Once in a Lifetime ➳ Larry

chapter two

Chapter Two

    For as long as he can remember, Harry's always been very passionate about cooking and baking.  When he was little, he repeatedly asked his mother for an Easy-Bake Oven until she finally gave in.  He used to love baking miniature cupcakes and biscuits for his stuffed animals.   

    When he was a teenager, Harry landed his first job at a restaurant as a dishwasher.  His boss later promoted him to a waiter position, but he fired him after a couple months.  Apparently waiting tables involved patience and a sharp memory, both of which Harry lacked.

    As college approached, Harry's father pressured him into engineering, but that didn't spark his interests— not one bit.  He ended up dropping out of university after failing most of his courses.  He couldn't possibly pay attention to something so boring.

    Then he met Liam at a bar and, well, things sort of just fell into place.  He noticed Harry dancing drunkenly, swaying his hips back and forth, and offered him a job at his strip club.  He handed Harry his card: a rectangular piece of paper with "Fool's Gold" written across the front in cursive font. 

Harry had chuckled at the proposition.  He couldn't possibly work as an exotic dancer.  He didn't fit the stereotype— the dirty boy on the streets, scraping up enough money to buy drugs and alcohol.  He came from a nice family in the suburbs.  Sure, he wasn't rich, but he wasn't a beggar, either.

"Just give it a try," Liam had said.  "You might just change your mind."

As it turned out, he did.  One of the other strippers, Emerald, gave him a few lessons on the pole.  After a few dances, he actually started to enjoy it.  It felt like a huge rush— the spotlight, the money thrown on stage, the glitter and glam and golden thongs.

Stripping became second nature.  Now, he doesn't think it's dirty.  It's not sexual, not promiscuous, not degrading.  It may seem that way to other people, but to Harry, it's just work.

Currently, Harry stands in front of his stove, hand grasping a wooden spoon.  He stirs up some noodles in a large pot.  He already prepared some medium-rare steak on the grill but wants something as a side dish.  He likes cooking nice meals on a regular basis.  It's a way to treat himself after a long day at work.

That's why he takes such good care of his kitchen.  His flat looks rubbish on the outside, but over the last year or so he's managed to turn this disgusting apartment into a cozy home.  Picture frames cover the walls, constant reminders of love and friendship.  Little nicknacks decorate the fireplace mantel, each one reflecting part of Harry's quirky personality.

The fettuccine noodles seem nearly cooked, so he reaches over towards his cutting board.  He grabs the clove of garlic and begins to chop it up with his knife, dicing it into small, bite-sized pieces.  When he's finished, he scrapes it into the pot with the blade of his knife.  He stirs it with the noodles and adds a bit of butter to the finished product.

Living alone has its ups and downs.  He likes the privacy, the ability to do whatever he pleases.  But he hates the lonely nights, the quietness, the lack of conversation for days at a time.  Plus, he usually cooks too much food for one person, and leftovers never taste as good the second time around.  So, yeah... that sucks, too.

He sits down at his dining room table.  It's really just a foldable card table because he can't afford the fancy wooden kind.  He's covered it with a tablecloth in an attempt to hide his utter stinginess.

The noodles taste slightly spicy, and he doesn't know why.  He didn't add any spices—just garlic and butter and a bit of olive oil.  The pasta burns his tongue and scratches down his throat.  He only takes a few bites before stopping.  He washes it down with a large gulp of water.