Monster's Chef (2 page)

Far and hard—Lucifer had nothing on me. Being broke is like having a bloody mouth and loose teeth, and there's not a thing you can do about it except stand it.

How does that song go? “You spell New York with a nickel, dime, and fork, cocaine, Jim,” something like that. But I'm not judging. I thought I could master my high. I wish I'd had the courage to stay in the city, for everyone to see me living in a halfway house, trying to reassemble the remaining shards of my self-respect. What if I ran into her, Elena, my wife? It's wrong to say that, we're more divorced than married, but far as I'm concerned she still is. Funny how memory works; when you don't fill it with anything new, it replays what maybe you don't want replayed. My mind replays Elena.

Short, with hair like the blackest ink, strong legs and ass, a delicate face; almost Japanese, like a geisha in an ukiyo-e print; and passionate about love and making money and everything else, passionate about hating me. I still love her, though it's hopeless to think she'll ever love me again. I want her back more than the restaurant, a reputation, everything, but it will never happen, not in this life and not in the next. Left with nothing other than to lie in bed and think about what I've done, hurt the woman I love and lost her; didn't consider the consequences back then, didn't have bouts of guilt, didn't consider anything. It was about me, about what's good for the head. You know, the head. A selfish bitch, that's the truth about me. About me, that's all it ever was; my love was a fraud, my professionalism a joke, my self-respect delusion.

And I'll never get it back. You'd think I'd find the courage to do something dramatic, maybe kill myself or find God, but no, I indulged in self-pity while waiting to be saved from myself.

ELENA PARTIED HARD
, but you know it didn't get to her. She did it all—heroin, coke, ecstasy—but when she was through with it, she was through. Maybe it was yoga or the StairMaster, but mostly it was because Elena wanted a baby, and she's that type of person. So directed and focused that she didn't stop to think that the rest of the world, and by that I mean me, might not be able to live the way she managed to. It took forever for her to see that I had a weakness. Never raised an eyebrow when, after sharing a few lines, I excused myself to go to the bathroom to do a few more lines. She even laughed when she saw me fumbling to put everything away, hastily brushing white powder from my face, more evidence of my lack of control. It was funny in a way. She should have noticed that I was craving, fiending, whatever you want to call it. I had started my downward journey, my decline; in it to win it, a new life consisting of one long sustained need to stay high.

My recollection of conversations with Elena replay themselves and I listen to myself ruin my marriage.

AFTER THAT SHE MOVED IN
with a friend and refused to talk to me, but that particular humiliation didn't sting much because later that week at court I pled guilty and was sentenced to nine months in a minimum-security prison.

In some sense I was happy to be going, having done enough damage to my self-esteem that I wanted to crawl away into a corner and wait for the room to stop spinning. And, when it did, I woke up to the humiliation of getting processed, prepared, prepped, and more to go to the place to do my time. My only regret is that I wasn't high during that humiliation.

The days inside prison weren't totally unpleasant; they had a good enough library, and I spent time lifting weights for the first time in my life. That's it, I thought, do positive things for yourself while incarcerated and avoid being raped, but in a minimum-security prison the only thing I had to worry about was getting athlete's foot in the shower.

I had hoped to hear from Elena at some point, but after months passed, I began to wonder if I would. After I was released and moved to the halfway house, she wrote and said she would be coming to visit for me to sign divorce papers—that I later learned she didn't file.

I tried not to allow those words to rise to the surface. I waited with far too much hope on that moment when she'd appear at the door of the halfway house to be shown inside by one of the workers, who would sign her in and bring me out to sit across from her on the worn couch. Me, smiling stupidly, thinking, feverishly hoping, that her seeing me again would jar something loose and make her want to forget about the divorce. It was what it was, paperwork.

She wore all black. Tight wool skirt and a sweater that looked good on her. But she kept her arms crossed, probably remembering how much I liked her small breasts.

I don't think she ever smiled. Talked to me about some issues, bankruptcy, insurance policy. Nothing I was interested in; I was interested in her, but that was dead.

I was dead to her.

She took it personally, like I had rejected her for cocaine, but it wasn't like that.

How did she ask it?

“How could you be so fucking stupid? Getting yourself arrested buying heroin on the subway?”

I shrugged. I guess if it were the first time, she might have been able to excuse it, but it wasn't. To this day I don't know how stupid I am. I don't think I've plumbed the depths of my stupidity, and when I do, I plan to get back to her. I'll have charts and graphs, a PowerPoint demonstration. I ruined my life, I know that; the last thing I wanted to do was betray her, but I was good at that too, excelled at it even.

ASHA, THE WOMAN
who ran the halfway house, realized I could cook South Asian. Being Gujarati, she was surprised that I made a better
bhindi
-spiced eggplant than her mother. She discovered that I could stay in seclusion in a sweltering kitchen, cooking meals for the dozen or so parolees who lived at the halfway house. I labored away in silent grief, working with old vegetables, day-old bread, not much meat (which pleased Asha because she didn't like the smell), some chicken, beans, lots of beans. I came up with meal after meal through backbreaking efficiency and invention. When I wasn't cooking, I cleaned. I scoured that kitchen, boiled water, added cupfuls of caustic soap, cleaned the filthy ceiling, cleaned everything. Made it spotless, and kept it that way as long as I was there, my six months climbing out of the black hole of my life.

Cooking and cleaning and not thinking were meditative balms. I hated when thoughts slithered in on their own and had their way with me. Grief caught me slipping; I needed to see her; thought of leaving, blowing the whole thing off, my contract with the halfway house staff, to make a run to see her, force her to listen to me. But then I'd go to prison and I had sense enough to know I didn't want that.

Maybe I might have tried, maybe prison would have been worth it, if I could get her to listen to me, but I had no words left to beg with. I was out of prayers and I was sick of lighting candles to the patron saint of hopeless causes.

She was gone; maybe here, probably in some other city.

“It's for the best,” my caseworker said when I confessed why I wouldn't talk in therapy.

“It's not about the drugs. It's about losing my wife.”

“Drugs are why you lost her. You drove her away.”

I cried then, in front of that fool. I stopped talking to him after that. Before that I felt like maybe he was okay. I was wrong. Up until that moment, I didn't want to do cocaine again. I really was through with it. And then the cravings started and the fiction that kept me alive, that the drug did me and that I didn't do the drug, fluttered away and I couldn't hide from my fiendishness.

Trying to avoid contact with my fellow losers at the halfway house, I took to mincing cloves of garlic, like garlic would keep everyone at bay, as though they were vampires, vampires that suck smoke instead of blood. It worked; they kept their distance, except for Asha; I was her reclamation project. I accepted her good intentions, but I didn't want to be drawn out or in, or anywhere. I wanted to stay lost. Alone would be good, but I had to get with the Twelve Step program, show requisite progress to get these people out of my life. Still, Asha was pleasant and charming, with big, luminous eyes that were easy to look into. Good thing she didn't go for men because our friendship would have been much more complicated. Finally, I explained a little about myself, and so when she came into the kitchen with this look on her face, I knew I had probably said too much.

“What's wrong?”

“You! I read about you.”

“What? That I'm a fuckup? You already knew that.”

She shook her head.

“Yeah, I made a mess of what most people think was a promising career.”

“Don't you miss that life? Running that restaurant, cooking?”

“I don't know. I guess I do.”

“My girlfriend works for this famous entertainer. She says he needs a chef.”

I raised an eyebrow in spite of myself.

“I wouldn't get past the interview,” I said.

“She's crazy about me and listens to what I have to say. If you're interested, you'd have a shot.”

“I'll think about it,” I said without a hint of enthusiasm. I wondered why she wanted to go out of her way for me; she was more than clever enough to notice I was a fuckup. It had to be her nature, trusting and giving, and maybe a bit naive, coupled with being smart about people and hard-nosed about the everyday affairs of running the halfway house. I guess that's what you need in her line of work, skills that contradict one another. Strange how a woman, young and attractive, would choose social work—running a halfway house must be like hanging around unflushed toilets all day—when she could choose so many more attractive occupations. Maybe she wanted to be a Hindu Mother Teresa and if she could drag me back to respectability, she'd be one giant step closer to sainthood.

THE INTERVIEW WAS AT THE TRUMP PLAZA
, at this overblown, overhyped restaurant that only idiots thought anything of.

Bridget, Asha's girlfriend, was a thin blonde who wore a short skirt, though I could see the first flurries of snow falling from the gray sky.

“I hate New Jersey,” I said.

Bridget laughed. I didn't mean for it to be funny.

“So, you had that cute restaurant in the Village.”

I smiled. “I don't know about it being so cute,” I said.

“I loved that place,” she said.

“I did too, but not enough.”

“Really? How so?”

“When I think about it, maybe I didn't care for it.”

Bridget nervously tapped a fork against her water glass.

“Gibson is a fantastic cook,” Asha said. She glanced at me and probably could tell I was near tears.

“What happened?” Bridget asked.

I shrugged, and Asha took over. She leaned over and began to whisper to Bridget. Asha wore this loose-fitting, burnished-gold tunic; her dark skin and hair looked even richer against the paleness of Bridget's skin and hair. As she whispered, whatever resistance Bridget had toward me faded. Bridget was totally smitten with Asha, and when she took her hand, she was transported.

I was almost embarrassed to see how much she was taken with Asha.

“Listen,” Bridget said, loud enough for me to hear. “I'll tell you the bottom line. We have a hard time getting quality people up on the mountain.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“It's a tough job, the type of job for a particular person who wants to be in a beautiful place and needs privacy. It's very private there.”

“You mean isolated?”

“I call it very private. You can call it what you like.”

“Isolated. I don't mind isolation. I don't mind it at all.”

“Do you know who Lamont Stiles is?”

I shook my head.

“You've heard of Monster Stiles?” Bridget asked.

“He's that singer?”

“He doesn't do much of that anymore. He's more of a producer, with three acts at the top of the charts. Everything he touches is bling; his clothing line made millions last year, and this year it's expected to double in sales.”

“When you say ‘bling,' you mean . . . ?”

“Beyond priceless. You had to have heard of that expression.”

“Yeah, but I never used it.”

She looked at me as if she had already made up her mind about me.

“So, Mr. Stiles needs a chef?” I asked.

“He prefers to be called Monster. He fancies himself the monster of music, of cutting-edge fashion, of life.”

“Monster it is.”

Bridget laughed. “I like how direct you are.”

Her face hardened. We were going to get down to it. “You need to understand how this works. If you repeat this to anyone, I'll get fired and you'll get sued.”

I laughed. “Listen, I'm on parole. If I don't jump through hoops, I go to jail.”

She nodded and smiled at me after Asha patted her hand.

“This might be hard to believe, but many people aren't comfortable on the mountain. It takes a special person, someone who really enjoys quiet and his own company. The perfect candidate for this job loves nature, because that's where you are, in the clouds. It's God's most beautiful, pristine country. That's what Monster loves about it, he's above it all, but people get lonely for their families, for life outside of the Lair. Plus, well, Monster is demanding. He says that about himself.”