Harponip. I want to be intern like Monica. To be true American." "Cool, I hear ya, bro. The others should be here in the beat of a drumstick." "Others? You know others?" "Yeah, sure man. My family. My band mates. We're The Lewinsky's. Hey, I'm digging the shit out of your beret." "No, I wash it earlier." "Man, I like it. It's you, it's-- here they come." A beat-up Plymouth Horizon chugged into the parking space behind the minivan. Three people emerged through the smoke billowing out from the passengers' compartment. Reklon's hands fidgeted nervously as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "You are relatives of Monica?" "We're all related man, under the skin. This is my old lady, Gibralta, and these are my twin sons, Troy and Trey." The teen-aged sons' appearance, sans beards, matched their father's. Gibralta, a head taller than all of them, wore the same plaid vest over a blue sateen party dress. A bobby pin clamped her beret to her lacquered gray hair. "Lewinskys, we will please start meeting. Follow me." The twins started singing American Pie as the four were led by Reklon to the laundry room. "Man, I take it that this is the whole turnout," said Gibralta, as they stepped into the laundry room. She whispered to Jerico, "I want to initiate him into the band as our mascot." Jerico shushed her. "First we will gather in front of photo while I light candles." "Quiet down, you guys. The dude has something to say. Go ahead, Reklon." "Monica was betrayed by President in most cruel way. We will smoke cigars and laugh to drive betrayal from room." He passed around the cigars and they lit up. "Dude," the twins said, "these are some hefty blunts." "Shut up," said their father. "They're Cubans. Real cigars." Jerico angled in behind Reklon and pocketed a handful of the cigars. "Mighty fine smoke, Reklon. Mighty fine," he said while patting him on the shoulder. Four smoke detectors went off, waking Mrs. Troydhammer, sending her trudging to the laundry room. "What in tarnation is going on down here?" She leered at Reklon. "If I knew you were having a bongo party I . . ." "Who's the old bag?" "Mrs. Troydhammer, please, no bongo party . . ." "All of you-- out now before I call the cops." "C'mon man, I think she means it. Hey, let's all get some apple pie ala mode at Baker's Square. Monica says it's her favorite. I mean, what�s more Monica than apple pie?" Reklon was stunned. "Monica's pie?" And he followed the group outside to the parked cars. "Reklon, why don't you go along with my old lady? The twins and I will meet you at the Square." Gibralta grabbed his hand and pulled him into the Horizon as the minivan sped off. She kept hold of his hand as she whispered into his ear. "I feel your vibes. You are good karma to the band. Stain me!" * * * * * Jerico hummed American Pie. He had one hand on the steering wheel as his other pinched the cigar between the thumb and forefinger. Each time he took a draw the smoke swirled throughout his hidden mouth, laying down yet another coat of yellow film on his snaggled teeth. He held the smoke until his taste buds were sated, then popped his jaw, expelling Dali-esque smoke rings. The twins were in back using their cigars like laser swords-- making circles, zigzags, and a nuisance of each other. "Luke," said Troy. "I have some bad news. I am your father, dude." "Well, party on Darth, before I zap you with my laser to the last coffee house in the universe-- Java's Hut," said Trey, as he grabbed for the burning cigar from Troy's hand. Jerico's laughter snagged on a cough as he turned onto Western Avenue. * * * * * Jerico had hooked-up with Gibralta and her twins eleven years ago at The Heartland Cafe. He and his partner, Clive, were traveling the Midwest throughout the summer as the improv folk duo Two Fat Guys. They went from festivals to street fairs to subway tunnels to coffee houses performing original, topical, flavor-of-the-month songs, each making around fifty dollars a day by passing the hat. Their home address was Kinzie & Wells Parking Garage, Chicago, Il, in their maroon Plymouth Horizon. The summer turned into Labor Day; they had done well. Jerico saw the potential that Chicago held for the two of them. Its people were politically aware and had a cynicism that mirrored their own. Their Desert Shield inspired songs, Condoms and Arabs and Oil Wells All Aflame, The Skies are Lit, It's a Beautiful Day, In Nowhere Land, had brought in real, paper money. But Clive "felt a chill in his bones" and decided to go west, by Greyhound; Jerico stayed, eventually gravitating to Rogers Park and the open mic venues along cobble-stoned Glenwood Avenue. He made barely enough to feed himself and the car, and lived in the alley behind The Heartland, in the Horizon, underneath an old graffitti-covered billboard that read:__IT'S 1984 IN 1981. One night between sets, Jerico followed one of the regulars, a tall woman dressed in black leather fringes, with spiky black hair and a rainbow headband, out to the alley. He licked his lips as she leaned against his car, knowing that she had gone out for one thing-- to smoke a bowl. He went to his car; she said,"Hi." Later that night at her mother's place, he composed Read My Lips, and learned of the twins when he awoke the next morning. A flavor-of-the-month band was born. * * * * * Gibralta buckled Reklon in with the shoulder harness and drew her blue dress and crinoline-layered slip to her waist as she straddled him, face to face. As she eased the burning cigar from his hand, she cooed, "Stain me," into his left ear while circling the outer rim of his right ear with the tip of her finger. Her other hand found his crotch; he was retracted like a scared turtle. "I need you, Reklon, to make the band whole. It is in the stars. Relax and come on Monica." "I cannot do what you ask. The President very, very bad man." A car drove toward them, its headlights shining in his face. He looked like a frog about to be gigged. "Yes, it's okay," she moaned, as she went into his mouth with her tongue, finding his, probing deeper. His eyes involuntarily widened, then closed, as she started to ride his crotch like a mechanical bull. In the movement her hand unbuttoned his pants, and latched on to her fetish-- bringing it to a magical, quartz crystal life. She stroked it, working it, until she knew the inevitable and stood as he geysered onto the blue sateen party dress. She was complete, having done her duty for Jerico and her boys. This had better get us a bigger slice of the pie, she thought, as she unbuckled Reklon and slid onto the driver's seat. "Monica's pie," were the only words that came from the thoroughly spent Reklon; his beret was on the floor. She started to hum American Pie. Jerico gave Gibralta a questioning nod, mouthing, "Well?," as they met in the Baker's Square parking lot. She pointed to her dress and smiled. He whispered, "A perfect silhouette of the President," and patted her ass, then aloud said, "C'mon guys, let's get some of Monica's pie." Reklon sheepishly followed The Lewinskys, forgetting the beret, zombified. They sat in a corner booth. The twins continued playing grab ass while Gibralta checked out her face in the mirror-finished napkin dispenser. After a few moments it seemed as if the group was in quarantine. Jerico yelled back to the kitchen, over the heads of those sitting at the counter. "How about some service? Anybody work here?" A bell tinggged. "Front, oh front," he called. The twins sang, "Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry." The Lewinskys had everyone's attention; Reklon sat in situ-- until he saw a bunch of Habana El Grandes protruding from Jerico's inner vest pocket. "Hey, shut the hell up!," shouted a carbuncular, John Deere ball-capped man sitting at the counter. "We're trying to eat our pie in peace, you freaks." He elbowed his buddy and they started laughing. "Monica's pie. I come for Monica's pie. You people use me, like President uses Monica. Monica's pie is all lies. You are not__." "I said shut-the-hell-up for crissake." John Deere's buddy wagged his bony finger toward the booth. Reklon grew livid, his body tightened, ready to strike. Reklon focused on the man's finger and unrolled the red thong from his arm. He grabbed a salt shaker, placed it into the thong's crotch, and twirled it overhead until it had just the right momentum going, then released its end, sending the salt shaker flying toward the counter. It struck the glass pie-tiered showcase, shattering it. The twins said, "Duuuude." Jerico's and Gibralta's mouths were wide open. The cook came out waving a spatula while the waitress cowered behind him. John Deere reached into the shattered pie case, grabbing a blueberry pie for himself, and a lemon custard pie for his buddy. They stood as the cook and waitress positioned themselves between the booth and the pie-wielders. "Best not do what I think you'll do with them pies," said the cook. But it was too late. Jerico received a direct hit of blueberry, Gibralta, lemon custard. Reklon pushed them aside as he wiped the fallout from his face, and bolted through the door before the cook had time to go back and trip the alarm, locking the front doors. Reklon was a block away, without his prized beret, when he heard the sirens.
Copyright © 2004 Paul B Kramer |