The Cocaine Chronicles (22 page)

He paused for a moment and thumbed through the documentation on the clipboard, then returned his unblinking attention to me.

“You don’t have any prior arrests?”

“Nope. I’ve lived a pretty straight life, other than my recent drug experience. I’ve received the best treatment and diversion-therapy possible, and I’ve been clean for a year.”

“That’s good to hear, but you should know that we do an ongoing security check on all employees. If at some point we discover that you concealed any aspect of your personal history, no matter the relevance, you will be terminated immediately.”

I paused for a moment, wanting very much to tell him to fuck himself, that I didn’t need this fucking job. However, I did need it. I needed to get back to a life that wasn’t embarrassing. Oh yeah, I needed this job in the worst way.

I allowed myself to hope, a threadbare hope I kept in a sock drawer in the hidden closet in the backroom of my confidence, a sad little hope that I could resurrect my career, that I wouldn’t fuck up, that I wouldn’t make my life a slow suicide. I’d finally shake that fear that I was out to do myself in, that I couldn’t trust myself.

I couldn’t afford to tell anybody to fuck off, except for maybe myself.

“I told you everything, except for when I got drunk as an undergraduate and wore this coed’s panties on my head home. I guess that could be considered a crime.”

Mr. Security gave me a look, a look of disdain, of mild disgust. Then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, he smiled.

“I don’t think I’ll need to make note of that.”

That seemed to lighten the ultra-serious moment.

“Good,” I said, and stood to leave.

“One more thing,” he said.

He handed me a paper bag. I looked inside and saw a plastic cup with a lid.

“We need a urine sample. If you’re offered the job, you’ll be subject to a random weekly drug test.”

My pride sloughed off like a skin I didn’t need. I dutifully took the paper bag and went into the restroom.

I was in luck. Someone had pinned the sports page above the urinal, the Giants were on a winning streak. Quite a few of the workers at the
Lair
must have to submit to this weekly ritual. Sheepishly, I came out of the restroom holding the brown bag at arm’s length. With a solemn nod, Security took it from me, then he ushered me to another door that led to another room. Inside, Bridget sat behind a very large desk, phone to ear, listening with strained concentration.

“Yes, he just came in. Do you want me to put him on?”

She gestured for me to sit down, her eyes flaring as though she’d toss a book at my head if I delayed for a second.

“Use the speakerphone.”

I nodded, confused as to whom I was talking and why.

“Hello?”

I heard raspy breathing. I grinned at how silly this felt.

“This is Monster.”

His voice didn’t have that ethereal quality I’d heard on those interviews on VH1. He sounded grounded, even a little hard.

“It’s an honor to talk with you,” I said.

“What’s your name again?”

“William Gibson.”

“Right, you’re the cat who owned the restaurant in New York. You lost it because of drugs.”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“It would be cool if we could hire you.”

“I would like that very much,” I said, wondering what would stop him if he wanted to hire me. Did he need to check with his mother?

“But I need to ask you a question and you need to answer me honestly. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Good.”

I waited for him to ask the question, but he went back to that raspy breathing, as though he had a problem with his sinuses.

“Don’tassumeyoucanplayme.”

He blurted it out so fast, at first I couldn’t make out what he said.

“Could you repeat that?”

“Do you think you can play me?”

“What?”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Monster paused as though he were ready to drop the bomb on me.

“You gonna play me? That’s what I want to know.”

“I pride myself on my professionalism. I don’t take it lightly.”

“I’m not talking about that.”

I wanted to ask what was he talking about, but I assumed that wouldn’t get me hired.

“I’m a very loyal employee. That’s how I’ve always been. It’s second nature to me.”

“It’s more than loyalty.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Then that means you’re not down. I only hire down cats.”

I was beyond confused.

“I’ll ask you once more. Are you gonna play me?”

“I don’t intend to play you.”

Another pause and more raspy breathing.

“I’m supposed to believe you? I think you’re lying. Tell me this, are you experienced?”

“What?”

“Are you experienced? Don’t bullshit, answer me!”

“Do you mean like in a Jimi Hendrix way?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’ve got to be down for me.”

My stomach sank. If he thought I was going to be getting loaded with him after dinner, that wasn’t where my head was at.

“I think I understand,” I replied.

“Understand what?”

“What you said about being down.”

“Being down? What did I say about that?”

Now
my
breathing was raspy. Was he high? He had to be high. Only people who were fucked up out of their minds, but who thought they were under control, talked like that.

“Long as you down for me, it’s all true. You know what I’m saying?” he said, excitedly.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding, even though I knew he couldn’t see me, unless he had a hidden camera. That, I wouldn’t put past him.

“Are you gonna poison me?” he blurted, surprising the hell out of me. Of all the crazy-assed things I’ve been asked in my life, this surprised me into stupid silence.

“I’ve never poisoned anyone,” I said, with conviction.

More raspy breathing.

“You’re not gonna put anything sick into my food?”

“Sick?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t say you’ll love everything I’ll cook, but I can guarantee I’ll never poison you or put anything sick into your food.”

“Hah, you funny. I’ll get back to you.”

The speakerphone went silent.

Bridget looked at me with suspicion.

“Did you have any idea what you were saying?”

I nodded without conviction.

“Monster likes people to be straight with him.”

“I was being straight. What, I didn’t sound straight?”

Bridget snorted. “I don’t think you knew what you were saying. You were willing to say anything to get him to hire you.”

If it wasn’t for Asha I’m sure Bridget would have crossed me off her list. I don’t have a problem with that, except for the fact that I did need this job, though it had became obvious that it must be hell to fill if I had gotten to the interview stage.

“I don’t see what the problem is. We seemed to have hit it off.”

“First of all, that wasn’t Monster.”

“Huh? Who was it?”

“Monster’s assistant.”

“Assistant? He sounds like a thug high on something.”

“Well, he
is
Thug. He calls himself Thug. That’s his name as far as you’re concerned.”

I felt tricked. It wasn’t right and Bridget needed to know how I felt.

“Bridget, you know I need this job, but obviously you don’t feel good about me applying for it. Am I wasting my time?”

Bridget looked surprised, like I had just come out of left field with that. She couldn’t look me in the eye.

“Is it Asha? You promised her something and now you don’t want to deliver?”

Bridget ran her hands through her hair, still avoiding my eyes.

“You might want this job, I know you need it, but once you get out there, it’s different. I’m always looking for employees. It’s a fucking strain. The lawyers, God, I talk to so many lawyers.”

“That’s big of you, trying to spare me some grief.”

Finally, our eyes met. She looked like a woman who’d had enough.

“I’ve got my share of problems. I’ll admit that. You’re right. Asha really wants this for you.”

“You don’t think I’m capable?”

She shook her head. “It’s not that at all. I don’t want to have to answer to Asha when it’s over.”

“What do you mean, when it’s over, and what do you have to answer to Asha about?”

“I might be a little jealous about how much she likes you, but it’s not all jealousy. I just don’t want her blaming me when everything goes to hell.”

I stood up to leave. I was through with this shit.

“I finished that diversion program with no problems. You know that.”

“Oh, this isn’t about you. It’s about Monster, and it’s about why I want to quit this job. I don’t want be responsible for the shit that happens.”

“Quit this job? I don’t get you at all! You bring me in, then decide I’m not right for the position, and now you tell me you’re gonna quit.”

“Don’t get so pissed off. If I get the call that he wants to offer you the job, I’m not going to disagree. I’m not that kind of bitch. I’m just being up front. You need to know what you’re getting into.”

“What are you talking about? What am I getting into?”

“You’ll see. You’ll have to see how this place works. You’ll know soon enough if you’ve got the stomach for it.”

The phone rang and she snatched it up with a crisp, “Bridget here.”

I walked outside before hearing the verdict; would I live or die? Was I hired or was I flying back to the halfway house to finish probation? But at that moment I just wanted to be outside, feeling the sun on my skin, whatever the hell would happen.

Silence, solitude, and breathable air, that’s all I wanted, not exactly a miracle, but I guess this nightmare of a job is what I deserved.

I’m the cook; what goes on beyond the locked door of this bungalow is not my concern. I turn up music, keep lights burning all through the night.

Safe.

No one cares about the cook, that’s what I count on. I keep the door locked and I try not to leave, not anymore, after dark.

Cold.

This bungalow is torture, even in the spring. No matter how many logs I toss into the barely functional woodstove, heat slips through the walls like the mice when I turn on the light. I came with few clothes—two white tunics, a couple of thick sweaters, jeans, and T-shirts. I wear both sweaters to bed, all the socks I can fit on. Coldest I’ve ever been is spring in the mountains of Santa Ynez. Some nights I can’t bring myself to get out of bed to use the toilet, just grit my teeth and endure until I can’t stand it.

You’d think somebody as rich as Monster would insulate these bungalows, might have some idea that his employees are suffering. Even so, I should have been better prepared, should have known, paid more attention to what I was getting myself into. A man of Monster’s stature probably spends his time plotting world conquest, opening a Planet Monster in Bali or something fantastic, not worrying about the frigid temperature of an employee’s bungalow. Maybe that’s why the last chef quit, fingers so numb she couldn’t dice.

Another glass of a Santa Ynez Cabernet Sauvignon and I’m still feeling the cold, though it’s not as sharp. I told myself I was through with twelve-step anything, I can’t feel good about getting wasted. Numb is good and warm, but numb turns sour, numb gets you arrested, numb gets you a judge deciding what’s best for you, and I can’t stand to live through another diversion program. I pour the rest of the wine down the drain. I swore to myself that I would get high on life only and leave killing myself a little each day alone.

I know these extensive, meandering grounds well, but on a moonless night it’s almost impossible to stay on the trail. A step in the wrong direction and you’re in the middle of scrub brush and blood thorns that rib all sides of Monster’s estate. Easily enough you can end up blindly wandering in the wilderness among coyotes, black bears, mountain lions, whatever.

See.

You must walk away from the light into the darkness.

The other direction isn’t an option. The closer you get to the big house the more likely the lights will go on, blinding lights that’ll make you feel like a frog ready to be scooped into a sack. Then you’ll hear the sound of the heavy steps of Security as they converge, shouting commands. It’s been worse after some nameless stalker managed, after repeated attempts, to sneak into Monster’s
Lair
on some psychotic mission. Someone, maybe even Monster, came up with the
Lair
as the name for this place. Heard it’s trademarked, and he’s going to use it for his next CD, whenever he gets that done. Clever, I guess, but I don’t know. Supposedly, he’s been having a hell of a time, the music won’t flow at Monster’s
Lair
. Maybe it’s the name, it’s not conducive to creativity. Try telling someone you live and work at Monster’s
Lair
and they laugh.
With
that lunatic? How is that? What kind of craziness goes on there?

I can’t answer.

They never did catch the trespasser, supposedly a loser from Monster’s past who’s plagued him since long before he built this playland. I used to enjoy my nightly walks, but that was before enhanced lighting and the dogs. Security lets them run the grounds to get the lay of the land.