Dog Training The American Male (19 page)

BLACK-TIE
ELEPHANTS

Located on seven
acres of exclusive beachfront property in Lantana, Florida, the Ritz
Carlton-Palm Beach is a five-star luxury hotel with the kind of amenities that
catered to the upper class.

Jacob cruised north on A1A, the
Atlantic Ocean on his right as he followed the scenic two-lane roadway to the
hotel entrance. He had hoped Nancy would have joined him on this – his first
officially paid gig, but after last night’s fiasco, she had banished him to the
silent treatment.

She did look sexy in that
negligee. Maybe you shouldn’t have listened to Vin?

Stop! You need to focus on the
gig. Your future clients are in tonight’s audience. Do a great job, pass out
your business cards, and who knows what can come from this.

 It was nearly eight p.m. by the
time he arrived at the entrance to the resort. The last golden rays of sunset
have bled into the crimson hue of evening, the trunks of the hotel’s palm trees
illuminated with landscape lighting as the Volkswagen van wheezed its way
around a circular entrance to the valet parking.

The valet—a Hispanic man in his
forties—knocked frantically on Jacob’s window. “Deliveries are on
zee
north side entrance.”

“I’m not a delivery, I’m the
entertainment.”

“
Jess
, well we don’t got
any clown parking spots, so
jews
need to move this hunk of
jit
,
okay?”

“Not okay. I’m a guest of Mrs.
Kleinhenz—she told me to valet so I’m valeting. And be careful wth
jit
,
jit’s
a classic.” Jacob turned off the engine—only the engine continued to run
until it choked itself into a burst of carbon monoxide and died. He handed the
valet his lucky rabbit’s foot keychain, grabbed the suitcase holding the Bush
dummy, and strode toward the hotel lobby in his rented tuxedo and matching
black canvas Converse sneakers.

The concierge directed him to
Salon A.

Chandeliers and dimmed lights,
white tablecloths and waitresses circulating with tantalizing trays of hors
d’oeuvres. Several hundred guests mingled in packs, the women in designer
dresses, the men in their penguin suits.

Jacob accepted an offering from a
waitress and filled a paper napkin with half a dozen pigs-in-a-blanket.
Everywhere
there’s lots of piggies . . . living piggy lives. You can
see them out for dinner with their piggy wives . . . clutching
forks and knives to eat their bacon. Never thought I’d be back mixing it with
the hoi polloi. Bet more than a few of these blue-bloods had Lehman Brothers
accounts. Wonder if any of them own a comedy club?

“Jacob! Over here!” Ruby
Kleinhenz was sandwiched between an older couple, waving. The fund-raiser’s
hostess was hanging out of a black satin dress, the neckline plunging clear
down to her exposed navel, the fabric defying the laws of gravity in order to
keep from revealing more than thirty percent of her tan cantaloupe-sized
breasts.

John Lennon was right. Women
should be obscene and not heard.

“Jacob Cope, these are my
friends, Richard and Lois Babcock—”

The blood rushed from his face.

“—the Babcocks own Babcock
Industries; they’re one of our biggest donors.”

Badcock? Richard . . . as
in Dick Babcock? Holy shit, don’t speak.

The silver-haired gentleman with
the dark pencil-thin mustache offered his hand. “Nice to meet you . . . Jacob,
was it?”

Jacob shoved the pig-in-a-blanket
in his mouth and shook Mr. Babcock’s hand. “Res. Rice roo reat roo, too.”

“And what line of work are you
in?”

Jacob swallowed the glob of food
in his mouth. “Entertainment. Comedy, actually.”

Ruby looped her arm around his
elbow. “Jacob’s my after-dinner entertainment.”

Smiling nervously, Jacob held up
the suitcase. “Ventriloquist. So, Richard, what does Badcock—” he cleared his
throat, feeling Lois’s eyes on him, “—Babcock Industries make?”

“We’re into hi-tech instruments.”

“Like synthesizers?”

Mr. Babcock chuckled. “More like
the kind of instrument you’d find on an Apache helicopter.”

“Ah, so you’re in the business of
killing people.”

Mr. Babcock’s mustache twitched.
“Only the bad guys who threaten the American way of life. We’re patriots, Jacob.
I’m guessing you’ve never served your country in the Armed Forces.”

“Imagine there were no countries,
Mr. Babcock. It isn’t hard to do. Nothing to kill or die for . . . and
no religion too.”

Lois smiled. “Are you a poet, Mr.
Cope?”

“No, ma’am. I am he as you are he
as you are me and we are all together.”

Lois frowned. Whispered, “Ruby, I
think your friend is on drugs.”

Ruby winked. “Jacob is such a
jokester. Oh look, Lois, I think they’re getting ready to serve dinner.” She
kissed the Babcocks on each cheek, and then led Jacob to the head table, her
elbow hooked around his arm. “What was that all about?”

“The guy builds weapons of mass
destruction, and he’s rewarded. The world’s insane.”

“Jacob, who’s to judge what’s
sane or insane,” she said, escorting him to his seat at the end of the table
before taking the chair to his right. “My ex-husband was an attorney. He
defended a lot of filthy-rich guilty people and donated a ton of money to
charities that helped the poor. Did that render him a sinner or a saint? Who knows?
All I know is that while I was raising his children and taking care of our
home, he was banging his legal assistant. Do you know how I found out he was
cheating on me? The legal assistant told me after she found out he was cheating
on her. Insane, huh? And you know what I learned?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I learned that right and wrong
is all about your perspective. Love thy neighbor . . . live
and let live. I also learned that I don’t have to agree with a person’s
politics to like them, only to suck their dick.” Reaching under the table, she
groped his crotch, causing him to jump.

“Mrs. Kleinhenz, are you trying
to seduce me?”

“Seduction is a game, Jacob. I
don’t have time for games.”

“Okay then.” He squeezed her
hand, guiding it back atop the table. “Why don’t you tell me a little about the
charity you’re raising money for.”

She smiled, and then whispered
into his ear. “This isn’t a charity, lover. It’s a thirty thousand
dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner to benefit the Florida Republican
Committee.”

Sweet Jesus, I’ve entered the
lion’s den.

* * * *
*

“Our next entertainer
this evening is a
well-known member of the Grand Ole Party; ladies and gentlemen let’s give a
warm South Florida welcome to President George W. Bush and his bodyguard, Jacob.”

Jacob approached the microphone
and stool to a standing ovation that quickly melted into laughter as the
audience recognized the face of the dummy tucked over his left arm.

“Good evening. My name is Jacob
Cope. For those of you in the cheap seats I’d like you to clap your hands; the
rest of you can just rattle your jewelry.”

The John Lennon quote bombed.

“Um . . . before
we begin, I feel it’s important that I let you know that I am not a Republican.
I am instead a registered Libertarian.”

The puppet animated. “Hey, Jakester,
what’s with the Libertarian bullshit? If I had known you were such a pussy, I
would have never let you stick your hand up my ass.”

Laughs—sprinkled around a few
gasps from the blue-haired biddies.

“Be a real man, Jacob. Join the
Republican Party and we’ll give you a free assault weapon just for
registering.”

Solid applause.
God, they do
love their meat red.

“Hear that applause, Jacob? These
people love me. Think they care that al Qaeda attacked us on my watch, or that
I led America into a $3 trillion war in Iraq, or that I deregulated Wall Street
so the banks could lead us into the greatest depression since whatever that
last depression was called? No, Jacob, they love me because I’m a real man. I
got me a real man’s squint. Not one of those wacky Asian squints where it looks
like I’m polishing my wood; I’m talking about a Texas league, Clint Eastwood
kind’a squint. And I got me a real man’s walk—a bow-legged walk, like there’s
something swinging between my legs that requires hourly swipes of baby powder
just to keep from chafing. That walk got me Laura. Can we hear it for my wife, Laura?”

The audience applauded . . . unsure
of where this was going.

“God, I love that woman, though
she’s not the friskiest of critters. Just last night I walked out of the
bathroom, naked as a jaybird. Laura took one look at my Woody the Woodpecker
and started her usual whining, ‘George, not tonight, I have a terrible
headache.’ ‘That works out perfect,’ I said. ‘I was just in the bathroom
powdering my dick with aspirin. You can take it orally or as a suppository,
it’s up to you . . . heh, heh, heh.’”

A few laughs—drowned out by gasps
from the members of the religious right.

Jesus, toss ‘em more red meat . . . fast!

“Mr. President, I understand you
ran into Chelsea Clinton the other day?”

Boos.

The Bush dummy retorted. “Hey,
come on now, she’s a married Christian woman. Being a devout Christian man I
asked her, ‘hey, Chelsea, be honest—did you and your new husband ever have sex
before you two were married?’ She winked at me and said, ‘Not according to Dad.
Heh heh heh.”

Big laughs, followed by applause.

“Mr. President, have you spent
time with many political celebrities since you retired?”

“Been keeping it on the down-lo, Jacob.
Last week, me and Fat Ass Limbaugh were out at my ranch clearing brush when we
saw my dog, Barney, lying on the trail, licking his balls. Limbaugh says,
‘gosh, Dubuya, I wish I could do that.’ I said, ‘Big guy, you’d better wait and
see if he’ll let you pet him first.’”

More laughs—suddenly silenced by
the presence of a cigar-smoking man standing by Table Three. “Who hired this
liberal lackey? Debbie Wasserman-Schultz?”

Jacob’s eyes widened.
Sweet
Jesus . . . it’s Limbaugh!

“Honestly, folks, I’ve seen
better acts at an abortion clinic.”

Gasps from several tables in
back.

“Easy. I meant at an
anti-abortion rally.”

Jacob worked the puppet, his
heart pounding. “Hey Rush, how ‘bout I tell ‘em the joke you shared with us in
the men’s room before dinner?”

“Joke? What joke?”

“Why can’t Helen Keller drive?”

“Obviously, because she was
blind.”

“Nope. Because she’s a woman.”

Limbaugh slapped the table,
hooting a red-faced laugh. “See? Now that’s funny. Stick with the women jokes,
kid. Just watch out for the Femi-Nazis.”

The young woman in her thirties
seated beside the conservative broadcaster abruptly stood and left.

“Aww, come on, honey . . . it
was a joke. Bush got to tell his Helen Keller joke!”

“Thank you, folks. My name is Jacob
Cope and I hope I passed the audition.”

BAD
DOG

Nancy keyed in
the front door ahead of Lana and Jeanne, the disturbance setting Sam to paw at
the sliding glass door, the German Shepherd barking to get inside the house.
“Can you hear the hairy monster scratching on my glass door?”

“I thought you were training
him?” Lana asked.

“I have been. Watch.” She unlocked
the back door, letting the excited dog in. “Sam, sit! Sit, Sam!”

The dog ignored her, more
interested in licking and jumping on the two strangers.

“Sam, get down! Wait, let me get
a doggie treat.”

“Aw, he just wants to play—don’t
you, boy?” Using her open palms, Jeanne boxed with Sam, jabbing at his open
jowls.

“Jeanne, don’t rough-house with
him, he gets riled-up very easily.”

Sam nipped and bit, yapping a
high-pitched bark as he circled Jeanne before suddenly sprinting around the
house, knocking over a floor lamp on the second lap.

When the dog diverted into the
spare bedroom, Jeanne pulled the door shut, trapping him inside. “Sorry, Nance.
My bad.”

Lana shook her head. “What kind
of dog trainer did you hire?”

“I thought she was good. Sam can
sit and play fetch.”

“Those are basic tricks, not
training,” Jeanne said. “This dog lacks any sense of discipline.”

“She’s right,” Lana chimed in.
“And from what you told us at lunch, Jacob needs that same kind of discipline.
Jeanne, isn’t there a guy in your beach combat training group that works with
the Broward K-9 division?”

“James Adams. Nance, I’ll call
him and find out who trains their German Shepherds and text you their phone
number.”

“I don’t know. Things have been going
real well down at the radio station; I’d hate to upset the applecart by
introducing something . . . what’s that noise?”