Thomas D. Rutabaga and the Covert Camera

I finally had video evidence–the incriminating footage that would tarnish the legacy of Thomas D. Rutabaga and show the world exactly what kind of predatory pussy-grabber he was. Trudy insisted that I delete the video, but it was my prerogative. I was the Daily Quotidian’s lead camera operator, after all. And I wanted to see for myself the transgressions of this dirty old man.

I’d devised a masterful plan to catch the slimeball in action. I chose a particularly small room in the Quotidian office for the interview and positioned the chairs quite close to one another, encouraging physical contact between the interviewer and -ee. I even bought a bottle of Pure Instinct pheromone spray and clouded the room with the stuff. I then made sure that a covert camera would continue recording even when official filming of the interview had halted. I will admit I felt a bit unsavory putting Trudy in such a position with a sexual predator, but this was bigger than Trudy. This was about the truth. This was about acknowledging the goings-on behind Rutabaga’s legacy. This was about preventing future women from finding the same fate as my sister.

Maria had served as Rutabaga’s personal assistant for exactly three months to the day about four years prior to the interview. My younger sister was a tireless worker and passionate business aficionado who took a secretarial job that was quite frankly beneath her for the sole purpose of learning from her local role model, Tommy Rutabaga, whose invention of 2011’s parenting must-have Toddle Sticks sparked a diverse portfolio of jackpot business ventures. She idolized the guy, thought he was the greatest product of New Jersey since sweet corn. At one point she had his picture up on the inside of her closet door and only ever took it down because we started making jokes about it at the dinner table. But after just three months–to the day–with Rutabaga, my sister came home to my mother’s house in tears. She had quit her job working alongside her idol. She wouldn’t say why or talk about much of anything at all for three days prior to slitting her own wrists in a bathtub full of diluted cranberry juice, the latter detail neither my family nor the shrinks could figure out.

But the root cause wasn’t difficult to peg, no. We’ve heard this story before. A young woman looks up to a man, a Baron Harkonnen-type golden-ager, for his bright ideas and cutthroat business mentality. The man brings her into his inner circle but is so entitled as to expect reciprocation however he sees fit. The woman, who was so naive as to assume she’d been hired based solely on merit, opposes his advances, but the man gets angry, that patented Harkonnen cruelty comes to a boil, and the young woman has no choice but to quit in shame, wondering if it was her fault, her doing; wondering if her entire future as a businesswoman is tainted by her promiscuous beginnings in the field.

And so now it was the day of reckoning for the man. Trudy had landed an interview with Rutabaga, the once-reclusive magnate who had of late begun a public-relations blitz to promote his sudden and expansive philanthropic efforts. His recent interviews had been unusual, to say the least–some of the most uncomfortable, one-sided sexual tension since John Hinckley’s letters to Jodie Foster. And now this creep was on my turf in front of my cameras. It was my opportunity, after all these years, to draw the old man into a pervert trap and exact justice for my dear sister.

“I’m ecstatic for this opportunity to sit with you today,” he said to Trudy as he placed his fat, age-spotted hand on her knee because like where else would he put it? “You’ve done some marvelous work.”

“Thank you,” she replied, eyes down and sighing at how comfortable she’d become with the present situation.

“The camera’s rolling,” I chimed in, forcing the withdrawal of Rutabaga’s heat-seeking hand. “You can get started.”

“Are we ready?” Trudy asked Rutabaga.

Rutabaga wiped a few beads of sweat from his bald scalp with a handkerchief and said, “Assuredly, sweetheart.”

“Alright.” Trudy took a deep breath, adjusted her prepared materials, and faced the far camera. She was a handsome blonde, ever-serious, the type of woman guys stare at all night from across the bar without ever even considering an attempt to say so much as hello for fear that she might spurn their advances in emasculating fashion. “Good evening from the Daily Quotidian. My name is Trudy Curtis, and–”

“Excuse me, Trudy, but ‘Curtis’–this name, it doesn’t quite suit you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Names are important, Trudy. They convey so much about a person, subconscious inferences. We as humans can’t help it. You’re more a…hmm…Trudy Pomegranate. How’s that sound?”

“That’s–well, that’s fine. If we could just get to the interview…”

“Introduce yourself as such.”

“Excuse me?”

“Introduce yourself to the audience as Trudy Pomegranate. Please.”

Trudy was speechless.

“A beautiful girl like yourself, so sweet and smooth on the outside, firm and determined on the inside. Like those delectable little pomegranate seeds. We must convey this to your audience.”

“We need her to say her real name, Mr. Rutabaga,” I told him, talking purely out of my ass. “It’s a legal thing, out of our hands.”

“Always been a shame,” said Rutabaga, “what our self-imposed rules do to a beautiful girl’s sense of soul.”

“Is it okay if I start the interview now, Mr. Rutabaga?”

“By all means, go ahead.”

“Good evening from the Daily Quotidian. My name is Trudy Curtis, and here alongside me is local businessman Thomas D. Rutabaga, a man you may not know but to whom you’ve probably given money at some point over the past decade. Mr. Rutabaga, how are you this evening?”

“I’m doing well, Ms. Pomegranate, but I’d be doing better if you’d be so kind as to call me Tommy.”

“Sure thing, Tommy, as long as you’ll call me Trudy.”

“I suppose that is acceptable.”

“Now, what better place to start than your first golden goose, Toddle Sticks, a series of fun and unique measuring sticks parents use to show the physical growth of their children on social media. Sales reports cross-referenced with hospital data suggest that you’ve sold more Toddle Sticks than children were born in New Jersey over the past ten years, is that correct?”

“I’m not sure of the exact numbers, Ms. Pomegranate. In fact, mathematics is not something with which I much concern myself. I’m more right-brained–a romantic, if you will. They say we feel more deeply and thus love more deeply, us right-brained men. Have you ever been with a right-brained man?”

“I…um, I can’t say I’m sure. So how were you able to convince so many people that they needed your stick? A Toddle Stick, that is.”

“Love. That’s really all it is. You have to love the product and love the consumer. Tenderness. In all facets of life.”

“Okay, um, could you perhaps put that in business terms for any aspiring entrepreneurs at home?”

“Sure. It’s all about finding a balance between trend and individuality. People want to both fit in and stand out. And, of course, parents love plastering their children all over any platform that has a like button. So behold, the Toddle Stick: Participate in the latest trend while also flaunting your child’s favorite television character, mom’s favorite singer, dad’s favorite football team, whatever. I have a real way with children, you know. I’m very paternal.”

“I see. At sixty-two years old, you don’t fit the typical prototype of a social media dynamo. What is it about your business acumen that allowed you to leverage social platforms to increase your sales?”

“My sweet Ms. Pomegranate. If anything, this all goes to show that age is just a number, no? I may be–what was it, fifty-two?–but the deeper you dig, the closer you get, the younger I seem.”

“I’m sure, Tommy. I’m sure. So you’ve now parlayed your earnings from Toddle Sticks into, what exactly?”

“Countless ventures. I probably couldn’t list them all, to be perfectly honest. I personally enjoy the restaurant industry–you’ve no idea the luxury of eating in a restaurant that you own. You should come sometime. I’d be honored. A room in the back, private, candlelit. You wouldn’t spend a dime or even lift a finger. I’d–”

“I’m not sure our viewers are interested in our dinner plans, Tommy.”

“So what then? Perhaps you’d like to hear about my scholarship fund, assisting bright students who can’t afford college tuition.”

“That’s a great talking point, Tommy.”

“Note my generous nature, Ms. Pomegranate. You’ll find it apparent in the news, in my checkbook, and behind closed doors, if you catch my–”

“I’ve noticed, Tommy, that of your many philanthropic efforts, nearly all of them aid families struggling financially. Why are financial troubles of such particular interest to you?”

“I’m just trying to give back, as any sensitive man would. A businessman must make a few deals with the devil to succeed, and if he doesn’t atone, he’ll remain in the devil’s grasp till the bitter end.”

“Deals with the devil–you speak as if you’ve committed a crime.”

“Not technically speaking, Ms. Pomegranate. But remember, the law is written by crooks, so immorality is able to operate within its confines. Fate, of course, does not care whether America acquits me of sin. I must cleanse myself in the eyes of the universe, lest it tear down all I love and live for.”

“That’s…quite eloquent, Tommy.”

“Again, Ms. Pomegranate, I am a romantic. Marvel not at my eloquence, but take pleasure in my courtship.”

Trudy, eyes at the floor, shook her head, but she did so while, for the first time all day, smiling.

Rutabaga took the opportunity to force a laugh and sneak a hand in for a pat on Trudy’s knee. He was as close as he’d get, and his dumb ass actually thought he had a chance. This was the moment.

“This damn camera,” I said. “Sorry, I haven’t been recording for a few minutes. I can’t figure out why. Let me take this upstairs and see if anyone knows what’s up. I’ll only be fifteen minutes or so.”

And I left Trudy with Rutabaga, the covert camera still rolling.

***

Trudy was packing up when I returned. Rutabaga must have been more aggressive than I’d even imagined he could be. That sick man.

“We’re not going to finish the interview,” Trudy told me. “Something came up. We just–we’ll do it some other time.”

“Trudy,” I whispered consolingly, “what happened? You can talk to me about it.”

“I’m sorry. I really can’t. Just let it go, trust me.”

My sister had said the same thing.

Rutabaga was slouched in his chair, defeated.

“What did you do to her?” I asked.

Rutabaga looked up without raising his head like a puppy who just pissed on the rug.

“He didn’t do anything,” Trudy said. “Just let it go.”

“Fine. Stay quiet. I don’t need you two anyhow. I’ve got it all on tape.” I swiped the SD card from my covert camera.

“You were filming us?” Rutabaga asked.

“Jesus,” said Trudy. “What kind of–”

“I knew you’d be up so something while I was gone, you dirty old man. You’ve been up to something for a while now, haven’t you? Hiding from the media in the shadows, preying on young girls.”

“That’s a baseless accusation!”

“Let it go!”

“Do you remember my sister Maria? Or have you chewed up and spit out so many assistants that you can’t tell one from the other.”

“I didn’t know Maria was your sister.” Rutabaga looked down, rolled his thumbs around one another. “Ambitious girl. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“You better be! If not for you she’d still be alive!”

“Please,” Trudy said. “Whatever happened in the past, that video has nothing to do with it. Please delete it.”

“And spoil my chance to bury this pervert? Ha!”

With the SD card clenched securely in my fist, I ran from the interview room down the hall and out to my car, which I drove quickly down a few roads and into my driveway, where I nearly slipped on some ice as I scurried up the walkway to my front door. I popped the card into an SD reader and sat at my desk, anxious and excited. I was finally going to see the truth, confirm my suspicions, get some sense of closure before outing Rutabaga as the monster he was.

“The audience is gone,” he said to Trudy.

“…”

“We’re free to discuss our dinner plans.”

“Ah, you’re correct.” Trudy switched her crossed legs. “I’m going to cook up a bowl of red quinoa with mixed vegetables and eat it in bed while I watch the news. How about yourself?”

“What do you know? I was planning to do the same exact thing. Maybe we could–”

“I’d hold it right there, Tommy, before you hurt yourself.”

“Well, at the very least, you could join me at Le Fou’fou. It’s excellent, exclusive, and I can get the chefs to cook you anything you’ve ever wanted to taste.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come now, I saw that smile on your face. Men don’t make you smile often, do they?”

“More than you’d think.”

“More than me? The generous, right-brained romantic who defied the age gap and stole your love?”

“Look, you’re…interesting, and your charity portfolio warms my heart, but it’s not going to happen.”

“Nothing’s ever enough.”

The shitty part of being a bombshell. Trudy tautened her pencil skirt and prepared for the backlash of the rejection.

“I’m disingenuous anyway, Ms. Pomegranate–the charities, the philanthropy. You’d have found out soon enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“An ill-fated attempt to lift the curse, to loosen the devil’s grasp of my spine.”

“That…really isn’t any more clear.”

“I had happiness in the palm of my hand, Ms. Pomegranate, yet I was never happy.”

“You’re going to need to elaborate a little bit, Tommy.”

“Alright, well, I grew up on a bog in the Pinelands, right? I fell in love with the daughter of my father’s business partner. Maude. Beautiful name, no? We were stuck there, Maude and I, on the bog. Couldn’t take a step left or right without squishing a cranberry. But we had each other. We’d walk around the bog, wade into the water sometimes, talk. Just talk, hours of it on end. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone when we announced our engagement. In fact, when my father heard the news, he said, ‘Again?’

“But we had different ideas, Maude and I. The bog was her home, her fate. She wanted to run it as our parents did, and their parents before them. But I didn’t see the beauty in the bog. I saw it for what it was on the surface; I saw it in plain terms–just a bog. I didn’t see between the vines, if you will. And so I dreamed of bigger things. I dreamed of what you have there in your notes: my business portfolio.”

“It’s natural to have aspirations, Tommy.”

“But the thing is, Ms. Pomegranate, that I promised Maude those aspirations were behind me, that I was happy on the bog. And I held true to my promise for twenty years of marriage. We took over operations from our parents and ran the bog well, but in my middle age–a mid-life crisis, you might say–I again yearned for more. I began designing business plans, products, and so on, burning the midnight oil while my wife slept under the assumption that I lay beside her in bed. And after a few years, I finally had an idea I knew could be a hit–I had Toddle Sticks.”

“I’m still not seeing the problem here, Tommy.”

“I pitched my idea to Maude, and she gave in, said it was my turn to live my dream–as if I didn’t already have all I could ever ask for. And so we sold the bog to a cousin. Startup money, you know. And it worked! It worked miraculously. Toddle Sticks made more money in a year than the bog made in ten. But that didn’t console Maude, an outcast in the suburbs of New York City. The only thing that did console her was liquor.

“And so I promised we’d visit my cousin at the bog every October for harvest, when the land is flooded, air is cool, and berries are ripe for picking. The most wonderful time of the year for any cranberry farmer. But it was a mere gesture on my part, for I remained absorbed in my work. I paid little attention to the bog, my wife, our traditions. And so one night, late, I was working, as usual, and Maude wanted to take a walk by the bog. She didn’t ask me if I wanted to join, of course–she knew what the answer would be–but I knew she’d have loved for me to join. That didn’t matter to me, not then.

“I woke up alone the next morning. I roamed the empty house and walked down to the bog. There was already a scene. No one is quite sure what happened, but they ruled it asphyxiation, drowning. There was a great deal of alcohol in her blood when her heart stopped pumping. She was buried drunk.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. But it’s not your fault. It’s a terrible thing, but it’s not your fault.”

“Oh, but it is, Ms. Pomegranate. I brought on a curse–a curse intent on punishing me while I reveled in my spoils. See, I had a blessed life on the bog, but I let vanity gain control of me–pride, greed, lust for what I thought might be better. And to what did my vanity lead me? A life peddling products to feed the vanity of consumers. I gave in to vanity to promote vanity, and now I’m sentenced to eternal misery.”

“You didn’t do anything any other businessman wouldn’t do.”

“But then why am I the one who’s been punished? Why did my wife drift helplessly into the shadows of Hell? Why did my romantic disinterest in my assistant, whom I’d come to adore, prompt her to slit her wrists? Why has my happiness waned each day since I sold the bog? Even now, during my attempt at atonement, as I form and bolster charitable efforts, the curse has taken my virility, my masculinity, if you understand my meaning.”

“Yes, no need to go into it, please.”

“I remain at the mercy of the universe. I was never like this, this man you met today. But I can’t help it all of a sudden. I chase my virility without relent. I have nothing to lose, after all. All that I love has been taken from me–all but my business portfolio, Ms. Pomegranate, and that is no consolation for the tragedy that is my life.”

“I’m sorry. I hope I’m not out of line, but I’m not quite sure what you’re doing here. An interview won’t solve your problems, Tommy. You need some kind of help–a professional to talk to.”

“No shrinks, Ms. Pomegranate. The soothsayers have come up empty as well. But you are right. These interviews, they are futile–a misguided attempt to break free of a curse that has consumed my past, present, and future.”

They both fell into silence. Trudy placed her hand on Rutabaga’s knee.

I got a phone call, paused the video. My boss wanted me to head to the Pulaski Skyway, off which Thomas D. Rutabaga had fallen on his way home from his interview with the Daily Quotidian.