Little Tarzan (Short Story - Thursday Words)

 Little Tarzan

Mister C. was a young looking chap, a little scrawny but with a face revealing far fewer than his 45 years. He splashed off the last traces of shaving stubble from his skin with a palm full of cool water, examined himself in the mirror, and splashed again. Then he raised his hands and parted his straight, thick brown hair. Cut boyishly, of course, but not too long. The kind of haircut you’d expect to find in a high school cafeteria in Indiana. No, he didn’t see any gray hairs. The Carita Color-Fast Hair Treatment was still holding.

Mister C. didn’t want anything old to spoil his charmingly-youthful-with-considered-enthusiasm look. Mister C. was proud of that, his boyish look. He should have been. He’d made and was still making quite a good living on it. Not that he was an actor of any kind. Well, not in the strictest sense of the word. Mister C. was in politics, you see, a spokesperson. A well-traveled spokesperson at that.

He’d started his career in the R. party as a promising fresh figure. There he quickly ingratiated himself with the party’s respected, aged founder, Antonio Stone. Eventually Mr. Stone appointed him spokesperson of the party and Mister C. began appearing on lesser-followed political talk shows. After doing poorly in some regional elections the R. party combined with the G. party to form the RG national rainbow party, or RGNRP for short. The now somewhat more widely recognized Mister C. became the RGNRP spokesperson. Even though Mister C. received universal praise on how he had handled himself on some prime-time talk show appearances during the following campaign, the RGNRP didn’t fare very well. So it entered into partnership with the DB party to form the RGNRDB rainbow coalition or RGNRDBRC for short. Mister C. became spokesperson to the RGNRDBRC.

That combined party or movement or coalition, whatever, didn’t do so well either. Which was to be expected, given the fact that its acronym was terribly hard to remember and not a little confusing in its similarity to another party’s acronym, the RGRD olive-branch movement, or RGRDOBM for short. But those less-than-modest election results didn’t stop Mister C.

Because even though the RGNRDBRC hadn’t done so well - for that matter even the RGRDOBM pretty much flopped to - both the I and regionally based LL parties had. In fact they became the majority coalition in parliament. So the right honorable Mister C. made a deal with some acquaintances in the I and LL parties - which later were to combine to form one ILL party, or the party of ILL, PILL for short. ‘Give me the job and I’ll bring you our dirty laundry,’ went the deal. Just before the next, most recent election, Mister C. did indeed bring the dirt: detailed accounts of crooked government contracts given by the most prominent members of the RGRDBRC when they were in power. So the ILL party gave him the job - spokesperson for the ILL party’s founder and President, Mister B. Curiously, after the election the most prominent members of the RGRDBRC retired or assumed uncharacteristically neutral positions on some highly controversial bills. Except for its founder Antonio Stone, who remained an uncompromising, tough old coot.

Mister C put on his glasses – he could have corrected his vision with a laser operation or contact lenses but the thick-framed spectacles gave him a studious, student-like air – and practiced his ‘this-is-a-serious-issue’ look. He was sure he would have to respond to yesterday’s accusations from his old mentor in the RGRDBRC. He coughed. Then he opened wide his dark eyes and said, “Though I have the utmost respect for what Antonio once represented, he has become one of those unproductive figures in our country that instigate a climate of hate and disorder, a terrorist of democracy, a communist.” Then he paused a moment, practicing his earnest ‘you-know-you-agree-with-me’ stare. Then he smiled at himself in the mirror.

He turned around. By his bed was a briefing on the packet of laws called ‘Academic Reform’. On page 81 there was a small amendment under article 9, paragraph 7, clause 10, which de-criminalized accounting fraud. That giving immunity to hundreds of convicted corrupt businessmen – 15 of whom sat in parliament as ILL party representatives - didn’t have anything to do with reforming the county’s academic system didn’t matter much to Mister C. He wasn’t interested in details. He was, after all, only doing his job.

In fact he hadn’t even bothered looking over the briefing at all. Who had the time? His days were booked with interviews, meetings and shuttling between various TV shows. Most nights there were the dinners and when finally those appointments ended he almost always had his driver take him to Irina, a splendid Romanian brunette who adored his boyish face and thought Mister C. quite the intellectual. He rented her a comfortable, discrete apartment on a quiet side street downtown. Her monthly rent payment went into the ‘consultations’ expense column that was reimbursed by taxpayers. Irina was a dental student at the university but her true ambition was to be on TV. She could sing. She looooved art. She knew how to dance. Plus she was a good ice skater. She had talent.

Mister C. took one of his darker Savil row suits from his large, Driede-designed closet and got dressed. Before leaving, he cupped his hand in front of his mouth, exhaled and tested the odor. His breath still seemed a bit unpleasant, as it frequently had over the past few weeks. Probably an old filling giving way or something, he thought. He made a note on his cell phone to call the dentist. Then he plopped a breath freshener into his mouth. If Mister C. had known it was to be the last time he would set foot in his apartment he probably would have strolled around it a while, brushed his hands over the Veuve Cliqucot and Sassicaia bottles resting in the wine rack, paused to look at the Lombardi painting his gallerist had insisted was a steal at 250,000. But he didn’t.

“Good morning, Doctor,” the doorman greeted him as Mister C. strode over the marble floor of the foyer. The doorman called everyone doctor but Mister C. particularly liked the sound of it.

“Good morning, Paolo,” he answered. Then he came close, placed his hand on Paolo’s left arm in a formal gesture of shared intimacy and said “Listen, I should be receiving a delivery this afternoon. I’d be grateful if you could bring everything and leave it in my kitchen.”

“OK, Doctor,” Paolo smiled back. He very much appreciated Mister C.’s formal gestures of intimacy. “You’ll have a busy day, I bet,” he commented.

“I certainly will,” Mister C. answered. As he did he assumed his ‘I’m-grateful-that-you-are-intelligent-enough-to-understand-unlike-most-people’ expression. “Ciao,” he saluted warmly and then stepped outside.

 

His car, a big, blue BMW, was waiting for him at the curb. “Good morning, Mr. Cappellino,” his driver Giorgio greeted him, holding open the door. Mister C. sat down in the comfortable back seat. “To parliament or The Residence?”

Most mornings Cappellino had meetings near one of the two places. ‘The Residence’ was a luxury furnished rental apartment complex nearby filled entirely with ILL politicians or people in their entourage. For that matter so was the parliamentary building. “The Residence, Giorgio,” Mister C. told his driver. “Lesso wants to concord our strategy on Stone. You know how it is.”

“Ok, Mr. Cappellino.” Giorgio walked around the front of the car, sat in the driver's seat and pulled the BMW away from the sidewalk.

It was 10:30. Mister C.’s cell phone began to vibrate. He checked the number before clicking open. “Good morning, professor Lesso.”

“Good morning Cappellino. Listen, we’re already here. Did you read the briefing?”

“Of course, of course. So is it the usual this time?

“No, not this time. Stone has been dipping into our constituency. We have to use this to beat the son-of-a-farmer’s-bitch down.”

“A-huh. Do you want me start at Moscerino’s late show or should I book a flight north and sit in on Matrix Talk?”

“No, no, neither. Head over to PTN 3 and do Valeria’s show. After that I’ve arranged a few interviews at The Residence. Got it?”

Mister C. swallowed hard. Valeria Chiappa’s ‘Morning Coffee’ show had some of the worst ratings on the Public Television Network, PTN for short. The network broadcast over three channels. ‘Morning Coffee’ was on the 3^rd channel and had an audience of about 23, maybe 24 on a good day. 23 of those were retirees taking care of their grandkids. The 24^th was probably Defense Minster Buccia. Though the minister was actually older than most of those baby sitting grandparents watching the program, Buccia didn’t have to take care of his own grandchildren - he had 6 - given that 2 of them sat in parliament, one in the senate, while a 4^th, Alessandro, had struck out on his own and had recently been promoted to CFO of the largest semi-private, state run company in the country. Anyway.

Buccia was the reason Chiappa was still on the air. It would be unclear why a minister of defense would have any interest whatsoever in daytime talk TV. Except, of course, for Valeria Chiappa’s 36D-cups, long blond hair and somewhat frightening, waay, waaay over-sized silicon lips. And that ‘VC’ was the first name on the speed-dialing menu of the minister’s cell-phone. When he’d heard rumors that PTN executives were to cancel her show as part of the um-teenth failed effort to bring the network out of its runaway deficit, he mentioned to the minister of communication that a rather fat subcontracting deal involving a company the minister was a silent partner in was coming up for renewal and, well, that there might be others interested in bidding for the contract. That evening the cell phone of the CEO of PTN rang, the CEO clicked it open, a brief conversation ensued with the CEO saying ‘yes’ a lot, and the next day a different show, actually one with quite respectable ratings and critical success, was deemed extraneous to the purpose of PTN’s stated mission to bring the best programming to the public. So it goes.

“Got it, Cappellino?” Lesso repeated to the suddenly uncomfortable Cappellino.

“Yes, yes. I got it,” Mister C. replied. “But in case you…” he started to say but then heard the line click dead.

His driver glanced back in the rear-view mirror but quickly shifted his gaze when their eyes met. “Giorgio, a change in plans. Bring me to PTN.”

“Right away, sir. Doing Moscerino again?”

“No, not Moscerino. Just take me to the studios.”

Mister C. breathed in deeply and looked out the window as the car made its way away from downtown. He’d seen the city’s lovely baroque buildings and squares so often that he didn’t notice their splendor anymore. Instead he let the scenery pass by indifferently as he focused internally on who might be replacing him on Moscerino's Late Show. Latorre, he presumed. That red haired bimbo. Latorre had become very friendly with the Prime Minister over the past few months. She was popular in the north of the country where the Pill party was trying to enlarge its base. Plus she had a really nice, versatile ass, and everyone knew how the Prime Minister really, really enjoyed nice, versatile asses. Mister C. wondered if it was a fair trade-off, the Prime Minister’s rear end fondness for one of Moscerino’s magic chairs, if he would be willing to do the same. He decided that he would, seeing as the Prime Minister wasn’t born with a particularly invasive instrument. Then he shuddered. No, quite not. Nowadays with Viagra and all Mr. C. would have insisted on at least a Ministry. He giggled to himself a moment as he considered Santa, the quite lovely Minister of Equal Opportunities who also had a really, really, really lovely ass. Poor Santa. She deserved the post.

Bruno Moscerino’s Late Show was the most watched talk show on PTN, a kind of institution. Its format was something like a combination of Oprah, The Tonight Show and Bill O’Reilly. If you got to sit on one of the 6 chairs on the set - 3 for right-leaning politicians or commentators, 2 for the left and a 6^th chair that was left open for political favors – you were either on your way up or had already arrived. Defense Minister Buccia and Bruno Moscerino often had dinner together. Valeria Chiappa had appeared in Moscerino’s 6^th chair 38 times before finally getting her own show.

As Mister C.’s BMW pulled up to the gate he cupped his right hand in front of his mouth again and exhaled. His breath still wasn’t satisfactory to him so he popped in another mint. Giorgio stopped the car behind a line of other dark Mercedes, BMWs and Maseratis parked in the fire lane in front of the main entrance. “Thank you, Giorgio,” Cappellino said as he opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.

The late morning sunshine glared against the glass windows of the building. It was a warm day, unusually so for early April. At least it felt that way to him. Beads of perspiration began to form on his forehead. He turned and quickly strode over the few yards separating him from the doors and ducked into the building.

“Mr. Cappellino, Ms. Chiappa is ready for you in studio 5,” an administrative assistant called to him from the lobby as soon he was inside. She was a young, shapely girl with well-kept, long brown hair highlighted with well-executed blond highlights. Mister C. wondered if Irina would benefit from a visit to the same hairdresser. He was about to ask her who did her hair when the girl turned and started walking quickly toward an open elevator being held for them on the ground floor. The doorman, well, actually door ‘boy’ - a young, pretty, olive-skinned kid with perfect teeth – smiled at him ambiguously as they passed. The great-haired assistant pressed the button for the 3^rd floor, where the bar and main conference rooms were.

The doors slid shut in front of them. The girl – the tag on her blouse read Vittoria – immediately began informing Mister C. on what he was supposed to do once in the studio. He interrupted her, “I know, Vittoria. I’m something of a regular,” he explained, assuming his ‘don’t-worry-you’re-making-an-embarrassing-mistake-but-I-understand’ expression. It was a face he used whenever he had to deny some personal scandal involving the Prime Minister. He used it often.

“I know.” Vittoria ignored the look. “But they told me it’d been a while since you’d been on Ms. Chiappa’s show and they weren’t sure if you knew that the show’s format had changed.”

“Changed? No, I’m sorry. What’s different?”

“They added a second kitchen and now the show revolves around a contest between two regular people who come and cook. Then she asks her guests general questions to fill in the space while they do.”

“Oh.” He looked up at her face. Though not so tall, with heels on Victoria nevertheless stood a few inches higher than Cappellino. He thought he noticed her wrinkle her nose and turn away from his breath after he’d spoken. With a subtle motion he turned and brought another breath mint from his coat pocket to his mouth. He offered her one but Vittoria shook her head. “Has it helped the ratings?” he asked.

The girl glanced back at him with something of an ‘are-you-kidding’ look in her clear blue eyes. “What do you think?”

The elevator bell went off and the doors opened. Teresa, another administrative assistant - but one of Moscerino’s, the one who usually looked after Mister C. - was standing straight in front. She gave him a slight nod of her head. Just behind her the haughty faced Susanna Latorre, undersecretary of education, stood waiting along with two PTN executives.

“Hello, Cappellino,” she exclaimed enthusiastically when she noticed him. He had to admit that she was very quick at softening her expression, putting on her own ‘it-pleases-me-so-to-see-you’ face. “How are you? Everything OK?”

Mister C. in turn put on his ‘Ok -I’ll-pretend-to’ face. “Susanna! What a pleasure to see you. I heard you’d being doing Moscerino’s show. My compliments.”

“Well, just tonight. S. called and asked him to put me in the 6^th chair. I’m so nervous I can’t stand still.”

Nervous. Right. Now the bunga-bunga slut was even on a first name basis with the Prime Minister. Mister C. almost lost his self-control. But he didn’t. Instead he held his breath and shifted into his ‘Oh-I’m-genuinely-happy-for-you’ expression. “Don’t be modest. I’m sure you’ll be a hit. Break a leg.”

“I’ll try,” she answered, assuming her ‘I’m-only-a-pretty-little-innocent-girl-doing-my-job’ face. “See you tonight,” she waved as they stepped into the elevator. The doors closed and the elevator headed back down to the ground floor where the bigger studios were. Mister C. and Vittoria instead turned right and walked to the end of the hall, opened a fire door with a big, red 5 on it, and entered.

She led him straight to the make-up room and was about to leave when he asked her for her hairdresser’s name. He marked down the name and number in his cell phone. After she left he sat down and let Giovanna, an unattractive make-up girl with smart brown eyes, get to work. She covered his clothes with a red poncho and asked him if there was anything particular he wanted her to do. “No. But use enough base to make sure I don’t get any glare. And you can use plenty of gel. My hair takes it well.”

Once she was finished with his face and shaping up top he took out his cell phone and tried calling Irina. It’d been a few days since their last encounter, a time lapse he wasn’t used to. She’d told him she needed some help financing her new photo-album, her ‘book’, as they say. So he’d written her a personal check, not a public reimbursement, as a symbol of real affection. It was a big step for Mister C., almost a formal public recognition of their relationship. She kissed him and said that she’d be busy over the coming days, what between the book and exams and all.

Irina’s phone rang on the other end until the answering machine came on. Mister C.’s face turned sour. “Hi, uh, Honey, I’m at the studio. I just wanted to say hi and to tell you I got the name of a terrific hair dress...”

“Beep. The voicemail box of the person you are calling is full. Please try again later,” a mechanical female voice interrupted him. He closed his cell phone. Giovanna stepped around and gave his hair one last inspection.

“Good. All done. What do you think?”

She moved out of the way so Mister C. could see himself clearly in the mirror. He assumed his ‘see-what-a-friendly-enthusiastic-and-serious-young-man-I-am’ look. It was an expression he’d used often and to much success at the beginning of his career, a reliable old standby in case of emergency. He told the makeup girl he was satisfied. After he did, Mister C. thought he noticed her wrinkle her nose. She removed the red poncho.

As she was doing so Vittoria stepped back into the make-up room. “Mr. Cappellino, if you’ll please follow me I’ll take you to the green room. You’ll be the second guest.”

He stepped out of the chair and followed her into the hall, past a few doors and finally into a simply furnished room with a beige couch and four matching chairs. The room smelled of cherry-scented air freshener. A small TV was bolted to the far wall. It was on and tuned to PTN-2. There were a few newspapers lying on the table in front of the couch, most of them published by the Prime Minister’s media holding company.

“The bathroom is across the hall, just in case,” Vittoria informed him before taking her leave. Mister. C plopped yet another mint into his mouth as soon she did. Then he glanced at the headlines.

‘Stone Calls the Prime Minister Delinquent’; ‘Stone Calls Academic Reform Criminal’; ‘Stone: Corrupt Students’, and so on. The words that Stone had actually spoken were: “Including such a delinquent amendment on a bill of such importance goes to show that PILL cares more about criminals than students.” Mister C. let out a knowing sigh. Poor, dumb, inflexible Antonio, the old fool. Times have passed him by, but he just doesn’t get it. Then he cupped his hand in front of his mouth and exhaled.

After checking his look in the mirror on the back of the door he tried calling Irina again. This time the mechanical voice clicked on immediately so he couldn’t even begin a message. She must be at the photographer’s, he reasoned, imagining how sexy the new photos were certainly going to turn out. In the right pose Irina could reveal a fantastic, vibrant body. Then he glanced over at the TV. One of the cooking contestants on Valeria’s show, a 68 year old grandmother with short, red-hued brown hair and the strong arms and shoulders that came from a lifetime of kneading pasta dough, was preparing sushi.

Sushi? Bemused at the thought, he immediately tried calling up Irina’s favorite Japanese restaurant to make a reservation for two. They would celebrate her new 'book'. He was sure she would be pleased. But his cell buzzed with an incoming call before he could. “Cappellino, it’s Lesso. When you’re finished with Chiappa I want you to head to parliament for the defense bill vote this afternoon.”

“But Mr. Lesso, I thought I would be doing interviews at The Residence.”

“Yes, yes, don’t worry about those today. Though it should be a pretty easy vote we need to make sure we have the numbers in the house. We’ll have someone else cover the interviews, someone who doesn’t have a seat. Have a good lunch,” Lesso added before hanging up.

Latorre, again. She was only an appointed undersecretary, not a voting member of congress. Shit. He desperately hoped she would fall flat on her face on Moscerino. After all, it’d taken him years to perfect a style that reassured and convinced voters. She would discover that it wasn’t so easy to merely show up on set and flash a smile and that would do the trick. No, no. It was a talent that had to be developed, a profession that entailed an uncommon ability. An ability that he, Mister C., was well endowed with.

He turned around and looked at the TV again. The housewife preparing the sushi was rolling up some salmon in rice. But the maki sushi she was making was sloppy and loose. She tried slicing the roll anyway but the seaweed flattened as grains of rice and small bits of her fish dribbled out the side.  The other contest had instead prepared a usual, simple risotto but flavored with aged goat cheese. It looked delicious and reassuring in close-up.

A knock came from the door. A technician leaned in. “Mr. Cappellino, you’re on in 5 minutes.”

“OK. Thanks,” Mister C. replied. He thought he noticed the technician wrinkle his nose at him as he did. After the technician shut the door, Mister C. again reached for a handful of mints and threw them carelessly into his mouth.

Some of them bounced off his teeth, past his tongue and unexpectedly lodged themselves in a sticky wad at the back of his throat. He tried to swallow buy couldn’t, then to cough them up. The wad wouldn’t budge. Mister C. tried inhaling but found that he couldn’t breath. He tried coughing again but when that failed he started heading for the door to call for help. His cell phone rang.

Hoping it was Irina, he reached into his pocket to check the number. So distracted, Mister C misplaced his left foot and hooked it onto one of the legs of the chair nearest the entrance, causing him to trip and fall to the pavement. His cell phone bounced away from his grasp as he did but not before Mister C. could read the number. Surprisingly, it read Antonio Stone.

Mister C., still unable to breath, began to realize that he was actually in danger of choking to death. His heart began to pump furiously and he tried to raise himself up but when he got on his knees his vision faded to gray and he fell forward again in front of the mirror on the door. The cell phone was still ringing.

Mister C. had one last look before he lost consciousness. He saw the top of his head in the mirror. Right there, in the middle near the part but slightly to the back, he saw a white hair a little hidden behind all his other gelled, shiny dark locks. He made a mental note to go to the hairdresser to get a full coloring. Now was not the time to be showing any premature aging.

On Chiappa’s show the woman who made the risotto ended up winning the kitchen contest. Mister C.’s time was filled by prolonging an interview with a young soap opera actress. The actress, Svetlana Volkov, was actually from Russia. She had lovely long legs and blue eyes. She spoke 4 languages. She knew how to tap dance. Svetlana was also a good cook.

Latorre was also a big hit on Moscerino’s show that night. She defended the Academic Reform bill with aplomb, interrupted the opposition politicians before they could complete any rational argument and slid in her rehearsed sound bite ‘they’re the party of envy’ at the perfect time, just before the 2^nd commercial break. The technicians came up to her after and complimented her bright smile and the quick, easy rapport that had immediately emerged between her and Bruno Moscerino. Even Prime Minister B. himself sent a text message of congratulations. A few days later the bill passed the house without any significant problems, though Antonio Stone gave a rousing opposing speech.

Several weeks after, as she was sitting at a table in a noted downtown Japanese restaurant, Irina remembered that she hadn’t heard from Mister C. for quite awhile. She smirked a little, took a sip of her green tea but then flashed a lovely smile as her date returned from the men’s room to their table. Giacomo was a mid-level PTN executive. Not the most handsome of men but still. He thought the photos in her new ‘book’ looked extraordinary. Her lovely long hair, her glistening lips, the subtle lighting enhancing her young, vibrant form. He told her it would be easy to get her hired onto one of the shows. She had talent.