Monster's Chef by Jervey Tervalon Read Free Book Online

came to the opening of my restaurant years ago and had many kind words—but it wasn’t him, probably just a rail-thin white man appropriating his image. My energy started to flag as I watched the luminaries arrive and frolic, as if frolicking was texting and shaping photos as they halfheartedly chatted. A gong rang, loud and sharp, and Monster suddenly was on a stage, illuminated in such harsh white light that it was almost impossible to look at him. A tsunami of techno dub enveloped us in bone-rattling bass and Monster exploded in twirling movement faster than I thought possible. His limbs multiplied Kali-like, writhing, elongating, pulsating in the firing of syncopated strobe lights. The black that he wore made his white translucent skin more ghostly and ethereal, even angelic. My hard-fought detachment bled away and my heart pounded, giddy with the sheer excitement of being in his presence; the special effects that embodied his every move were proof that he was the end-all, the be-all, and I was lucky to be in his presence, to serve him. The performance didn’t last long, like the jolt of the first hit off of a crack pipe after hard-earned sobriety.
    â€œThank you so very much for coming and sharing my birthday!” Monster said, his voice like ice shards. Then from his hands came smoke, and it all seemed magical, more magical than I could have believed, and the smoke snaking from his hands began to sparkle like stars in a black Texas night so subtly that if you weren’t concentrating you’d miss it. Soon the entire vastness of the bedouin tent was filled with the twinkling smoke that smelled slightly of jasmine. It was delightful. Another gong rang and the smoke and Monster disappeared. Bright lights broke the spell and the catering crew got to serving my modified vegan menu. I felt happy and content as I watched the clockwork precision of the servers, and the food even seemed tempting if I’d had any appetite.
    Happy. I was fucking happy . . . I can’t be happy, I thought, then it occurred to me that my happiness corresponded with the smoke, and as the smoke dissipated so did my unearned happiness. The gathering began to break up almost before the mountainous vegan birthday cake was served. Monster never returned; instead tattooed singer–bad boy led the luminaries in a spirited happy birthday sing-along to a three-dimensional projection of Monster standing like a colossus above Monster’s Lair, waving good-bye. Oh, yes, if only I were blunted . . . maybe then I could laugh.
    THE MANSION HAD INNER GROUNDS ; the kitchen faced the vegetable garden, and beyond the vegetable garden was the most elaborate playland I had ever seen. It was as if the carnival had come to town. Security made sure I didn’t get too close to the carousel and its intricately carved unicorns and flying horses, or the incongruous Ferris wheel standing tall among the oaks and eucalyptus, or the miniature train at rest, large enough to transport a dozen kids around the grounds under the elms and oaks and around the acres and acres of Monster’s Lair. But nothing surprised me more than the Middle-earth model/diorama near the eastern wall of the playground. Mount Doom stood five feet high with some kind of volcano action churning and frothing from within. Everything from the Shire to Gondor was represented, and everywhere were lifelike figures occupying the land, all the Orcs, Elves, and Hobbits you could expect to see in the Middle-earth of Monster’s imagination.
    I have to admit that I wanted to get a closer look, to examine Gandalf and the rest of them, but the moment I crossed the invisible line, Security appeared to shoo me away with a curt “This isn’t for the public.”
    I wanted to say that I wasn’t the public, that I needed some diversion from doing the nothing I had been doing since I was hired.
    Monster was out of the country, on tour, and his traveling chef went