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surelypovichjr · 6 years

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Surely Waxes Brazilian Part III: Chip and Surely’s Legitimate Beef

This is part three in a four part series documenting my recent adventures in Brazil. Helluva time! Catch up with Part I and Part II before reading this sweet juicy peach! Zei Gezunt!

Is this Arby’s located in Brazil or is it simply Rockville Pike? The correct answer gets a free curly fry on the tab of Yers Surely.

Part III: Chip and Surely’s Legitimate Beef

It was an unbearably humid morning just like the rest of them—February in Rio. The days had been like this for awhile now…business was good, but still, pushing Isabel’s cart up the steep, winding roads of the Morro da Babilônia favela, I could sense that something was off. I continue pushing the cart, up to where Isabel is standing at the top of a hilly mound; quickly, I brushed aside my ominous feelings, and stop to admire the curvaceous silhouette Isabel is cutting on a makeshift shack with peeling yellow paint. A small tidepool of sweat crept down the beautiful boob job I had gotten her just the other week as the Brazilian morning grew increasingly swampy.

Isabel was worth all the salt in the shaker! Living here her entire twenty-six years made Isabel not only street-wise but also endearing to everyone she greeted; a friend and trustworthy woman to the whole neighborhood, a brand of community cache no amount of money could buy. Chip’s business proposition that night had prompted Izzy to quit her library job and instead work for us…naturally, she still maintained her night shift at the City of Goddess, but at this point, it was just for some extra pocket change.

A weaker man might have wanted Isabel to quit that life but I prided myself on being a more enlightened individual. As my old friend Jeffrey Gildenhorn (RIP) once said, being a sex worker is a job just like any other. Reading up on the subject, I learned that workers like Isabel are far too often marginalized because of the broken way that our governments attempt to scandalize the occupation for political points with pearl-clutching constituents. Truly, if this world had any guts whatsoever, it’d realize that incorporating prostitution into the legal workforce would only increase communication between those in the industry and the people trying to stop slave-trafficking and other forms of heinous activity that ladies like Isabel sometimes run up against in their line of work. As Jeff said, cash for sex ain’t nuthin’ to sneeze at, unless, you know, that’s what gets yer dick off…and for me, it actually does, which is a pretty cool fetish, in my opinion. No judgment and no sneezeguards, is what I always say!

Jeffrey Gildenhorn was a Renaissance man ahead of his time in that the man both owned a diner AND ALSO advocated for the decriminalization and ultimate legalization of the sex worker industry in DC...in the early 1990s! A true visionary! RIP, my good friend.

Isabel was also now a sales associate for our latest business enterprise, Chip and Surely’s Legitimate “Beef”, a 501(c)(3) providing door-to-door food delivery services to the city’s minimally regulated outer boroughs. The whole shebang was paid for by the suckers at the UN in partnership with the International Olympic Committee, who were of the mind that feeding the country’s most at-risk citizens would be good for Rio’s image as the events approached.

Izzy was a great fit at CSLB; her wonderful customer relationships made her a natural pick to grace all of our company’s billboards and television commercials. Of course, I had hired my old photographer Trevor for these gigs. The guy had decided to stick it out in Brazil, and was doing good after a few recommendations with some of our business partners—and because of all the referrals, we didn’t have to pay him! As for Isabel, it cannot be overstated how good she was. Out of the 1,264 slums in and around the Rio de Janeiro, Isabel was Chip Rosenbaum’s top earner and the two of us became inseparable as we worked her old stomping grounds together, hand-in-hand. Still, she had her doubts.

“I don’t know what it is about this job,” said Isabel, having just made $25 selling a bag of grade D meat to a family of four, “but I feel like there’s something else I could be doing with my life. Surely, do you think I should go back to my job at the library? I know it’s less money, but it felt like I was making a difference.”

Isabel’s old job. Total snoozer.

For a moment I mulled this around in my head. The whole point of getting Izzy involved was to get her out of the library and onto the streets. There was more money to be made out here slinging hot beef than it was curled up inside the Biblioteca Nacional, collecting a steady, but below-average paycheck. A few more years of the illicit meat racket and the two of us could retire somewhere special, maybe even make it back to Rockville someday—of course, this would be after the statute of limitations on Ping’s child support runs out. On that day, I could see it all so clear. Me and Isabel, back in my North Bethesda duplex. I’d fit it up real nice with some quartz countertops and a tanning bed. We wouldn’t miss a beat. We’d be happy. Maybe raise a couple of children—maybe they’re even our children and not some random kids we see walking around Bethesda Row on Simchat Torah. Was it really so crazy?

The Bethesda Bagels where I am no longer welcome. I still frequent the Dupont location.

“I dunno, Izzy,” I said, rolling a bucket of rancid tripe up an unpaved embankment. “I think Chip’s doing right by us. We’re making money. Way more than you were dewey decimalin’…more than I ever did selling ‘ticles to this place and that. Why change things? Besides, we’re in love, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are, Surely. I don’t know what I was thinking. I love you.”

“I love you too,” giving her a peck on the cheek.

“Come on Surely, this meat isn’t going to sell itself,” said Isabel, knocking on the next door. A woman opened up and Isabel started in with the usual spiel.

“Would you care for…some tripe?” I asked, not waiting for the answer before unloading some samples on her sweet lil kiddos.

While I was eating at Arby’s my pal Chip had been buying ‘em up left and right. Chip’s dad Leo had died and left him with the family fortune. Turns out, the old man was the silent partner behind J.Chow’s Chicken, Salad, and Ribs in the White Flint Mall food court, arguably the best restaurant in the entire shopping center, besides the Cheesecake Factory, of course.

The J.Chow’s establishment at White Flint Mall. RIP.

For twenty years, Chip was doing well as the franchise owner of 64% of the Arby’s Restaurants in the lower 48, that is until Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move campaign got underway. This initiative had an almost instant and deleterious effect on the fast food business, especially Arby’s which had at that time not yet launched its market sandwich line of healthier meal choices, such as the Carved Turkey on focaccia, a personal favorite of my son Ping, before he would hit the pool for afternoon swim practice.

To make matters worse, Chip had a supply problem…he had too much beef and nowhere to sell it. His restaurants were now doing a quarter of the big beefy business they had done in the golden years of the Clinton Administration, especially when the fat, philandering fuck machine himself would stroll into the Rockville Pike Arby’s every other week. Yes, Chip was in trouble, locked into a series of futures contracts with the cattlemen, he had an oversupply of product and also could not take advantage of falling meat prices; you didn’t want to get on the bad side of a cattleman, as anyone who has ever seen Lee Marvin’s Prime Cut can attest.

Prime Cut…thought-provoking flick about sellin’ meat.

Archibald’s: A DC Institution

Adding to his business problems was an embargo on sales of American meat to Asia, which made offloading the product nearly impossible for Chip. But just as things were looking their worst, my friend happened to overhear a conversation at Archibald’s, a primo titty bar not a stone’s throw from the White House. This was a deep conversation between some powerful people, men obviously, who were high ranking officials in the Brazilian government, United Nations, and International Olympics Committee respectfully. Fat knockers in their faces, the men were in discussions as to a public relations problem. With the Rio Olympics rapidly approaching, increasing scrutiny was being paid to the country by the international community.

Already, Brazil was being ridiculed for the thing. After all, said the UN official, how could the country’s leadership deem it appropriate to host an Olympic Games, to spend billions in public money for volleyball courts and golf courses, while upwards of a half a million children in Rio’s favelas met the World Health Organization’s definition of malnourishment?! At this, one of the Brazilian politicians laughed, “Sure they are poor children today,” he said, “but in two years, when you come for the Olympics...they will be the ones flashing a fake police badge to rob you at a ‘military checkpoint.’ You’ll come back to us, to the bullet caucus, and ask...why were you not tougher on the children...why did you not throw the children in a prison? But today is not that day...on this day, you wish for the children to have what, an order of curly fries...perhaps, a Big Montana?”

Better lucky than good, thought Chip Rosenbaum, turning around to introduce himself. Almost overnight, my friend’s business woes became a venture of formidable opportune...selling American products to a bunch of Latin American fascists...a tale as old as time. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

“Surely, aren’t you out of the sportswriting business? Chip asked. “I mean, these people are so corrupt, and no matter what you write, it’s 2016 man...literally no one cares. It’s just another blip on the rolling screen. Fuck man, ever since the Internet and that chucklehead Kornheiser yapping on ESPN...I mean...face it Surely, sportswriting is dead.”

Dad’s least favorite intern.

Chip had me on that. I was done writing. Even if there was no story, there was no one on the other end who would give the corruption story the respect it deserved.

And so, every morning for the past two years, Isabel and I have awoken in the same bed near dawn. I make us coffee as the two of us wait in silence for the large truck and the men. When the truck arrives, a burlap bag is placed over our heads and drives to an airstrip. The bags come off just as a large cargo plane touches down over the flora and fauna of the rain forest. Sometimes Chip is there but most days he’s nowhere to be found as Isabel and I are in charge of monitoring the unloading process. The plane emptied and the inventory accounted for, we’re blindfolded again, back to Rio, where the truckdriver takes us to the various drop zones. We continue to oversee the men, loading up all of the hot carts we own with curly fries and fresh-ish meats to sell throughout their respective territories. After that it’s around 9 am and time for breakfast…a nice spread at the small café down the road from our place…we take up our own cart a short time later.

Indeed, we were doing great things…not only in Brazil, but also back home, where I still could not return because of the whole extradition thing with Ping and Warren Wagglestein, Esq. Instead, we gave a bulk of our money to philanthropic causes back in Rockville and the DC suburbs. We started by making Chip’s brother Barry the head of our foundation, the Native Washingtonian Association. We had a lot of causes during this time, restoring the cafeteria at the Ring House was Chip’s pet project, as his mother was still there and he got a year’s rent free on account of the remodel. For me, it was two vanity projects. The first was the Danny Gatton Guitar School, a big honkin’ grant given to Montgomery College to teach inner city kids from Southern Rockville how to play smooth rockabilly. The second project was more ambitious. The NWA soup kitchen was created to mentor Washington’s next generation of soup masters. We endowed an entire school for the thing, out in Olney dedicated to the culinary arts of broth and balls. My hope…to one day recreate the BJ Pumpernickel’s establishment that Shirely Povich, Sr. had so dearly loved.

Danny fucking Gatton! (Image: © Clayton Call/Getty Images)

Even with NWA going great, I guess there’s a part of me that knew it couldn’t last. Chip and I were always getting into fights over petty stuff. Like when we ran out of imported meat from America and Ever had a burger made out of jaguar? All the Horsey Sauce in the world can’t do it justice. Believe me.

One day, I got fed up with it all.

“Chip, the product is getting worse. You can’t cut beef meat with jaguar and expect to get repeat customers.”

“They’re fuckin’ Brazilians, Surely. Besides, our profit margins have never been higher. What do you care?”

“We’re decimating the population of an endangered species.”

“We’re sourcing locally and reducing our carbon footprint. Isn’t that what you lib yahoos are all about these days?”

A Jaguar lookin’ regal on the Brazilian Fifty Dollar Bill. We fed their meat to people after the demand became too large for our supply chain of week-old beef comin’ from the United States. Members of the Social Christian party loved the idea back in 2016. Swell guys.

I shrugged. At the end of the day, I was only a minority partner in the business. Chip was holding all the cards. And maybe he was even right about the thing. We were paying Arby’s for all this imported meat that had to travel thousands of miles to get here. That’s jet fuel and a pilot you have to pay for. If you just kill a jaguar, you only have to pay the hunter…and the reserve is only a hop, skip, and jump from downtown Rio. Besides, the kids were learning guitar in Bethesda. And more importantly, the soup was flowing out there in Olney.

Or was it? Even though I couldn’t get back to the States, I still managed to get updates from Chip’s brother from time to time. A few months after we opened the schools, Barry Rosenbaum came down to Brazil to meet with his brother. But first, he showed me a video of two of the kids at the guitar school.

“Classic Gatton,” I recognized, marveling at the young ingenues, soloing away on a pair of Fender Telecasters.

“And that’s not all,” said Barry, taking out a thing of Tupperware and placing it on the table. I recognized it instantly, matzoh ball soup straight outta the NWA kitchen. “Whaddya say, Surely…you got a stove?”

I jumped at the chance. All those months of tinkering, could it really be? Did we really perfect the BJ Pumpernickel’s recipe? Sure, Barry’s goons had paid off the previous owners for the world-famous recipe, but who’s to say if they gave us the real deal. With much anticipation, I lit the gas burner and set it to low, so that the icy block of soup would slowly revert to a beautiful, golden hue. I began to salivate.

Chip came in just then.

“Moment of truth, Surely,” he said. “What’re you waiting for?”

I ladled out the soup for the three of us.

“Gentlemen, I propose a toast,” I said. “To my old friend Chip, without whom, none of this would be possible.”

“Here! Here!” said Barry.

“Here goes nothin,” I said, diving in. Slowly I brought the spoon to my face. The broth was on point, thick but not too thick, and full of rich schmaltz…now for the balls…

“You backstabbing, lying, sack of shit,” I said, dropping the spoon.

“What?”

“Don’t play fucking coy with me, fuckface,” I said. I removed a pistol from my gray sweat shorts and pointed it at Barry Rosenbaum’s head.

“Surely, what the fuck?!”

“Both you and I know…these aren’t the Pumpernickel’s balls. “First the jaguar meat and now this…just what the hell kinda trick you think you’re trying to pull here, Chip?”

The look on Chip’s face faded from disbelief to that of a large grin. “Well, well, well,” he said, clapping his hands, “and here I thought you were nothing but muscle.”

So everything was a lie? In a moment it dawned on me.

“This is the Hofberg’s matzoh soup,” I recognized, almost choking on the words. “Chip, how could you?”

“It’s better…it’s always been better. I mean, BJ Pumpernickel’s…are you fucking kidding me, Surely. Do you know BJ Pumpernickel was not even a real person? Now Abe Hofberg….shit, that was a soupmaster you could set your watch to.”

“You disgust me,” I said, cutting the inferior ball with the side of my spoon. “My father would be rolling over in his grave if he knew the kids at our soup school were learning the Hofberg’s recipe. For goddsakes, he’d rather them learn the Silver Diner matzoh ball than the shit they made over there.”

“The Silver Diner never made matzoh ball soup. It’s a figment of your fucking imagination.”

“They did too. In the spring of ’78…you had gone to some special basketball camp because you were a bigshot athlete…I stayed in Rockville and had a barback gig at the Bethesda Yacht Club. Every morning, I’d kick a new gurly outta bed and head over to Silver Diner for a cup of the stuff. It was the greatest summer of my life.”

This stuff is on par with Hofberg’s, if you ask me.

“The same summer you fucked Sherri Epstein, right Surely? My girlfriend. Hey, no hard feelings pal…I know you weren’t…Sherri told me all about it. Besides, even if you wanted Pumpernickel’s soup, you couldn’t get it…only Barry has the recipe, and it’s all the way back in Olney, where you can’t go because of you owe for your biological son. Face it, Surely, those kids are going to learn the Hofberg’s soup backwards and forwards…and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it…tell you what though, anytime you want a container of the stuff, I’ll have Barry bring it down for you whenever you want. Sound good?”

Smelling defeat, I lowered the gun from Chip’s brother’s temple. “From here on out, we’re not friends anymore…only partners.”

“Fine by me,” said Chip, ladling himself another round. “Not such a Mighty Mo now, are ya?”

I walk out and back to Isabel’s feeling worse than I had ever felt in my entire sixty-seven years. I had lost.

The next morning Isabel and I wake up for work. Same routine. The truck comes to our place and the two of us greet the two burlap bags that are placed over our heads. The truck starts up and starts to drive. Wrong direction. Gone are the sounds of the rainforest and the secret airstrip, with its black market planes and illicit cargo. Instead, we’re brought inside some kind of abandoned office building—through the blindfold, I make out the scant outlines of an old microfiche reader—we’re inside an old newsroom! Before I can break free and steal ancient office supplies, we’re ushered into a small enclosure with a familiar chemical smell I recognize must be the paper’s dark room. I can tell Isabel is scared but I tell her not to worry as the blindfolds come off.

“Surely…Povich…Jr.”

“Hello Trevor.”

Stay tuned for Part IV of my amazing Amazonian adventure!

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