Monster's Chef by Jervey Tervalon Page B

Jersey.”
    Asha was quiet on the other end.
    â€œDid you talk to your parole officer?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    Asha sighed.
    â€œBridget will kill me if you leave.”
    â€œI thought she intended to quit.”
    Asha sighed.
    â€œShe can’t find another position, and she can’t bring herself to walk out on her contract.”
    â€œEverything is so fucking complicated,” I said.
    â€œLet me talk to Bridget. Maybe we can work something out. What did you say to Elena?”
    My heart sank. I imagined it would be difficult, but I didn’t want to face up to it. I wasn’t ready to talk to her. I wanted to be sure of how things were going to go with me before contacting her. I didn’t want to blow it, didn’t want her turning her back on me once again, because I was sure of one thing: that would beat me down and keep me down for good.
    â€œI’m not ready to talk to her yet. I don’t want to say something stupid and ruin it.”
    Asha laughed. “Gibson, don’t be so hard on yourself. Call her. Let her know what’s going on. It’ll change everything.”
    â€œYou really believe that?”
    â€œAs the patron saint of lost causes, I’ve got to believe.”
    â€œOh, yeah. I forgot about that. You save souls and all that.”
    â€œLike any good Hindu should.”
    MY LIFE WAS STUCK between the pages of a book I couldn’t wait to be done with. Funny to be so unhappy in a place so fucking beautiful. From the mountain you could see the Pacific Ocean curving away, vanishing into the blue horizon and the grid-like vineyards on the hills below; or, in the afternoon sun, the undulations of hillsides resembling the contours of a body in repose. Sure, I wanted to wake up and breathe air so fresh it made my head hurt, taste water so fresh it was sweet, but not here, not doing this job, away from the woman I loved.
    This was Monster’s heaven, but not just his, also those who shared his idea of heaven, a valley of vintners, cheese makers, developers, and cattle barons. It made me want to take a shit in somebody’s winding driveway.
    Why couldn’t there be a smoke-filled bar that played something other than country music or the Eagles in this whole fucking county?
    Once, on my way to the weekly farmer’s market in Solvang, I saw blond children biking alongside the road, cell phones clutched to their ears, and I began to understand this rarefied life. And even more so when I watched a ramshackle barn quickly converted into an understatedly charming home with the big satellite dish, for the thin but not anorexic mom canning homegrown preserves. Her children deserved the freshest bread, the best organic produce, while her husband tooled around in a gigantic SUV, examining his endless rows of grapevines. They lived in an alternative universe, another kind of American dream, outrageously expensive but a return to the heavily amended, composted earth. The charm of this upscale, gentlemanly farming was for folks who didn’t want to be too much with the land, wanted it on their terms, hands not too deep in the fecund earth, walking lightly upon the fields, breathing good air, alongside Mexican workers who might dream the same dreams but couldn’t afford them in this life, maybe not even the next.
    Isolation made me judgmental in temperament when before I was wildly indifferent, ignoring everything that was outside of my concern: food preparation, presentation, and money.
    Money like honey.
    I wanted to be back East, for the good summer heat and humidity of New York. Seeing brown, black, and white skin sweating in the hot sun as people walked down teeming sidewalks. I wanted to smell the rankness of the discards from the fish market, the vegetables rotting in trash bins.
    I wanted to be too much with the world, not living this life of seclusion among folks hiding in fortresses of wealth and abundance. I wanted the Manhattan version,