The Bialy Pimps (33 page)

Rich, usually impervious to nerves, was nervous that night. He had finally gone too far. The public wouldn’t stand for physical assault. And so he waited out his next shift expecting a complaint, an arrest, a summons, whatever – but instead Frat Douche returned, slightly bruised but otherwise unhurt. He didn’t mention the incident the previous day. He placed his order, and was surprised when he was treated rudely.

The entire staff, baffled, took this as a sign that it was officially Game On. If a person would return after being thrown to the mat and elbowed in the gut, then the new customer pool was either composed of masochists or irretrievably stupid. If it was the former, then there was no harm in giving the people what they wanted. If it was the latter, what Rich and the others were doing boiled down to nothing more than natural selection.

Philip, ever the responsible one, was slightly more cautious. He made the warning sign at the front door bigger and more obvious. He changed its wording to include terms like “gross bodily harm” and “possible elbows to the face.” He even issued a press release indicating that shit was about to get real at Bingham’s. The
Dispatch
, having been flooded with interest following its other Bingham’s stories, eagerly printed it.
 

This done, and with consciences sufficiently beaten into submission, employees became more bold. Rich began doing flying wrestling moves, springing and flipping end-over-end from the turnbuckles and countertops to tackle customers in mid-air. The use of the paintball guns became decidedly less discriminate.
 

And still, people came in droves. Requests for interviews increased. Beckie said that she even saw a blip in the nether-pages of
USA Today
about a small deli in Ohio that was taking a “controversial approach to foodservice.” National A.M. radio show hosts and news channels began to mention in passing that they had heard something funny from Columbus that could not possibly be true.
 

They seemed to be getting away with it. They were, in fact, becoming a bit of a sensation.

“Maybe we could be on MTV,” Darcy supposed, wagging her boobs for dramatic effect. Her shirt had been carefully chosen for the occasion:
Got Milk?

“MTV. Psssh,” scoffed Slate. “I used to watch
120 Minutes
because they used to show good punk videos from unknown bands late at night. Now, they’re trying to make it all
commercial.”
He crossed his arms, displaying the Descendants tattoo on one beefy arm.

Beckie, who was nearby, rolled her eyes. She was annoyed with Slate. Philip had given Slate a promotion and the title of “Assistant Manager,” which had made him power-trippy. “Why would we be on MTV?” she asked. “MTV is for music.”

And then, as if by a divine act of providence, the CD player rotated the M.C. Hammer disc into playing position, and played “Here Comes the Hammer.”
 

Philip walked in as the song started and Tracy, at his spontaneously bizarre best, sang an impromptu parody.

“Uh-oh, uh-oh uh-oh uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh! – Here comes the manager,” he sang.

Soon, the entire staff was rapping along with Tracy’s simple alteration of the lyrics and Philip was grooving, placing his palms on the back of his head and thrusting his hips forward, strutting and grinding.
 

When the song ended, everybody was laughing, and everybody had the suspicion that the situation was nowhere near as funny as they thought it was.

Yeah, they should be on MTV, Tracy told Darcy.

And yeah, they should make an MTV-style video, and it should be a Hammer parody, and it should be “Here Comes the Manager.” The video would be Philip dancing badly amidst whirling spatulas and pumping steamers. The supporting cast would wear sequined outfits and flashy sunglasses and high-topped sneakers.

The group, he said with a laugh, could be called “The Bialy Pimps.”

It was nearly noon, and Wally was sweating.

He wasn’t sweating because of the weather. The day was an in-between, a warm but not hot day that perfectly straddled the newly ended summer and the beginning fall. Wally’s sweat was entirely non-atmospheric. It had only been a week since Philip’s last email, and surely whatever was so dire at Bingham’s couldn’t be affected by the fifteen-minute delay he’d had due to an accident near the state line, or to the construction just outside of Pittsburgh, or to the few minutes he’d been unable to resist spending to stop at a Dunkin Donuts. But still he worried, obsessing over every second now that his destination was so close.

Philip, on the other hand, didn’t usually understand urgency. It was one of the reasons Wally got along so well with him in their working relationship. Wally’s responsibilities to the deli were remote, and never very time-sensitive. Philip got around to his own responsibilities approximately whenever he felt like it. And whenever Wally had had something that felt urgent and had discussed it with Philip, Philip had always acted as a foil to Wally’s worry, infecting every conversation with a laid-back, let’s-have-a-beer-and-chill-out-first vibe that made whatever had seemed so pressing feel less dire. They should have been an odd couple, but the arrangement worked, and made sense.

That is, until two months ago. All of a sudden, in early August, Philip’s messages had become... different. A bit ruder. A bit more resistant to requests.
 

Or it could have been Wally’s imagination.
 

They hadn’t had much need to exchange email during that time, but there was always some routine communication – primarily the same old issue of keeping the deli open for long enough to reach the busy season. And so Wally had emailed a few times with gentle reminders and things to keep in mind, and Philip’s responses had been terse, almost flip.
 

Wally would email him about Bingham’s reaction to the July P&L (neutral) and then to the slightly better August P&L (mildly positive), and Philip would reply with “Just wait until you see what happens next” or something similar. Mood was always hard to read over email, but he swore Philip was now annoyed by Wally’s good news and pleased when the news was neutral or bad. Once, after a few odd-vibe emails, Wally had overcome his revulsion of the phone and had tried to call Bingham’s, but the Bingham’s phone was either constantly busy or out. He could try to find Philip’s sometimes-connected home phone number, but the endeavor soon began to feel like paranoia, so he let it go. It was fine. The bank deposits crept up even during the last weeks of the slow summer, so there couldn’t be too much amiss, if anything.

But this last email had him baffled. “Seriously bad stuff”? What could be so seriously bad that Philip wouldn’t just explain what it was? Why the mystery? And why did Wally need to visit? Why hadn’t Philip just picked up the phone? Wally tried to call Philip, but the deli phone remained out and Philip’s sometimes-connected home number was, unsurprisingly, disconnected. Wally sent a few emails, but no reply came. Over the past week, Philip had gone completely dark.

So he’d decided to pay a visit just as Philip had asked. And, he told himself as he started again to worry, there was nothing out of the ordinary about a trip. This was all totally routine. It wasn’t a terribly long drive, and he was overdue for a visit anyway. His last visit had been over six months ago.

Still, that strange email gnawed at him. Urgency from the guy who didn’t understand urgency (even using the word “urgent”), a mysterious situation that was apparently too ominous to even briefly explain, and that troubling week of subsequent communications blackout.

There was no reason to sweat the lateness of the day at this point, after waiting a week and driving the four hours from Pittsburgh... but still, worry ate at his stomach. In his final approach to the deli – now just twenty minutes away barring a detour – every second seemed to count.

By the time he arrived on campus (and was forced to park three blocks away; something big must be happening on High Street), he had calmed down somewhat.
 

Philip was surely adding urgency to a matter that would be better described as “pressing” or “bothersome.” Or, if the situation
was
truly urgent (or
had been
; a week had passed since Philip’s email), he’d surely already dealt with it through more appropriate channels. If there was a gas leak, Philip would call the gas company. There hadn’t been a fire because the insurance company would have called Wally, but even if there had been, Wally was hardly the most appropriate first-responder. If there had been an incident in the restaurant, such as a serious slip-and-fall or a holdup, then Philip would have called the police or the company’s lawyer, and it would already be in the process of being dealt with.
 

Whatever was going on, Wally decided, willing away his fear, was either not truly urgent (a sudden and severe lack of customers, for example) or had already been dealt with. Here and now, Wally’s job would probably be simply to act as Philip’s security blanket, to tell him that the company had his back and that it would all work out.

He strolled along the sidewalk, forcing himself to enjoy the beautiful day and the academic feel that the college had in the fall.
 

Then, as he approached Bingham’s, he saw that there was a news van on the curb out front.

That was troubling.

It shouldn’t have been troubling, though. The van could be there for anything. It could even be there for something good. Maybe one of the employees had saved a little old lady from drowning. Maybe the mayor was giving Philip the key to the city. Maybe there was a madman inside with a gun, and the place had been under a week-long hostage siege.
 

But there was something else. In addition to the news van, there was a long line out the door.
 

The line snaked along the sidewalk, past the small alley that boasted Nick’s almost-mural, then past most of the front of the book store across the alley. And what’s more, it was an exclusive-looking line. Purple velvet ropes enclosed the first twenty feet, and another velvet rope at the front of the line hung like a sash across the door. Beside the door, with his hand on the brass rope stand, was a huge doorman dressed in black.
 

Wally cupped his hands on the glass and peered through the front window, but still couldn’t tell what was going on inside. All he could see were customers at the counter along the wall, eating and turned around to look toward the counter area.
 

Wally’s worry melted into curiosity, even eagerness. Whatever was so urgently wrong must have been resolved, because business seemed to be booming.

He approached the doorman and cleared his throat, causing several people still waiting in line shout at him to wait his fucking turn like everybody else. The doorman, who was wearing opaque black sunglasses, looked down. Wally noticed that his too-small shirt read BALL STOMPIN’ SQUAD.

“Yes?” he said.
 

“What’s going on here?” Wally asked.

“Takin’ care of business,” said the doorman.

“Do you... work here?” He didn’t know how else to ask. Of course he didn’t work for Bingham’s, because Wally would have had to approve it and handle the paperwork. Whoever was in charge of whatever was happening inside must have arranged for the ropes and the doorman, but Wally didn’t know what that event was. And that was strange. Certainly Philip could authorize some kind of minor news event without Wally’s go-ahead, but it seemed like the kind of thing you’d be excited about, the kind of thing you’d mention to your boss.
 

“My name is Wally,” he explained. “I’m the district manager. Philip’s boss. Do you know Philip?”

“You’re Wally?” The bouncer pulled his Ray-Bans down on his nose and looked over the top of them.
 

“Yes.”

The bouncer seemed suddenly
flustered. Then he stammered, “I’m sorry, but do you have an ID on you?”

An ID? What was going on here?
 

Wally looked through the fogged windows and could now see Philip. He was cavorting and doing something that Wally couldn’t quite make out. “You need an ID?” he said. “Why would you need an ID?”

The doorman looked down at Wally to remind him which of them was bigger, but kept the respectful tone in his voice. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but there have been a lot of... changes since you were here last.”

“So I see.” Wally pulled his driver’s license from his wallet and showed it to the doorman, who surveyed it for a moment and then handed it back.
 

Wally raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”

“Of course, sir,” the doorman said, unclipping the velvet rope. “Go right on in, sir.”

Wally walked through the door and looked around. There had been changes, all right.
 

The suspended ceiling panels had been removed, leaving the grid of supports hanging empty from the original plaster ceiling. The plaster above seemed to have been cleaned and painted. The effect was odd, making the room feel both taller and somehow modern, the empty grid echoing the nouveau design of the nearby art building.
 

The entire store had been redesigned, and the effect was grotesque. The walls had been painted a stark red and were covered with photos of Philip’s ass – some social candids, some Polaroids, some artfully-done black and white boudoir portraits. Droopy rubber phalluses were affixed to the ceiling and walls. The stiff plastic cousins of these were glued along the half-wall that made up the counter, all protruding toward the customers in line, all on and running. The clattering noise they made as they tried to shake free from their epoxy was like the chatter of a thousand sets of teeth, filling the air with a buzz that made the room seem tense, as if it were on a countdown to explosion. Bongs hung like strange chandeliers. Inflatable sex dolls occupied several of the chairs in their unabashed, gape-mouthed nakedness – something which the standing customers seemed to resent, but similarly seemed to know not to disturb. Novelty store fake dog-doo sat on all of the tables like centerpieces. The walls and ceiling were peppered with what looked like exploded, high-impacted fruit. The floor seemed slick and oily. Gigantic rubber novelty asses (had they been cast from Philip’s?) were stuck to the counter between the dildoes in taunting moons. Some areas looked wet. Bagels littered the corners. Banners, both proud and somehow mocking, hung from the naked rafters like wash on a clothesline. HAIL THE BIALY PIMPS, they said, and WHO’S YOUR DADDY? WE ARE!