The Magnificent Rotundo

by

Brad Wurm

The sea of people parted as Rotundo approached. He walked with a sense of purpose and determination, with a grace uncommon for someone of such stature. His pace was enough to make the crimson cape flow behind him and sweat flow from his brow. Spiked leather gloves swung at his side and his slick hair and goggles gave the man a streamlined look. The heels of his heavy, black boots left imprints in the hot asphalt as he crossed the street. The rolls of flesh barely bounced inside the black tights as Rotundo mounted the curb. He cracked his knuckles as he neared the door of Chang's, his cave-drawing green tattoos expanding as his arms flexed. The wind chimes rattled against glass as Rotundo flung open the door. After several minutes he re-emerged, stuffed a twenty down the front of his tights and continued down the boulevard.

He was a cowboy, his arms poised, slightly bent, ready to draw. Walking through Little Shanghai always made him feel as if his height matched his tremendous girth. He was Matt Dillon. He tipped his hat to a demure, young Chinese lady as she passed. He was much too cool to give her a second glance. Besides, he was on a mission. He looked into the eyes of the other gunfighters as they passed. None dared return his gaze. His spurs clanked as he walked slowly, rhythmically. He waited with hands on holsters at the corner. His boots sank deep in the mud of the boomtown as he crossed the road. Seven Fortune was on the corner. He slowly opened the door and let it shut itself. An Anglo college girl in traditional Chinese dress greeted him: "Buffet?"

"I'm lookin' fer Li-Wu. He knows what it's about." He stood stoically as the girl disappeared. Li-Wu returned with two tens. Rotundo stared coldly at Li-Wu as he handed him the money. "You know I like crisp twenties."

"Nex' time crisp twenty. No make trouble." Li Wu's English became less fluent when appropriate. Rotundo continued to eye the man as he exited.

He placed the tens next to the twenty and continued to make his rounds. Even from his vantage point, he could hear the local street performers long before he could see them. The oncoming current of people continued to be split into small eddies by the corpulent crusader. A song popped into his head, inspired by his grandeur. "You can tell by the way I walk my walk/ I'm a woman's man-no time fa' talk...blubba- blubba- bubba, blubba- blubba- bubba...stayin' alive, stayin' alive." Rotundo quickened his pace and accentuated his swagger. He saw himself from above as he made his way down the Boulevard toward Happy Garden. He could feel the eyes upon him as the base line kicked in and his step coincided with the beat. When it became tired of repeating the same few discernible lines, his brain mixed in some Stevie Wonder and Rotundo continued to groove. He was Rudy from Fat Albert. He slung his arms and tilted his head and shoulders back so that they were not positioned over his center of gravity.

Rotundo always welcomed the hip-hop sounds of the street dancers. He particularly liked it when they were kickin' it old school as they were today. Jam Master Jay was cuttin' it up. Even Rotundo stood in awe as a small black kid smoothly transitioned from a windmill to a backspin then a fresh freeze. An older boy busted a 1990 on the small piece of linoleum then went into some mean footwork. In the background another boy popped as if his whole body were made of cartilage. Most of the crowd simply walked right by. The group had collected a few dollars in a Kangol by the makeshift dance floor. The Chinese were cheap bastards. Rotundo felt good about his job.

If he was going to have any trouble, it was usually going to be from Wong at Happy Garden. He hoped that Wong's soft, Americanized son was in charge today. Wong was a tough old mainlander. He had once told Rotundo of how he had dug yams and walked fifty miles to see his family during the cultural revolution and how no fat American was going to take his hard-earned money. He had proved himself to the old man before and would do it again if he had to. The Orientals were apt to underestimate the American resolve once, but smart enough not to do it twice. Surely Wong had learned.

Rotundo flung open the door of Happy Garden as was his custom. Wong's son greeted him with a smile, money in hand. "Here's a crisp twenty- just like you like." The young man pulled the bill taut with both hands as he spoke. Rotundo conjured a menacing look as he accepted the money.

"Where's the old man? Diggin' yams?"

"He's down state. Getting some fresh chicken. The Asians don't like the grain-fed stuff the distributors sell us. Say it's got no taste. There's a guy in Fairweather that has a farm. Let's the chickens go apeshit and eat whatever they want. Gives 'em more flavor. The guy makes a killing."

"I'm surprised the old man doesn't just serve up stray dogs and cats like the Gooks across town. That would keep his costs down." Rotundo's great belly shook as he spoke.

"How do ya know he doesn't?" The younger Wong stared into Rotundo's eyes- the only normal sized feature of the man.

Rotundo placed the money with the rest and started off for his next stop. He listened in on the conversations of the other pedestrians as he walked. He was always amazed at how the Chinese spoke to each other. The men always seemed to be arguing. He had often stopped, waiting for them to come to blows. He loved how the women would hold one sound while thinking of what to say next so that their sentences all strung together like a song. The men toned down their native gestures when speaking English, but the ladies maintained their pleasant singing mannerism. He had often asked Chinese ladies for directions just to hear them speak.

Sheridan and Ninth always meant street vendors. Rotundo's pulse quickened and his mouth salivated. The Sneaky Pete's hotdog vendor stood with his red-striped hat and apron checkered with so many phallic symbols- too busy to feel ridiculous. The smell of the pink meat and the accompanying bath of sauce awakened something primal in Rotundo. His will to continue making his rounds was overpowered by his urge for the synthetic delicacy. "A foot-long with chili, cheese, and jalapenos." The vendor mechanically followed Rotundo's instructions and extended a hand for payment. Rotundo produced one of the tens from his trunks and did not worry about the change.

If he ate as he walked, he would still be on time at Dragon Palace. Punctuality was part of his mystique. He inhaled the dog as he made his way through the sea of tiny people, tearing off huge chunks of flesh with each bite. Fuck Velociraptor. He was T-rex. He moved his head from side to side with that uncoordinated, reflex action that meat-eaters have as he chewed. He reveled in his kill with a hideous reptilian yell. His horrible gaze froze the blood of the creatures that anxiously passed him. They knew that the hunk of flesh on which he dined was a sacrifice, buying each of them another day of life. They were just walking, talking statistics. Each meal that temporarily pacified the giant carnivore lowered the probability that any given one of them would be next. They did not mourn for their lost kindred or wonder with which bite he ceased to be man or if his soul was broken down into tiny bits in the mouth and finally into little molecules of soul in the stomach as was his physical body. They did not comprehend that the energy produced by their slain comrade would fuel the beast so that he could kill again. They were content not to be the current meal and thankful that their odds had been bettered. Rotundo struggled to collect the last morsels of his victim from his dense, wiry beard with his stubby, nearly-useless appendages and force them into his cavernous mouth with the six-inch, razor-sharp teeth.

He entered Dragon Palace at 12:28. Timing his visits during the heart of lunch hour ensured the least trouble from his clients. Dragon Palace was the most elaborately decorated and highest priced of the neighborhood's many buffets. It attracted throngs of business types from the downtown area, each gleefully waiting in the lobby of "The Palace" like inmates let out of cells for their daily exercise in the prison yard. It was also Rotundo's biggest payer at fifty bucks a week. Rotundo waited impatiently for Ching How as his ears were bombarded by talk about insolent coworkers, hot stocks, jargon, and buzz words of all kinds. It was not like Ching to be late with a payment. A strange hostess ignored Rotundo as she guided a group of tennis-shoe-wearing secretaries to their table. Rotundo's heart began to race. No one had called him in six months.

"Excuse me, miss, but Ching should be expecting me," he addressed the hostess in a calm voice.

"Mr. How sold the place last week. It's under new management." The hostess addressed Rotundo in a matter-of-fact tone and led another group to their table. Rotundo knew that he would have to explain himself to the new management in order to get his fee. He cut in front of a couple of cell phone-wearing executive trainees and took his place at the front of the line like a wrestler from the 1970's.

"I'd like to see the new manager, please."

"Mr. Ren is very busy. I have instructions not to disturb him unless it is an emergency."

"Well, this won't be an emergency if you just let me speak to the gentleman." Rotundo smiled coldly as he spoke.

Sensing his growing agitation and not willing to question the giant in tights, the hostess bustled off towards a room in the back of the restaurant. She returned and motioned to Rotundo. "Last door on the left. He said come on back."

Rotundo walked the full length of the buffet table, his cape flowing behind him, flesh bouncing rhythmically as his head played "Hair of the Dog." He rounded the corner and walked past the kitchen area, frantic with Asians, down a narrow hallway. He knocked forcefully on the last door on the left. A thick Chinese accent greeted him. Rotundo slowly opened the door and entered. A small figure sat behind a desk in the center of the room, face obscured by a gentle plume of smoke. "Take seat. How told me you come." Words came from the camouflage of smoke. Rotundo seated himself in a small chair facing the man.

"Then I suppose How told you what I require." Rotundo's poker face was as good as any.

"How told me many things. But I'm no How." The man's face became visible as he crushed out the cigarette.

"What exactly did How tell you about me, Mr. ehhhh?"

"Ren. Friend call me Wally. You call me Ren."

"Well then, Ren, what did he tell you?"

"He told me about the little deal you got worked out. Told me your price. But things gonna change around here. How was cook. I'm businessman." Ren looked squarely into Rotundo's black goggles.

"How must notta told you everything, then. You bein' a businessman and all. Seems like you would understand. You see, I'm a businessman too." Rotundo leaned back in his chair as he negotiated.

"You fat bully, das all. I deal with you like bully! You get no fee and neva come back!" Ren's face contorted with rage.

"Das all, huh? You really think it’s gonna be that easy, China Joe?" Rotundo spoke over the smaller man's simultaneous rantings. "How ever tell you about the time he didn't pay? He only made that mistake once." Rotundo remained composed.

"Go ahead! Eat buffet! Six ninety five! All you can eat. That go fa you too. Besides, I double MSG. Double profits. Eat all you want. You neva eat fifty dolla!"

"Fifty dollars? That's a bargain for you, my friend. I can eat double that in a week. I don't care how much MSG you load up with. You see, I got a strategy. And I don't eat no rice, neither. I'll eat a whole vat of just one thing at a time; all your beef and broccoli delight; all your sweet and sour pork; all your kung pao; all your imperial chicken. Every damn bit of it- a vat at a time. And I'll be here from eleven 'till one- eatin the whole time." Rotundo leaned forward as he spoke, his lips enunciating every word as if projecting them into the other man. "And don't think I won't eat all of your baby corn. I'll eat every damn bit of it- and your-"

"You no scare me! I come here on boat! I have police take you away! I ban you from restaurant!"

Rotundo sat back again and calmly replied: "You ever hear of fat discrimination? My lawyer says it's the hottest thing goin'. He's just chompin' at the bit for a case. You understand that, businessman?"

"You blackmail! Go! Eat food then! You eat hundred dolla, I still make big profit. Your time over, fat American pig!" Ren stood and pounded the table as he spoke.

Rotundo released the soul of the hotdog from the Purgatory of his bowls. Ren was forced back into the chair as a portion of the freed spirit entered his nose. He struggled to light another cigarette.

"Maybe you're missin' my point here, Wally." Rotundo's good cop side came out. You see, I can eat here every day for a month." He paused as he let out a belch with enough force to melt a polar ice cap. "I can summon those at will. Now you tell me, as a good businessman, are those yuppies waitin' out there in your lobby gonna wanna take a booth next to me? You think they're gonna wait in line at the buffet next to me? After I've been through a trough of food with my bare hands? How'll that be for your business, Wally? Now I was comin' in here to tell How that I was gonna have to raise the price on him- an adjustment for inflation. But just to show you how nice I am, I'm gonna hold the price at fifty- you bein' new and all. How's that for an offer you can't refuse?" Ren sat motionless as Rotundo finished his sales pitch.

"I give you forty. No more." Ren's reply was less animated than before.

"You say How told you lots of stuff, huh? Well, did he tell you about the time I had to use the crapper? Did he tell you about having to call the bomb squad? They shut this place down for a week. Couldn't pass sanitation inspection. Do you want that, Wally? Be honest with yourself. This can be just mine and your little secret. Tell How that you're not payin' me. As long as I get my money, I don't care."

Ren sat, sedate behind the desk. He scribbled something in Chinese on a small sheet of paper and handed it to Rotundo. "Take to hostess. She take care of you." Ren's face disappeared behind a plume of smoke.

"Pleasure doin' business with ya, Wally." Rotundo exited the room and walked back toward the lobby. He grabbed a handful of baby corn as he passed the buffet table and devoured it in one bite. He handed the note to the hostess and she immediately opened the cash register, producing a crisp fifty. She bowed respectfully as she handed the bill to Rotundo. Rotundo winked, placed the cash with the rest as he exited Dragon Palace and stepped back out onto the street. A new song began to play in his head as he started off for China Fun.