“It must be difficult working with people like that.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have a clue. You need to see these dogs in action. Slavery is still in effect.”
Monster paused and looked at me.
“Yeah, get ready, we’re flying to LA at noon,” he said.
“Los Angeles? You want me to go to Los Angeles with you?”
“Yes. I need you. Thug isn’t back and I need another set of eyes.”
“Okay,” I said, wishing I knew what I was getting myself into. Monster rushed out of the kitchen as if his stocking-covered hair was on fire.
AFTER I PREPARED BREAKFAST and sent it up, I wondered if I should have lunch ready for Monster and this trip to Los Angeles. I decided to be safe and not sorry, and made spring rolls and a fruit salad and wondered whether to stay in the kitchen or to wait out front by the driveway. I changed into a black turtleneck and washed my face. It just seemed silly to wait outside with a wicker basket to catch a ride with Monster, like some bedraggled day laborer. I stepped out of the restroom and glanced at my watch: ten to noon and I still couldn’t decide what to do.
The door to the kitchen opened and Security entered, the tall one. He gestured for me to follow him. I started to, and then he noticed my basket.
“What’s in there?” he asked gruffly.
“Monster’s lunch.”
“You have cutlery in there?”
“I have one knife to cut fruit and some forks. Is that a problem?”
Security squinted for a second, then turned away and called someone on his walkie-talkie for a short but intense conversation, then turned back to me.
“Leave it. We have serving utensils.”
I shrugged and placed the knife on the cutting block. Then Security gestured for me to hand him the basket. He rustled through it, opening containers until he was satisfied, and handed it back. I didn’t understand; I could cook for him at the Lair, but anywhere else they would treat me like a potential assassin? He gestured for me to follow him, and we walked around to the driveway and then past that to the big expanse of lawn. Monster stood with his arms folded beneath the umbrella held by the outstretched arm of more Security. Monster was resplendent in white: from shoes to suit to the white scarf around his head, capping off with a white fedora. Preoccupied, he didn’t acknowledge my arrival; for a long awkward moment we waited for something, and I wasn’t sure what. I looked up to the sound of thumping and the sight of a helicopter churning air, and I realized how we would be getting to Los Angeles.
The four of us boarded the helicopter, which could seat ten easily, but Monster sat up front near the pilot and immediately began to question him about wind conditions. To my surprise, Monster was the one who guided the helicopter into the air. Monster had to be flight-trained, though I felt pretty fucking uncomfortable with him piloting the helicopter. We arrived in Santa Monica within an hour and fifteen minutes. The pilot took the controls from Monster and landed us on the roof of a low-slung office building.
As we disembarked, Monster turned to me with a frown. “The best thing about this fucking trip is I get to log more helicopter hours.”
Security followed Monster with multiple briefcases in each hand. Carrying only the wicker basket, I felt I had got off easy because some poor fool had to lug Monster’s portable wardrobe, rolling it after him like it was his clumsy tail. Outside of the radius of the slowing helicopter blades were at least a half dozen pensive suits, some black, most white, all dressed expensively and conservatively, except for the man at the head of the pack, who wore a silk T-shirt that couldn’t restrain his girth. He sported many tattoos, blocky Chinese characters that ran along the length of his arms, and a malevolent grin on his face as he approached Monster with an outstretched hand.
“Yo, man, finally got your lazy ass down here.”
Monster reluctantly extended his hand, and the fat man enveloped Monster in an all-encompassing hug. Monster looked lost and hopeless as he struggled to disengage himself from the fat man’s embrace.
A member of Security stepped forward, maybe a little too close because the fat man slapped him in the face.
“Don’t be walking up on me, bitch,” he said.
Red-faced, Security stepped back, but his job was done. Monster was freed, and surrounded by his own Security and stunned executives.
“Come on, y’all. We got work to do,” the fat, light-skinned guy said. But Monster no longer looked intimidated or overwhelmed.
“Hey, Syn, don’t slap my people. Don’t you dare do shit like that.”
Syn laughed, amused with Monster’s rage. “Look at you, getting all hard. I’m almost scared of your skinny ass.”
Several executives stepped between them and then led us into the building. Once inside, I saw that we were at a recording studio, sound engineers and techs hurrying around, rushing back and forth behind glass partitions. The decor resembled a ski lodge from the seventies with all of that wood paneling and indoor ivy and ferns galore.
I maneuvered around Security (and they weren’t happy about that) to whisper a question to Monster.
“Who’s the fat guy?”
Monster took off his sunglasses to reveal his brilliantly blue contacts and frowned. “That’s Syn, the most overpaid producer in the business.”
“Damn straight. That’s why they got me working with you,” Syn said, overhearing Monster. “ ’Cause you need me, brotha. You know you need me. I got the skills to take you to the next level.”
That comment enraged Monster, to Syn’s continued delight.
“I don’t need you. These idiots are paying you, not me. There’s not a fucking thing you can teach me. And you need to get this straight, I’m not your brotha.”
“Then what are you?”
“Whatever, just not your brotha.”
“I’m asking, then what are you? You white, bitch? ’Cause you bleach yourself, you the white man? Be for real!”
Faster than I imagined Monster could move, he wheeled around and his hand darted toward Syn’s face and clawed him, brutally. Bloody on one cheek and across the forehead, Syn touched at the scratches and flinched. I imagined he wanted to beat the shit out of Monster, and Security would have a hell of a time stopping him. He took a deep breath and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, which he pressed against his face.
“Unless you get with me, your shit is over. I’m the one you need.”
Monster waved off Syn and hurried away, executives rushing after him like he was the pied piper. Security directed me to wait in a reception area with rough-hewed furniture, a bearskin rug, and a gigantic fireplace, big enough for four men to walk in and have room to stretch—more ski-lodge chic. I sat down in front of the fireplace, needing a brandy or a whiskey, really anything.
“So, who the fuck are you? You look a little old to be hanging with Monster.”
“What?” I turned to see Syn standing there with the handkerchief still pressed against his face and a cigarette in his free hand.
“And you ain’t blond.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, so you saying you never noticed Monster’s taste. Cool, I’m believing you.”
“I just started working for him. I’m not in the loop and don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, well, you gonna know soon. See, you look kinda normal, not all fugazi, and you ain’t that lunatic he usually has with him, so I thought I’d try talking at you.”
“What lunatic?”
“That fool, his bodyguard, Thug.”
“Thug. I know who he is.
“Yeah, he’s a big muthafucking thug, and Thug is that fool’s name. ’Cause if you met him, you’d remember his ass. You don’t forget Thug.”
“Yeah, I remember him. Think it might be impossible to forget him.”
Syn looked me up and down. “If you into that. I don’t have a problem with what people do, but that sure as hell ain’t me, that fool ain’t even
on the down low, he straight up high about it.”
He shook his head like he didn’t know what to think of me, whether I was Thug’s lover or just stupid.
“So, why you and Monster have bad blood between you?”
Syn shrugged and walked over to the fireplace and looked inside.
“I hate his ass, and he hates me, but shit’s got to come out. We need to get this done, but he spends all the time trying to get me fired. But them executives don’t think Monster got shit to say. He did when I was in diapers, but not now. His shit’s been weak for a while, but that’s on him. I’m about to move on, and a whole lot of money is gonna get wasted. The shit is kinda funny, if you look at it like that. See, I could break that little freak easy, but I’m already on probation and then, you know, I don’t want to be having to fuck with Thug. I ain’t no coward, but that shit is suicide.”
I heard a commotion down the hall, and there was Monster rushing for the exit of the building. I followed him out, and soon we were back on the helicopter, beating it back to Monster’s Lair.
Monster sat back among the passengers, obviously too upset to fly. He sipped a carrot juice, but from the expression on his face it had to be something more than carrot juice; his shoulders sagged and he sighed. With the Pacific Ocean, flashing by outside the helicopter, framing his head, Monster explained it, ran it down to me.
“I don’t care if they spent a million for studio time and that fuckup Syn. It’s me; it’s what I want to do. The sun rises and sets because I say so. They need to understand that, or they’ll never see another album from me. Do you know what I’m saying? Do you feel me?”
I looked at him, at those sunglasses that hid those blue contacts, and nodded like I knew what the hell he was getting at.
“I put food on their tables; I pay for their cars and their children’s educations. All these fucking leeches should know they don’t know shit other than I’m the man, the meal ticket. They can’t tell me shit. If I never make another dollar, I would have made more money for them than they’ll ever make from anybody else. But these people don’t have gratitude because they’re not really human. Dogs at least treat the man who brings them a bone with a little respect, but not these fools. I give all I can, and they want more from me, or else they’ll bring another cat in to replace me, but it can’t be done. I know that for a fact, more than anything else, that they can’t replace me.”
Monster sat back, exhausted from explaining himself. Well, at least about the music I understood him; I got the sense that Monster was the goose that laid the golden egg, and if his laying days were over, he was cooked. I opened the wicker basket and served him a spring roll. He ate in silence until he looked at me once more.
“See, that’s all I’m asking for, to be treated with respect, that’s it. Like you did, you did your job. That’s all I’m asking for. Don’t treat me like an idiot, and try to force me to work with frauds pretending they’ve got skills when it’s obvious they don’t have shit.”
I had never been more satisfied to serve someone a spring roll. Monster sighed and closed his eyes, and I looked out at the ocean, happy to be earning my money.
A week later, one bright, unusually warm morning, when bees and hummingbirds darted about the Mexican sage and flowering cabbage, Rita didn’t come to the herb garden to meet me for our sign language lesson.
The baby had been born.
I sat on the bench and practiced signing her name, but it wasn’t any good without her sitting next to me, fingers conjuring words far faster than I could discern them. Of course Security was there to keep me company, observing from the second-floor alcove.
I didn’t care.
Then the great door of the manor house opened, and Monster stepped outside onto the grounds, wearing a big-brimmed hat and gloves and carrying an open umbrella.
He walked light-footed in a broad circle toward the distant oaks, then around to the rose gardens. Finally he saw me.
“Gibson,” he said, pausing.
“Hello,” I said. “How’s it going?”
I couldn’t see his eyes, hidden in the shadow of his hat, behind sunglasses.
He reminded me of this albino black kid I knew growing up. He’d come outside in broad daylight without hat or gloves or anything, squinting even in the late afternoon, but at noon he’d be out there too, wincing, his pinkish-white skin blistering in the direct sun. If he lucked out and found some shade, he’d linger in it, but mostly he fought the sun, and the sun won. The boy looked like somebody had set him on a slow roast and had forgotten to turn the oven off. After reddish-black welts appeared on his skin, discoloring the thin, peach-colored fuzz of his short Afro, he was condemned to stay indoors. Then the house of his foster parents caught fire, the result of him torching his bedroom because he wanted to blacken it like he wanted to blacken his skin.
“I wanted you to know that Rita had the baby this morning. She’s doing well,” Monster said.
“That’s great. What did she have?”
“A boy. I named him King Rex Stiles.”
I nodded, uncomfortably standing there, trying to reconcile Rita being with him with the reality of him. We stood out there until I awkwardly turned away. I guess he was staring at me, but I couldn’t be sure with his sunglasses on.
Was he going to name the boy King Rex? Was he joking?
“I want you to make a cake. A birthday cake.”
“Anything in particular?”
I was sure he was going to ask for a Living Food cake, imagining a mound of uncooked rice flour with a white, sugarless, gelatinous icing.
“Oh, something silly. With balloons, something really sweet and delicious.”
“What kind of frosting would you like?”
“Rita likes chocolate. You can make it chocolate with raspberry filling.”
I wondered if he wanted to lick the bowl. Then he surprised me and took off the sunglasses. He squinted and took his time staring at me, like it was the first time he’d got a good look at me.
The placid smile he wore seemed tattooed onto his face.
“Rita likes you. She gets so lonely. Sometimes I can’t get her to get beyond that loneliness. I’m gone so much on business I can’t do much to help her. Now that we have the baby, I hope she’ll be happier because I don’t know how much more I can take of her attitude.”
“That’s great,” I said. “How many should the cake serve?”
Monster thought for a minute.
“A small cake. I don’t want to get fat,” he said, sliding his hands along the concaveness of his stomach.
“Sure, I’ll put something together.”
He looked at me for a moment and took a step back, like he finally saw the roundness of my nose, the shape of my face. Might I actually be a black man?
Then he composed himself, smiled, and turned around to leave.
“Gibson, you’re doing a good job,” he said over his shoulder as he vanished into the mansion.
CURED FLUKE WITH AVOCADO, CITRUS SUPREMES, AND TOKYO TURNIPS
SERVES 4
TOKYO TURNIPS
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil (EVOO)
¼ teaspoon sugar
1 shallot, chopped
¼ teaspoon coriander
Sea salt and ¼ teaspoon white pepper
4 (or more) Tokyo turnips
AVOCADO MOSAICS
2 ripe Hass avocados
3 tablespoons lemon juice
FLUKE
1 cup sea salt
1 cup sugar
Zest and juice of 3 limes
Zest and juice of 3 Meyer lemons
Zest and juice of 2 blood oranges
1 fluke fillet, enough for 4 portions
FOR PLATING
Citrus supremes (wedges with all pith removed)
Micro cilantro
Jalapeño peppers, sliced into thin rounds
Dill sprigs
Candied lemon zest
Prepare the Tokyo turnips: In a bowl, mix the E
VOO, sugar, shallot, coriander, and salt and pepper. Put the mixture into a ziplock bag with the turnips, squeezing out as much air as possible. Seal the bag and marinate the turnips for at least 1 hour.
Make the avocado mosaics: Scoop the avocado flesh out of the rinds. Put it and the lemon juice in a ziplock bag; close the bag; and, using the back of a ladle, crush the mixture until flat. Put it in the freezer for 1 hour. Then use a 3-inch-diameter cookie cutter to make shapes.
Cure the fluke: Mix the salt, sugar, zests, and juices. Cover the fluke with the mixture and cure for 15 minutes.
To plate: For each portion, place a slice of fluke and a turnip on an avocado mosaic with citrus supreme. Top with cilantro, jalapeño rounds, dill, and candied lemon zest.
CHAPTER FIVE
I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM ELENA, BUT happy and excited as I was to receive it, I couldn’t open it on a break in the kitchen, or even later in my bungalow. I couldn’t bring myself to open it even when I was on a walk around the grounds.
On the beach in Pismo, warming in the sun, stripping off my clothes and plunging into the frigid Pacific and swimming to the buoys, coming back too exhausted to feel bitter disappointment, is where I wanted to be when I opened the letter. I didn’t want to rush because I was ecstatic to have a connection with her, and as soon as I opened that envelope and read whatever she had to say, I was fairly sure I’d be back down to earth; below it, even. It couldn’t be good news, the news that I wanted to hear, that she wanted me back, wanted to start over. No, it would be fucked-up news, the shit of divorce. More papers to be signed, more money that needed to be paid now that I was working.
I put the letter in my jacket pocket and waited for Friday and my day off. I’d catch a ride down the hill with Manny and put my plan into effect. I’d had a lot to keep me distracted. Monster was entertaining another onslaught of celebrity friends for a political fund-raiser for a Teutonic senatorial candidate. I didn’t have much to do with the planning, other than providing meals for Monster and Rita, and anybody else who was interested in the Living Food manifesto. The caterers handled the rest, but it turned out that these caterers were insanely incompetent. I sat down with them and looked at what they intended to do and the prices they wanted to charge and I fired them right there. The man, blond and effeminate, and his partner, a dark-haired, overweight woman, didn’t seem angry. I guess they figured Monster would unfire them, and sure enough, they were right. I left a detailed note for Monster about my opinion on the subject of the caterers and went back to my bungalow. It was almost dark, right before the floodlights kicked in and Monster’s Lair would get lit up like a used car lot. I had just unlocked my door and stepped into the bungalow, when I heard a noise and quickly found the light switch.
Monster's Chef Page 7
