Monster's Chef (13 page)

“I need my medication!” she said, in a voice strained with need.

“What's wrong with you? What are you on?”

“Give it to me, don't make me beg!”

“Here,” I said, and handed her one of the four pills.

“I need them all,” she said.

“No, what if you overdose?”

“If I had enough, I would.”

“What is this shit?”

I looked at the bottle, trying to decipher what Monster had given her.

“Gibson, do you know what Monster is?”

“What do you mean, what he is?”

“You know.”

“What, that he's black? That's what he is, no matter how much he bleaches the color out of his skin.”

“I'm not talking about that. I know what Monster believes about race.”

“You do? I don't know if I care. It's probably as crazy as he is.”

“When he started out, he was black, but he changed. He became something else. He says he doesn't believe in race. Do you?” she asked eagerly.

It pained me to see her so fucked up. She was so gone, I wanted to humor her.

“It doesn't matter what I believe about race.”

“Monster isn't like you,” Rita replied.

I laughed. “That's good, I can live with that.”

“Monster did something to himself before I met him. It's worse now. That's another reason he wants me to leave. He doesn't want anyone to see what he's doing to himself.”

Listening so hard to her, I didn't notice the pills next to my leg on the bed disappear into her hand and then into her mouth.

“Hey,” I said, and tried to reach to take the pills, but she bit my hand, hard.

“Sorry,” she said as I rubbed my fingers.

“What are they?” I demanded.

“They keep me from getting hysterical. Monster can't stand for me to get hysterical. I end up writing him a blizzard of notes that he just balls up and throws into the trash.”

“Don't you ever just shout at him, call him an ass, and be done with it?”

She shook her head and smiled. “No, that wouldn't work. When I'm with him, I don't have words. No, not at all.”

“Why? I still don't understand how you could stand to be with him under those kinds of conditions.”

She laughed, running her hands through her hair.

“I don't know. Really, I don't. You know, you should come back to the mansion with me. Maybe you could talk sense to Monster, make him see what he's doing to himself.”

“I don't care about Monster; I care about what happens to you. I don't give a shit about Monster.”

“You'll think of something to help him. Make him see how he's hurting himself and me,” she said and, as if she was satisfied with her reasoning, she relaxed and leaned back into the bed, pulling me down on top of her. Her breasts felt good, and I moaned when she locked her legs around me and pushed me deeper in. Whatever she was on didn't stop her from making love like she meant it. It didn't leave me with a good feeling, knowing that she was as loaded as she was. Afterward, she fell into a hard, drug-induced sleep.

I put on my pants and stepped outside into the cool night to think.

“You must have liked that. She made you holler,” Thug said, silhouetted by brutal security lights. Perfectly comfortable admitting to overhearing our lovemaking, Thug hummed to himself as he leaned jauntily against the bungalow.

“You were listening?”

“Yeah, wouldn't you?”

“No,” I said. “I don't do that kind of shit.”

“Be a down brother and don't be hating 'cause you got issues.”

“I don't have issues with you, I just don't think it's cool to do shit like that.”

“I don't have a problem with it. I like listening to people fucking.”

Sick of talking to him, I turned to go back inside.

“She's got to come home now,” Thug said.

“Why don't you let her stay with me? I can take care of her.”

Thug laughed heartily.

“Gibson, man, don't get silly. It ain't smart. Homechick got serious white-girl issues, thinks the world owes her something, and she wants what she wants even if ain't no way in hell she getting that. Then you know she feels like a bitch who got taken advantage of, and she wants revenge. I know you know how deep that is.”

“I think I can help her.”

“You already helped her and me. She's sleeping so she must have taken her medication.”

Thug walked into the bungalow and came back with Rita slung over his shoulder.

“So, dog, tomorrow is your big day. You gonna be kicking it with Monster, eating that fucking uncooked food.”

“I cook for him, I don't have time to eat with him.”

Monster moved Rita to his other shoulder effortlessly, as though she were a ten-pound sack of potatoes.

“Naw, homeslice. Monster has another cook. He's got something new lined up for you. You out of the cooking game.”

Thug rolled up the window and the car raced away. I watched it for a while until I couldn't make out the headlights through the grove of eucalyptus trees. Maybe I couldn't have stopped him, but I could have tried, made a fuss about it, something.

I never thought of myself as being that much of a coward, until that moment.

But I was.

I DIDN'T SLEEP
the rest of the night. I wanted a drink, but I fought that desire down and settled for black tea loaded up with sugar, and sat by the kitchen window and watched the sun crawl above the mountains. I didn't deserve to see a beautiful sunrise because I was a contemptible piece of shit.

Monster could corrupt you by having you cook his meals, even something as uncomplicated as serving him dinner. Suddenly, you're implicated, part of the story arc, the narrative of his insanity. I didn't want to be in this story, but I was.

Covered in his filth, I didn't see any way out other than submerging myself totally in it. Maybe somehow I'd come out on the other end of the cesspool alive. And to believe that I'd survive, I had to have faith. I didn't have that kind of faith. If I had faith, I'd go right to the mansion and demand Monster explain what he was doing to his wife: speak truth to power. Or, if I wasn't capable of something that required courage, I should embrace being a coward and grab my belongings and head off this mountain back to civilization and away from Monster's influence. Rita wasn't totally crazy. I could feel myself being pulled under. It wasn't just her; I too was susceptible. Monster, gigantic in his influence, warped everything around him, and once in his orbit, you hopelessly spun down and down to crash.

Like cocaine, like heroin, like meth.

Weird, to think that Monster had somehow become my new drug and I was dependent on him as much as on any drug I had used. I wanted to be in his world, his sphere of influence, as though his superstar status was shared with me, would rub off on me, when in truth that was bullshit.

IN THE MORNING
, I arrived at the kitchen and was surprised to see a turbaned man, all in white, expertly chopping vegetables.

“I didn't know I was sharing my kitchen,” I said testily.

The tall, olive-skinned, bearded man smiled in spite of my challenge.

“Hello, pleased to meet you. I am Singh Kupuy,” he said in accented English.

“So, you're the new head chef?”

Singh nodded.

“I'm Gibson, the old head chef. I was told I'd be leaving the kitchen, but I didn't think that they would find a replacement so quickly.”

Singh's smile vanished.

“You didn't know that I was coming? They hired me over two months ago.”

“No, but it's not your fault. Working here is confusing. You never know exactly what's going on.”

“That's unfortunate,” he said, with genuine feeling.

“Yes, but it keeps things interesting,” I added and turned to leave. Then I remembered my set of knives. I didn't want to leave them. I started gathering the knives, and for a moment I worried that Singh might think I was maliciously disappearing things to make his new job more difficult, but I misjudged him.

“Those are very nice. Most of what I see here needs to be replaced.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I guess even me.”

“I am surprised. You were talked about with great respect. Particularly from Mr. Thug.”

“He would, that Mr. Thug is very surprising. But don't worry about me. I'm ready to move on.”

“I ate at your restaurant in New York, a few years ago. Very early dinner, I met your beautiful wife, she seated me, and you came over to greet me.”

“Really? I forgot that. What did you think?” I asked.

“I liked it very much. You had many good vegetarian dishes.”

“I can't take credit for that. My wife oversaw the vegetarian courses.”

“Well, the dishes were very enjoyable. I'm trying to bring some of your approach to spiritual eating to Monster's table.”

“That's commendable. Monster is an interesting person to cook for.”

“How did you come to work here?”

“Bad personal decisions. I'd go into it, but we don't have enough hours in the day.”

I grabbed up my knives and turned to leave.

“Good luck, my friend,” Singh said.

“Thank you, I need all the good luck I can get. And good luck to you too. I suspect you'll need it.”

SECURITY CAME THAT EVENING
as I fitfully dozed in an uncomfortable chair. I heard them on the creaky wooden steps and swung the door open so quickly that I startled the two of them. One stumbled backward; the other shone a bright light into my face. They relaxed when they could see I didn't have a butcher knife in my hand.

“Monster wants to see you,” the one with the flashlight said.

I glanced from one to the other. They did have physical differences; one's hair was a bit longer than a crew cut. Mostly Security was cut from the same cloth: tall and well built, white and fair-haired.

I shrugged. “I'm ready.”

“Turn around,” the one with the flashlight said.

“You turn around,” I answered.

“This is procedure, to blindfold and handcuff visitors.”

“Fuck you. I'm not going to submit to that.”

“It is up to you, but Monster requested that you see him.”

Security's voice sounded pretty much as they all did, modulated, without a hint of irritation.

I didn't have a choice if I wanted to find out what plans Monster had for me.

They led me to one of the golf cart things they zipped around Monster's Lair in. I turned and let one of them slip a hood over my face and bind my hands with plastic handcuffs.

“Ready?”

“What do you think?”

The way to Monster's mansion seemed wrong, and much longer than it should have taken.

“Where are you taking me?”

Neither responded.

The air felt different, stale, and we traveled on a smoother road.

“Don't be alarmed. We do this because Monster has had a number of threats on his life,” Security said after five minutes had passed. My heart beat like I had snorted a long line of coke. What if Monster turned out to be a cannibal or a zombie? A cook gets skewered, and Monster gets to chew on my liver.

Finally we stopped and one of them helped me off the golf cart and led me to a door where they finally freed my hands and took the hood off my head.

I blinked for a moment until my eyes focused.

I was in a cavernous room, empty of everything but a huge roaring fireplace, and in front of it was Monster gently rocking in a chair, cooing to a snugly wrapped baby nestled in his arms. He looked up and waved to Security.

“Bring Mr. Gibson a chair,” he said in his odd, girlish voice.

“I can stand,” I said.

Monster ignored me. Security hurried away and returned with a heavy leather thing that would have given me a groin pull to lift. He placed it a discreet distance from Monster and stepped away and stood there with his hands behind his back.

“Wait outside,” Monster said flatly.

Security turned on his heel. Monster watched him go and laughed lightly.

“Security is always so serious.”

I nodded, not knowing whether to laugh or what.

“So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Gibson. How has life at the Lair been treating you?”

I tried to respond, but suddenly I was caught up in a rage I didn't even know I felt, sitting across from him, a man who wore a fedora and sunglasses indoors; I wanted to shout, accuse him of everything that was wrong with Monster's Lair, that dead boy, and me.

I didn't trust myself to talk at that moment, not sure what would come out of my mouth.

“Relax,” he said, in a voice that seemed both gritty and childlike. “I know people get uncomfortable speaking to celebrities, but don't be nervous. Relax, we're family here.”

“Family? What happened with that dead boy? He had a family.”

Monster bolted upright, his sunglasses flew off, and he burst into a wail, an invitation for the baby to wake and join in the cacophony; tears flowed down Monster's cheeks, amazing in their intensity. To his credit, Monster did his best to calm the infant, singing a jagged lullaby and swaying gently. Finally the baby sighed with exhaustion and was quiet.

A door opened, and a nurse appeared and hurried over to take the baby from Monster's arms.

Once they were gone, Monster put his hands in his pockets and glared, his eyes black holes of malice, his face stained with mascara.

“I don't know what happened to Ronnie. He was my good friend and he died.”

“Yeah, I know he died. I saw his body, his blue face.”

“I loved Ronnie like a son,” he said, defiantly. “I would never do anything to harm him.”

“No one's accusing you,” I said, throwing oil onto the fire.

Monster leaped up, shouting: “Why did that have to happen? Oh, God!”