Whacking Piñatas
The Mexican Fast Food King discovers an anti-American plot.
One brave American stands against the rising tide of socialism.
Harvey McMillan never asked to be the most-hated man in America. It was very unfair. Harvey was known to be a tenacious, straight-shooting, church-going, thrifty and extremely wealthy man. He was proud to be the King of Mexican Fast Food. His father had bought out the brand when Harvey was just a teen. And he had taken over when dad had his third heart attack while honeymooning with his third wife. He had expanded and nearly quintupled the original 30 restaurants.
The Whacking Piñata was his passion. And Harvey, as all his employees knew, was a stickler for details.
So one day, when he was being driven past one of his chains — The Whacking Piñata on Liberty Street, Harvey saw something that really pissed him off.
It was a promotional sign in the window. “Free Piñata with every meal!”
“Who the hell approved that?” he yelled. “Pedro!”
“It’s Paco, Sir.”
“Pull over, Pedro!”
If Harvey had a governing philosophy it could be summarized by the phrase: “There are no free piñatas.” You gotta wait till your birthday. And then you gotta buy em. If we gave away every piñata that would be chaos. Who is gonna papier-mâché the animals? Who is gonna stick on the confetti? Who its gonna wrap the candy and stuff the candy and seal the plug on the goddam donkey butt?
“You’ve got a point, Mr. McMillan.”
“Thank you, Pedro.”
A skinny brown manager approached the red-faced man who was shaking his fist at the Free Piñata banner.
“Is there a problem, Sir?”
“Yer goddamn right there’s a problem! I want that sign down. Pronto!”
“My name Frank,” he said, extending his hand.
“I don’t care if it’s Guacamole. That sign comes down now or this is your last day of work, Paco.”
“I own this establishment.”
That gave him a short pause. “You mean you franchise it.”
“Yes.”
“WELL. I am the man who you bought that franchise from. I created The Whacking Piñata!”
“It is an honor to meet you, Sir. May I shake your hand?”
“Sure.”
“My family saved for many years, and we all worked very hard in the fields by Saginaw. We picked the strawberries, many strawberries to save and buy this establishment. My family thanks you. We are proud owners. And our customers love us. We are 10 years All-Michigan Top Ten.”
“I know the Merit System. I created it.”
“Sir, you seem upset about something. You don’t like our sign?”
“It is an abomination to the free market! If we gave everyone free piñatas there would be chaos!”
“And many happy children.”
“I’m saying it would destroy the whole system!”
“Sir.” The man began a shrugging explanation. “They are mini-piñatas. Edible. You crack them — POP. The children laugh. The candy comes out. No mess. Everything is edible. Everybody is happy.”
“You’re missing the point. If everyone was given a piñata every time they wanted one…”
After a bit, Frank said, “Yes?”
But Harvey McMillan was cogitating.
He was imagining a world where everyone ate at his Whacking Pinanta restaurants. And nobody paid. The customers would fill their faces, refill their lemonades, and take extra napkins. The staff would be tardy and lax and finally quit because no one paid them. The suppliers would stop delivering the ground beef, the mole, the lettuce and the taco shells. The city would turn the lights off. One by one his great chain of Mexican restaurants would be shuttered and they would squat for years as ridiculous eyesores in all 142 locations in the midwest. He would be mocked. His friends would tease him on the golf course. And worse. Unimaginably worse: He would be destitute. He would only be able to live off the profits of his franchises for 300 years. Give or take. Okay, so he would not be destitute, but it was the Principle of the thing.
“Sir?” said Frank.
Harvey McMillan saw as clear as the clear blue sky: This was the end of America. Free Piñatas was the Trojan horse of creeping Socialism.
Free Piñatas. Next they would want Free Citizenship. Free land. Free College. Free Healthcare. Where would it end?
It would end with free tacos, that’s where. And Harvey McMillan could not abide that.
“Are you well, Sir?”
If there was one thing that Harvey McMillan excelled at, it was making a plan. This plan was profound in its simplicity. First, he would issue a ban on franchise giveaways. Next he would buy up every piñata-making enterprise in the Americas. True, this would take a heavy investment. But, he estimated, quite correctly that such a market was narrow and sure enough, there were only three manufacturers who specialized in party favors. All were in Mexico City. And with a modest 10% of his wealth he was able to purchase them, turn them over into loans upon their equity and let them bankrupt on those loans and keep his profits. His crack team of investment bankers were able to sniff out any roque piñata makers and quickly, buy out their inventory. In no time at all, Harvey McMillan became the secret Piñata Dragon who rested upon his pile of candy and waited for the world to notice.
It did not take long. “Where are all the piñatas?” one headline queried. News segments ran charming human interest reports about dying native traditions. Apparently the endangered species of piñata was ho, ho, ho, no longer seen in the wild. One investigative reporter from Akron went so far as to catalogue the death of the piñata business. When he ambushed Harvey’s lawyer about their disappearance, the lawyer cleared his throat, and read a brief paragraph that Harvey had personally written.
“The Piñata is an anachronism. A trifle from a bygone era. Its charms were obvious, but it’s dangers well hidden. Consider the high cost of cavities in the mouths of our children. Taffy is rated by the American Dental Association as the single most lethal weapon against healthy teeth and gums ever smuggled into our children’s diet. If we are tempted to feel nostalgic about a messy children’s tradition, let us remind ourselves, that as a sober, commonsensical, Christian nation, the easy way has never been our way. A free piñata is a trojan horse of cavities.”
“Free piñatas?” the astute reporter asked.
But Harvey’s lawyer would slam shut the maroon leather notebook containing the final statement, and the interview would be over.
Yes. Even if he became the most-hated man in America, America would learn to live without the piñata.
It was a small price to pay for the survival of the free market, the Christian family, and the pure, unfettered European entrepreneurial spirit of the American dream.
Harvey woke in a marigold orange booth in the Whacking Piñata on Liberty street. A cool washcloth lay pleasantly against his forehead. He was surrounded by a sea of brown faces in various states of concern.
“He’s back,” said the manager (whose name he could not remember) “We can return to business.”
“I’ll bring him a lemonade,” said a pretty young worker.
“Thank you, Juanita,” said the manager.
An older woman kissed the silver cross on her necklace and smiled and returned to her booth.
Harvey took in all the kindness and goodwill around him. Complete strangers were fussing over his welfare — not a common occurrence. Even his driver — damn what was his name? — was standing by, looking worried.
“You had quite a spell, Boss.”
Harvey was persuaded to drink the lemonade. Obviously, it was a non-conforming variation on the franchise formula which they sometimes allowed in fringe urban areas. The drink was exceptional, astonishing and renewing. He drank the lemonade down, savored the lingering grace notes on his tongue, burped a satisfying burp, and asked for another.
“Cactus,” said the store manger Frank, proudly. “Very refreshing.”
“Cactus?”Harvey said. “Cactus??” For a moment the idea seemed, unsavory, unnatural, foreign even. He wondered if such an addictive menu item might be illegal. Or worse: Costly. “Is that…extra?” he asked.
The brown manager smiled. “No, no, no, no, Sir. It is free.”
The heart attack that killed Harvey McMillan at that moment was sudden and painless, but after the shrieks and panic had died down even his long-time driver (whose name you have forgotten) had to admit that he had never seen the old son of a bitch look happier.