Can I run
Should I burn
I've always thought it was a bad idea; the kind that was good to have. People should be allowed bad ideas sometimes, because knowing they are bad—that they should remain as ideas and not some part of reality—must mean some good. But I wasn't good.
Felt, sometimes, like I was only pretending to be. Like I was only doing that for the sake of everyone else I kept close. But too close to the flame was a heat that no ordinary thing could stand and even against frozen lakes and snow, they begin to melt. That would mean I had to burn alone.
It started out as a thought. A bad idea.
Like I knew it wouldn't have to happen, being alone, but I considered it anyway. Kinda like a form of entertainment. Like being allowed some bit of the future and laughing at it not because it sounded stupid but because you weren't all that keen on believing something you knew was possible.
It wasn't the bad kind of lonely. Just, alone. Singular. Like, with two dogs and three rooms. Bed, dogs, and a gym. The gym's the living. Or the kitchen. Or something. Maybe I don't even need a kitchen. Take-outs for days. Weeks. Years. Yeah I could get with that. Working at some gas station, making average, scraping through, not living the life 'cuz that wasn't what I needed anyway, and definitely not anything close to busting my ass off to get by. Maybe move on to a farm or something. Get a barn. Buy Caspian. Or steal him, whatever. So Caspian and two dogs, then. Fifteen years in a gas station, thirty years in a barn. Buy a cornfield or something. Make scarecrows and shit. Die alone.
Sounded like a plan.
But they better come for me at fifty or something since anything beyond that was just way too long. Now that I think of it, the whole thing didn't even sound like a bad idea. It was a neutral thing. Not bad in any way, but not good either, not anywhere near the kind of happiness that the rest of the world seemed to be searching for, but also not the summary of some tragic life story that was honestly kind of boring. Just a little...
Empty.
I don't think people really get what I mean by empty; and what thinking about things like these at the age of sixteen really mean, and what thoughts could really do. Dark ones. The kinds born out of an abyss, because there really isn't anything down there. Just a hole. Not a sad hole; not wet, not dry, not uncomfortable or anything, just, a hole.
It's there, sometimes. Like I see it up ahead, that sort of thing, but when something's in front of me I just forget about it for a moment and then when they leave, I see it again. Up ahead.
I started seeing it back in the guy's apartment in New York. He was at the restaurant and I was making lunch according to the menu he fixed. Tortellini. Mushroom and ricotta filling, I think. And I was doing that by muscle memory, not exactly thinking about anything in particular, just doing my thing in the kitchen to the whir of the fan with the radio on. The weather forecast was up and they were talking about a snowstorm next week upstate.
I didn't even know what I was doing next week. Probably cooking. And... spelling. Maybe one or two practical sessions in the restaurant. Then... if he had some time, a five-course dinner at some place he liked. It had been two years since KFC, by the way. The uncertainty was probably my only hope at hanging on to a nice bucket to myself. Wasn't going to happen, but back then, I was a little more hopeful.
That was the thing about homeschool. Bad homeschooling, at least. Or maybe he did good in comparison, I'd never know. I never knew what was going to come. Could never really see what I was... going to do except cook. Like, next week? Cook. Next month? Cook. Next year? Cook, for sure. Five years down the road? Still cooking. Ten? Better be dead by then, I guess.
Ten was the point I thought the hole was going to come. Like, I'd arrive at the rim, at some point, since it was the only thing I could see up ahead. So I knew it was there. Just... didn't want to believe it.
I still don't want to, by the way.
Given a choice, I'd take the three rooms. Bed, dogs—and it's either a gym or a library because he's not gonna let the entire living look like his greatest nightmare, and I'd say no to more than three full shelves, so. Then he'd probably say something about needing a kitchen for practicality, though he clearly can't cook for nuts, so I'd say we'd probably settle for one stove. And a microwave. No oven. No dishwasher.
I could be alone. As in, I'm okay with that.
Given a choice though,
I'd rather spend the rest of my life taking flak for liking the taste of vanilla.
===================
They were calling out to me. Multiple times, from somewhere behind, but I wasn't about to turn or slow to a stop when the energy inside was ablaze; and I was out the double doors, slamming, open, closed, open again and footsteps. Calling. Chen. He had someone after him, too, I could hear them and they were loud and demanding because they were 'in the middle of it all' and going after me would mean getting kicked from the round. And I could hear him arguing with them.
But I was done and staying any longer was only steps closer to being unhinged.
The hallway down to the main entrance, out where the plaza was, had an air that was cold. Outside, it was colder. Biting. I was in chef's whites and pretty much nothing else but I wasn't about to turn and head back for the lockers, so. The track it was.
Insulation was minimal but I'd live. There was straw all around inside the barn and Caspian looked decently appreciative of apple and oat treats I always had hidden away in the club room so that kept me distracted for some time. Straying every now and then.
It wasn't until the thirty- or forty-minute mark that things started to sink in and daytime, now shorter than ever, began to wash and fade.
Initially, I thought I'd turned off my phone for good measure but it was at wanting to give the time a check that I realized I'd left that back in the lockers, too. The clocktower was a little too far in the distance for an exact telling of the time and was slightly blocked by the shades at the grandstand. I nudged Caspian for a ride out on the tracks, but he wasn't looking all that keen. Glancing back out, I understood why.
It started snowing.
"What do you want me to do, make a quilt out of straw?"
The stallion grunted, chewing on a treat while his tail swung freely. I gazed out into the open, the gap between the barn doors and where fresh air could filter in. They had those portable electric heating fans over in the clubroom that they put out on the grandstands whenever things got a little chilly. Those were a hot favourite of the horses.
I got out the spare key from a pot outside the room adjacent to the barn and retrieved one of them for Caspian; knowing that I'd eventually have to return and that somewhere along the way, I wasn't going to be able to look away from everything that had accumulated till this point.
He'd come, too. And I wouldn't be able to refuse.
But just a little longer, while he's still resting in the infirma—
"What an absolute fool you are, Leroy Cox."
I had the device hooked on my index with the heating grills faced outwards away from me so hearing a voice that wasn't too far away made me pull back on instinct, thinking I'd been a little too close.
There's really no point even registering who it was because identifying him was like an instinct. No thoughts required. The only issue was what to do after, and presently, I wasn't going to sugar-coat the deep shit I had to be in.
"You must be mad, even to entertain the very idea of riding out in such weather!"
I said nothing; placed the heating fan on the ground and undid whatever part of my chef's whites I could offer and adding that to his minimal layers. He was out in the cold less than a day after being in the negatives for minutes too long, barely back in his original condition but here he was, shoving every piece of clothing I sent his way and rolling his eyes as he did.
"I'm not a matchstick, Leroy. I don't need unnecessary shielding from the wind. There is none, by the way. I've checked the weather forecast and wind speeds aren't going anywhere above two miles per hour until morning. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, this is the first location I decided to drop by after hearing about you from Chen. Who's fairly enraged, just like Layla Tenner is, and Chef Marseille. And many others. They said you'd run off right in the middle of third tasting without a word, and with three five stars to boot." He picked up the portable heater and needed both hands on the handle to actually lift it. "You're telling me what happened, even if you weren't intending on doing so in the first place. I'm not leaving until I hear it."
I sighed, reaching over to take the heater out of his hands, starting towards the barn together with him. "There's a lot."
It did not faze him. "That is precisely what I am here for."
"It's cold out. You should be resting in the infirmary."
"Now you're just making excuses," he challenged. "We're on our way back into the barn with a portable heating fan. There's tons of straw for insulation. And may I remind you that I am perfectly capable of acknowledging the limits to my mortality."
"You nearly died in a freezer."
"Yes but thanks to my superior intellect and your subpar rescue skills that ended up being significantly useful, I did not."
I re-entered the barn, holding the door open for him while the horses looked over and went back to minding their own business after a moment of disinterest. "Dumbass," I laughed.
He stopped right in front of me at the door and seemed to pause in thought; then held out his arms and made an awkward attempt at a hug, wrapping his arms around my torso. I held the heater farther away from him, just in case it burned.
He was waiting for something. For me to return the hug, was what I assumed, but it turned out he had other plans on his mind. I'd relaxed—not much, just some relieving of tension that was barely noticeable—and that was his cue to let go.
I faced the heat towards a stack of hay and we sat in front of that, on a single crate. It wasn't much, considering the fact that neither of us could fit on it let alone together, but the general mood sort of made for a casual settling of things. Expectations of everything else was low, priming the air for something heavy.
"It's a lot to take in," I told him, staring at the glowing red grills of heat. He was quiet, I saw him turn a little. Towards me.
"Is this about your mother?"
"Kind of... everything."
He waited for me to continue. I was gazing out into the dark, watching flakes of white fall and collect on the tracks, the grass, the gap in the door. The soft whir of the heating fan; rustling of hay; breathing. There was much to burn and lighting a single end of the forest was only going to be the start of an island in flames.
"What if... I don't ever get it back. If I can never make anything like how it used to taste." I turned to him for a glimpse of his eyes. Checking the waves. "Nothing from me. None of it. No chicken, no soup, no eggs, not even lotus chips." He didn't look very different. "You're not disappointed? You not... gonna leave or something?"
His face stayed exactly the same for a good fifteen seconds or so until the chill in the air hardened and then altogether disappeared in an instant. Behind the glass, his eyes were heated waves. Bubbling.
"Leave?" He sounded like I was absurd. "And, disappoint—well firstly, Leroy, my feelings for you have nothing to do with whether or not I will be able to taste your food so I am inclined to believe the presence of some great, magnificent misunderstanding between you and I.
"Tasting your food is strictly speaking, well, the job of a food critic, assessing the head chef of a restaurant you seem to think you will have in the future, or some sort. The job of the me, that is, as myself, is to eat the food made by you, for me. And not anyone else but me. Just, me, as a matter fact. In a private space... preferably a nice little apartment. I say preferably but should we be somehow unable to afford an apartment, then a rented, shabby little hut would be just as good.
"And second of all, just as I have mentioned multiple times over the course of the last couple of months, I am fond of you—not because of your cooking, let alone the fact that you are extremely good at it, but, because, w-well... because of reasons other than your ability to produce palatable dishes.
"Rationally speaking, if you'd be so much of an idiot to assume that I'd fallen for you because of your superior culinary skills, then, perhaps, you'd be horrified to know that I've had much better tasting dishes in the past fifteen years of my life than yours! Uncle Al is not a critic for no proper reason, and I have, indeed, paid several visits to Michelin-star restaurants and had had spectacular home-cooked food alike. Should culinary aptitude have some miraculous part in my reasons for love, should that be the case, then I might as well have swooned over the head chefs of those restaurants o-or or or said silly romantic things to them as I am currently saying to you! Well? Do I do that? No!
"I like you for... for reasons that are... rather private. Like the fact that you understand me on a level that no one else has. And that you listen to me. My rambling. Like so." He gestured to the now. "And that you are stubborn, and that makes you awfully determined. That you are willing to sacrifice bits of yourself for the good of the people that you love. Things like that. I-it also doesn't help that you have an incredibly attractive face and a... rather... decent torso that, um, happens to resemble bread rolls.
"But even without these features, should you question my motivations for being so affectively moved by someone by the name of Leroy Cox, I'd like you to know that... reasons for love can very well be... be strangely incoherent and sound perfectly nonsensical at times, especially in the case where rational thought and unexplainable phenomena cross paths and that is precisely where feelings seem to stand, at times. Not even between reason and instinct—elevated to a point whereby... well, whereby I, a walking dictionary, cannot put into words."
He came to a stop, breathing hard and under the white lights filtering in from the window of the racetrack, the gentle spark of flowing water in a creak. He looked away, needing some time to regain his composure. I wasn't in a state to respond either. His words were big. Heavy. Much more than I ever thought they could weigh.
No way in hell could I ever wrap my head around deserving the person that he was. No way in fuck.
"This... this isn't very like you at all," he said, removing his glasses and passing the back of his hand over his eyes. I reached over to help. "Words like 'leaving' and, and disappointment. Perhaps your father said something to you the time you rushed off to the hospital. Something you aren't quite keen on revealing to me either.
"Perhaps whatever happened last night with myself, you must have somehow made an insane leap in logic to arrive at a conclusion for the necessary blaming of yourself." He sniffed, removing my hand from his face and staring at the glowing grills of heat. "That, and perhaps something else, too, occurred during the bonus round which furthered your concerns. Although judging from your apparent omitting of the truth in several past occasions, I'm inclined to believe that this isn't the kind of truth you'd be keen on telling me either."
"Vanilla."
I had him face me, but his gaze remained low. Elsewhere.
The chill was different this time around. I'd never really seen the surface of a frozen lake so indifferent and unreflective of the person staring into it. I hadn't been very honest. The gaps in our knowledge of each other were finally showing.
"Sometimes... I'm weak, too." I told him. "Just like everyone else. Sometimes, I can't be like you. Brave enough to always be telling the truth, 'cuz I'm not."
The moment I'd said this, it sounded wrong. It wasn't exactly what I'd thought it would sound like. Or what I thought it was going to be, to him. He looked up. Lips pale and dry. Something in him was shivering. I put the chef's jacket on him but still, he trembled.
"W-well I... I mean I thought we were fairly unafraid of being honest with each other. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that—"
"It's not that." I had to clarify off the bat. He wasn't the problem. "I wasn't kidding when I said that you overestimate me, or whatever I am." Wait. "No, not you, overestimating. I'm the one not meeting the... never mind. It's okay to have ideals, like that I'm always going to be honest—"
"Ideals?" Ah, fuck. His eyes were wide. "Of all people, Leroy, you should know that I am the most realistic, most practical robot to ever exist! You being honest isn't an ideal, it's... you are sincere and truthful—"
"Yeah but that doesn't mean I don't ever lie," I tried, quietly. Restrained. Flickering fast. "Or that I don't ever decide not to tell you something." This wasn't the crash; wasn't the burn I wanted it to be.
Kill the flame
"Well if you're doing that because you wish to protect my feelings, then I believe I've made clear to you that you are allowed to hurt me with the truth and that I will never hold it against you if you do because I—"
Kill it now
"Don't want to." Stop it. "I don't want to hurt you even if you say it's okay. I hurt when you hurt. It's the one thing I wish you would get sometimes."
It was forest fires all around. Flames and ashes, smoke and smog, rising into the night sky against the falling snow and turning flakes into rain that could, at least, put out the glowing waves of heat, red and fiery, furthered by the wind.
"I fucked up. And I'm fucking up now. Too. Like I do with pretty much everything," I think I laughed. "I nearly killed some classmate of yours with a frying pan. I lied about it so that I wouldn't get expelled. I told Chen to hide it from you. I don't tell you about my dad because he's the whole reason I blamed your uncle in the first place. I couldn't forget about you. I basically made you think that coming here was your voluntary choice, but I told your uncle to get you here. I practically told Pierre to go fuck himself. Allan found out about the thing with your classmates. I'm probably going to get expelled. I don't like cooking. I like you. I don't even want to be a chef. Just, your chef."
===================
Can I stay
Should I freeze
What a pleasant idea it might sound to the majority; the act of slowing time or perhaps the notion of stopping it completely. To have things preserved in its pristine, original state of preferable bliss—where times were pleasant and at their peak of joy and all things good. Was I good?
It seemed to be the case that the art of ethical goodness had its own colour of extremes, in which the wholeness and seeming purity of white (a multitude of shades) was up against the precise absence of everything. Of a dark, abysmal void I, for one, would never be able to understand.
For all intents and purposes, whiteness was the colour of the lens I'd often see the world through. It is comparable to looking up at the sky from the bottom of a lake, through a sheet of ice on the surface of it all, the only thing that separated deep waters from the above. White is not an ideal, contrary to what many others may think.
It is a shade of indifference and objectivity; of having all colours and none at the same time.
These lenses provide nothing more than truth and fairness to all that I could experience, and even in times like these, there would be a struggle to determine what was right and wrong, the truth of it all.
Flames stemming from a single spark of life, could it somehow have been the fault of the cold? Was it wrong to desire warmth in the presence of winter? Was it selfish to burn in the face of snow? Would he have struggled to contain his flame had I not returned in a season's change?
It is not a terrible idea to think about 'what if's, prospective futures, endless possibilities of simulated alternative realities, parallel universes in which candles would burn freely without having to mind the melting of snow.
To be the object of such love and affection, dedication and loyalty, was of unspeakable, tremendous honour and responsibility. To be reasons for one's motivations—him wanting to become a chef, years of struggle and suffering, every emotional trigger and perhaps even played a part in his current condition of his taste—was to sit on the other end of the seesaw. To be granted that access, to be given one's all, to be weighed. On equal grounds.
Could it be that even with all the forces of the world, of whatever defying of gravity that each other's seesawing responsibilities may have done onto the other, that despite it all—they were not meant to be?
Given a choice, I would have liked to go on with the crunch of red leaves underneath our feet, listening to the sound of company and the never-ending up and down that was the very reason for a dream that could have been more. Much more.
Given a choice, I'd very much rather spend the rest of my life listening to that creak;
arguing about the taste of vanilla.