The Cocaine Chronicles Page 20

  “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.

  “The singer?”

  “Yeah. 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 … ?”

  “Priceless. You had to have heard of that expression.”

  “Yeah, but I never used it.”

  She looked at me like she had already made up her mind.

  “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.” Then 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 their 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.”

  “How so?”

  Bridget sucked her teeth. “You haven’t heard all that rubbish about him?”

  “No, I really don’t keep up with the music scene.”

  “He made all those bubble-gum pop songs. You got to wonder about people like that,” Asha muttered. “And he had that pet koala hanging around his neck.”

  “He’s gotten rid of the koala, that was a big mistake,” Bridget said, with perfect seriousness.

  “I’m not sure about this. What do people say about him? Is there any truth to it?”

  Bridget laughed. “I’m not going to go into it. People say all kinds of things about him. You’d think he bathes in the blood of little boys. That kind of National Enquirer bullshit.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Well, it’s hard to explain,” she said softly, as though she were wary of being overheard. “Monster isn’t really someone I see a lot of. He is a great employer in that he’s very generous. But mostly he’s on the road or holed up in the Lair. It’s really his encampment, the inner grounds of his mansion and the gardens where most staff aren’t allowed. I think that’s how those horrible stories of Monster get out. Disgruntled former employees spread rumors when they really don’t know what goes on in the Lair. Anyway, if you’re really interested, I’ll fly you out to interview. Asha can come with you. I’ll show you Solvang and there’s this wonderful little Danish bakery. You’ll love the pastries.”

  “I’m not sure of what he wants. Will I be his personal chef or will I be running the kitchen for everyone there?”

  “You know, I couldn’t tell you at this point. With Monster you go with the flow. He’ll fill in the blanks, he always does.”

  Bridget shrugged and put her head on Asha’s shoulder.

  Business was done for the evening.

  Asha wore something beautiful. She told me the name, but I immediately forgot. A Jabari? Whatever it was I liked it—a kind of purple pantsuit with fringe around the waist and cuffs. Bridget was in black again, straight leather, suitable for nightlife in the big city but fucking silly on a brilliant day in beautiful Solvang. Bridget was just as schoolgirl giddy to have Asha near as I remembered.

  “You are too wedded to that job,” I heard Bridget say.

  Asha shrugged. “You know, I trained to be a social worker. It’s what I wanted to do, and I’m happy with my life,” she said to Bridget. It was the same thing she said to me when I asked why she was so content to run a halfway house. I guess Asha was sincere in what she said to people; I admired that, and how rare it was.

  At the Dutch bakery that Bridget was so high on, I lingered over stale strudel while the girls stepped outside to admire bachelor buttons and Mexican primrose growing along the road. They held hands, and I saw Bridget lean toward Asha to sneak a kiss. I hoped this Bridget knew what kind of woman she had in Asha, a human being of the first order. But maybe that was too much to hope for. I didn’t get a good feeling from Bridget. She probably thought Asha was hot and exotic, the domestic equivalent of an incendiary foreign affair without the bother of having a passport renewed. Maybe I was jealous, but I knew I was right about this Bridget and her bitch nature.

  I was supposed to be put up somewhere spectacular, a woodsy resort over in the hills with an amazing restaurant and a wonderful chef I was supposed to know. Bridget mentioned more than a half-dozen times just how excited she was to take us to this slice of paradise. However, something happened to the reservation, or the charge card, and plans had changed.

  As we drove downhill, back to the valley, I thought we’d all be staying at Andersen’s Split Pea Soup and Hotel—she mentioned that it was campy and fun—but Bridget obviously couldn’t wait to drop me off. Even so, she took the time to remind me that Monster liked prospective employees to be an hour early for interviews, expected her to be two hours early, and with unctuous sincerity she mentioned again just how important it was to make a good impression. Oh yes, he’d be there, he wouldn’t speak and I wasn’t to speak to him, but he’d be highly involved in the process.

  Flow.

  Monster could flow in any moment and seal the deal, but I couldn’t expect that.

  Of course, I’d have an in, but really, it was up to me to seize the initiative.

  Dragging Asha behind her, Bridget turned her rental around and roared back to the Santa Ynez Inn. Seemed Bridget made sure the Inn had one room available.

  I had a bowl of very salty green soup and ate all the crackers in the cracker holder. I thought of ordering a beer, then I wanted a gin and tonic, then decided just a couple of hits off a crack pipe would do the trick. I had another bowl of very salty green soup and found the room Bridget had reserved for me.

  I turned on the televison and flipped around. I watched rap videos for a while until it became painful, all that booty shaking and me not having gotten laid in almost a year.

  I couldn’t help fantasizing about being a third wheel between Asha and Bridget—maybe they would suddenly want to experiment and include me. Yeah, I couldn’t sustain that fantasy, too improbable even for a hopeless optimist.

  The next morning I got out of bed at 5:00, so nervous about how the day would go that I went for a walk, even though a fog had rolled in, concealing Andersen’s Split Pea Soup and Hotel to the point that it was difficult to know what direction to go in. I was lost almost immediately and had to get directions from the surfer dude behind the counter at the 7-Eleven. Then I remembered I needed new razors and shaving cream.

  I meandered a bit, eventually finding my way back to the hotel and my room to shave my head with the precision of an anxious man with nothing else to do.

  Instinct.

  It was obvious what Monster thought of himself. Look at how hard he worked to eradicate the last vestiges of identifiable color from his life and skin.

  I wouldn’t let him hold that over me. Lack of melanin never held me back; actually, it was a kick, a key to acceptance that never had to be explained. Never deny it, but why let them form the question? Don’t make them question their own generosity, don’t make them consider the inta
ngibles. What does it mean to hire a black man? Is it the opposite of hiring a white man? The same?

  Don’t ask and I won’t tell you.

  I don’t know.

  I know this, that Monster bolts up from night terrors, chest heaving as he rushes to the mirror to see if that bleach/chemical peel/skin brightener bled off, shed, absorbed away, or simply vanished.

  Bet he lives in mortal fear of a stray BB, the living nightmare of the paralyzing threat of a nappy head.

  Cool.

  Even if he has a nigger detector, he’ll never see me coming.

  I don’t pass, I slip by on the strength of the fact that I can. Maybe it’s self-loathing, but I never had the energy for too much of that.

  I am what I am—the son of two African-American parents who were light enough to pass as white if they cared to. They didn’t because they were proud of who they were and embraced their African-Americanness.

  Monster, though, doesn’t pass. He thunders by, shouting to the world, “See me! I’m not like them, I’m you!”

  He hides in plain sight, and I guess I do, too. Race explains nothing about his insanity, or my blundering into acceptance and not wanting to rock the boat.

  Probably, in that sense, we’re brothers under the skin.

  Bridget showed up two hours late, a woman in desperate need of a toilet, but without a bit of an apology other than a curt, “Monster rescheduled a few hours,” before she hauled ass to the bathroom.

  “Where’s Asha?” I asked, after she returned. I needed to see a friendly face, and Bridget’s wasn’t it.

  “Sleeping in. She needs it,” Bridget said, with a hint of a leer, and I disliked her even more. It still ain’t polite to hit it and strut. As much as I admired and liked Asha, I couldn’t understand her taste in women.

  Bridget sped to the 101 and headed east, back toward Santa Barbara. Another stunningly beautiful day. From the freeway, I could see the Pacific lurking behind the hammock of hills, and when we started to climb and banked west, I saw surfers, black stick figures on breaking waves.

  Then Bridget turned east and we headed into the Santa Ynez Valley.

  At an access road Bridget drove for another twenty minutes or so, until a craftsman bungalow came into view. Near the bungalow was an impressive gate, maybe ten feet high, blocking a well-maintained road.

  A man in a gray uniform with a cap like that of a highway patrolman from the forties leaned into the window and took a look at me, then he thrust a clipboard into my hands. On the clipboard was a document which went on for four pages. I hadn’t gotten through the first page before Bridget tapped me on the shoulder.

  “It’s a release. You can’t interview without signing it.”

  “Give me a minute. I like to read before I sign.”

  She sighed, and watched with narrowed eyes as I hastily flipped through the document.

  “Done? Good. Now sign.”

  I signed, and handed the clipboard back to the security guard.

  Bridget burned rubber on the way out, as though she had to make up for lost time, though I thought we were early.

  About a mile later she stopped at another bungalow with two very busy men sorting through packages stacked in the driveway. Bridget waved to them and headed inside and pointed to an oversize chair by a window. I sat down as she flipped through more paperwork. The interior of the bungalow resembled the layout of a nicely appointed law office. I remembered wanting to buy those heavy brass lamps with the hand-blown, leaded glass for the restaurant, but I had given up when I couldn’t get a reasonable price.

  “Wait here. The head of security will be by in a few minutes to begin the interview. Then, afterward, maybe Monster will be ready to ask you a few questions.”

  A door opened. A tall man entered dressed in the uniform that all these guys sported, as though they could change your oil, carry your luggage, or arrest you. All of them were trim, tall, and white; did Monster hire every washed-out Mormon FBI agent he could find?

  Bridget handed him a ream of paper, and then he walked over to me with his hand out and paused, squinting as though he recognized me and wasn’t happy about it.

  “Mr. Gibson, my name is Timothy Steele. I run security here at the Lair. I wonder if you could clarify a few things.”

  “Sure, I’ll do my best.”

  “You were arrested for attempting to buy a controlled substance. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the controlled substance?”

  “Heroin, to smoke. Usually it was cocaine, but the time I was arrested it was heroin.”

  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.�
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  “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.