"I finished that diversion program with no problems. You know that."

"Oh, this isn't about you. It's about Monster, and it's about why I want to quit this job. I don't want be responsible for the s.h.i.t that happens."

"Quit this job? I don't get you at all! You bring me in, then decide I'm not right for the position, and now you tell me you're gonna quit."

"Don't get so p.i.s.sed off. If I get the call that he wants to offer you the job, I'm not going to disagree. I'm not that kind of b.i.t.c.h. I'm just being up front. You need to know what you're getting into."

"What are you talking about? What am I getting into?"

"You'll see. You'll have to see how this place works. You'll know soon enough if you've got the stomach for it."

The phone rang and she s.n.a.t.c.hed it up with a crisp, "Bridget here."

I walked outside before hearing the verdict; would I live or die? Was I hired or was I flying back to the halfway house to finish probation? But at that moment I just wanted to be outside, feeling the sun on my skin, whatever the h.e.l.l would happen.

Silence, solitude, and breathable air, that's all I wanted, not exactly a miracle, but I guess this nightmare of a job is what I deserved.

I'm the cook; what goes on beyond the locked door of this bungalow is not my concern. I turn up music, keep lights burning all through the night.

Safe.

No one cares about the cook, that's what I count on. I keep the door locked and I try not to leave, not anymore, after dark.

Cold.

This bungalow is torture, even in the spring. No matter how many logs I toss into the barely functional woodstove, heat slips through the walls like the mice when I turn on the light. I came with few clothes-two white tunics, a couple of thick sweaters, jeans, and T-shirts. I wear both sweaters to bed, all the socks I can fit on. Coldest I've ever been is spring in the mountains of Santa Ynez. Some nights I can't bring myself to get out of bed to use the toilet, just grit my teeth and endure until I can't stand it.

You'd think somebody as rich as Monster would insulate these bungalows, might have some idea that his employees are suffering. Even so, I should have been better prepared, should have known, paid more attention to what I was getting myself into. A man of Monster's stature probably spends his time plotting world conquest, opening a Planet Monster in Bali or something fantastic, not worrying about the frigid temperature of an employee's bungalow. Maybe that's why the last chef quit, fingers so numb she couldn't dice.

Another gla.s.s of a Santa Ynez Cabernet Sauvignon and I'm still feeling the cold, though it's not as sharp. I told myself I was through with twelve-step anything, I can't feel good about getting wasted. Numb is good and warm, but numb turns sour, numb gets you arrested, numb gets you a judge deciding what's best for you, and I can't stand to live through another diversion program. I pour the rest of the wine down the drain. I swore to myself that I would get high on life only and leave killing myself a little each day alone.

I know these extensive, meandering grounds well, but on a moonless night it's almost impossible to stay on the trail. A step in the wrong direction and you're in the middle of scrub brush and blood thorns that rib all sides of Monster's estate. Easily enough you can end up blindly wandering in the wilderness among coyotes, black bears, mountain lions, whatever.

See.

You must walk away from the light into the darkness.

The other direction isn't an option. The closer you get to the big house the more likely the lights will go on, blinding lights that'll make you feel like a frog ready to be scooped into a sack. Then you'll hear the sound of the heavy steps of Security as they converge, shouting commands. It's been worse after some nameless stalker managed, after repeated attempts, to sneak into Monster's Lair Lairon some psychotic mission. Someone, maybe even Monster, came up with the Lair Lairas the name for this place. Heard it's trademarked, and he's going to use it for his next CD, whenever he gets that done. Clever, I guess, but I don't know. Supposedly, he's been having a h.e.l.l of a time, the music won't flow at Monster's Lair Lair. Maybe it's the name, it's not conducive to creativity. Try telling someone you live and work at Monster's Lair Lairand they laugh. Withthat lunatic? How is that? What kind of craziness goes on there? Withthat lunatic? How is that? What kind of craziness goes on there?

I can't answer.

They never did catch the trespa.s.ser, supposedly a loser from Monster's past who's plagued him since long before he built this playland. I used to enjoy my nightly walks, but that was before enhanced lighting and the dogs. Security lets them run the grounds to get the lay of the land.

Once, I saw Monster walking alone in the middle of a pack of trained attack dogs like he was f.u.c.king Saint Francis of a.s.sisi Security trailed behind him, skulking near the bushes, maintaining that illusion of privacy he demands. The dogs smelled me, and though I was trying to back away from the encounter, too late, they charged forward, frothing and kicking sod.

Monster looked for a moment like he had no idea of who I was, the man he hired to cook for him and his family. I raised my walking stick to bash a dog before the others mauled me, but an impulse of self-preservation kicked in and I shouted my name just as the dogs charged.

"It's me, Gibson! The cook!"

Security shouted something in German, and the dogs stopped in mid-stride.

I heard Monster's voice, high and nasal, a near whine: "Oh, you scared me."

"Sorry," I said, and hurried on in the opposite direction. I caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight-bundled in a parka, though that night the temperature was mild, walking with hands clasped behind his back, serenely in thought. Security caught up and escorted me back to my bungalow, which was more and more a jail cell and less the attractive perk of a rent-free cottage in the beautiful Santa Ynez mountains, the selling point to compensate for a modest salary. Security looked me in the eye and told me to watch it, don't forget who pays the bills.

"Monster does," I said, nodding to show, even if Security wasn't buying it, that I was a team player. It didn't go well. He looked for a second as though I might be jerking his chain, then turned to go, but not before jotting down something in a small gray notebook. I'm sure some notation scheduling another background check.

I didn't mind.

When you work for someone with great wealth you learn quickly that you really do serve them.

You learn to be blind, deaf, and dumb, if that's what they need.

Monster needs all that.

Sometimes I see things that don't add up, that make me nervous.

I wanted isolation, but not like this.

The night sky has too many stars; the moon hangs like a gaudy lantern illuminating a path to my bungalow.

I've never felt so alone.

I know what goes on there, behind those hedges, those walls, gates, and sensors.

He's a monster and every day I serve him.

I'm not inclined toward depression, upbeat and all that is how folks describe me, but that was because of the drugs.

Married, living on the Lower East Side in a nice co-op, part owner of Euro Pane, a restaurant with witty angular (the publicist came up with that), Puglia-inspired cuisine that people wanted to spend good hard cash on, you'd think I'd be more than happy, but in truth it was too much for me. Maybe I couldn't stand prosperity, and with things going so well I knew my luck couldn't continue on the upside, something would give and I'd find myself flat on my face. Instead of waiting, I went for it, leaped for the pipe and returned to a long-dormant cocaine habit. If I needed to make an excuse, more so to myself than anyone else, I could offer that the restaurant was overwhelming, and I needed relief from the day-to-day, week-to-week, month-to-month, relentless grind, the kind where you wake yourself with the sound of your teeth grinding. The kind of stress that makes a man long for a hit off a crack pipe.

Ten years ago when I indulged in smoking a little cocaine, I handled it, but now was different. Then it was about staying up to dawn, for the second day, clubbing until I was sick of the whole idea of clubbing. Working and playing, trying to have everything, and it worked until I couldn't stand living like that. I gave it up, put down the pipe and cocaine easily. Proved to myself that cocaine didn't have me by the b.a.l.l.s. Suddenly I noticed I had so much more money in my bank account, and I met Elena, fell in love, and that was that. It really was a good thing, and I handled it smoothly so smoothly I had it in the back of my mind that I could do it again. It wouldn't be no thing. But, I guess, s.h.i.t has a way of catching up with you after a while. My addiction was like a cancer cell, dormant, kicking it until the conditions were right. Probably, the truth is I don't have the same discipline or const.i.tution. I'm not that young man who could do that, keep it going, burning myself out in every direction. Soon enough I lost the restaurant to my partner, and my wife found my f.u.c.ked-up, vulgar habit reason enough to leave me. I don't blame her. She didn't marry a fiend, I became one, it just took time for me to discover it, my inclination toward self-immolation. I call it that, the suicidal impulse to consume yourself with a Bic lighter. I'd see myself burned out, gone, a neat pile of ashes, but that's more acceptable to my imagination than the vision of myself as a pathetic, cracked-lip panhandler, a martyr to the pipe.

Maybe I wanted to fail, see how far I could fall.

Far and hard.

Lucifer had nothing on me.

Being broke is like having a b.l.o.o.d.y mouth and loose teeth and there's not a thing you can do about it, except stand it.

How does that song go?

"A knife, a fork, a bottle, and a cork-that's the way we spellNew York ... I got Cocaine running around my brain."

Something like that, but I'm not judging.

I thought I could master my high. I wish I had the courage to have stayed in the city for everyone to see me living in a halfway house, trying to rea.s.semble the remaining shards of self-respect.

What if I ran into her, Elena, my wife?

It's wrong to say that, we're more divorced than married, but far as I'm concerned she still is. Funny how memory works. When you don't fill it with anything new, it replays what maybe you don't want replayed.

My mind replays Elena.

Short, with hair like the blackest ink, strong legs and a.s.s, a delicate face, almost j.a.panese, like a geisha in a Ukiyo-e print.

Pa.s.sionate about love and making money and everything else.

Pa.s.sionate about hating me.

I still love her, though it's hopeless to think she'll ever love me again. I want her back more than the restaurant, a reputation, everything, but it will never happen, not in this life and not the next.

Left with nothing, other than to lie in bed and think about what I've done, hurt the woman I love and lost her, didn't consider the consequences back then, didn't have bouts of guilt, didn't consider anything. It was about me, about what's good for the head. You know, the head. A selfish b.i.t.c.h, that's the truth about me. About me, that's all it ever was, my love was a fraud, my professionalism a joke, my self-respect, delusion.

And I'll never get it back; you'd think I'd find the courage to do something dramatic, maybe kill myself or find G.o.d. No, I indulged in self-pity, waiting to be saved from myself.

Elena partied hard, but you know, it didn't get to her. She did it all-heroin, c.o.ke, ecstasy-but when she was through with it, she was through. Maybe it was yoga or the StairMaster, but mostly it was because Elena wanted a baby, and she's that type of person, so directed and focused that she didn't stop to think that the rest of the world, and by that I mean me, might not be able to live the way she managed to. It took forever for her to see that I had a weakness. Never raised an eyebrow when, after a sharing a few lines, I excused myself to go to the bathroom to do a few more. She even laughed when she saw me fumbling to put everything away, hastily brushing white powder from my face, more evidence of my lack of control.

It was funny in a way. She should have noticed that I was craving, fiending, whatever you want to call it. I had started my downward journey, my decline-in it to win it, a new life consisting of one long, sustained need to stay high.

My recollection of conversations with Elena replay themselves, and I listen to myself ruin my marriage.

"We're four months behind on the mortgage?" Elena asked.

"No, I don't think it's that far along. Maybe two months," I replied.

"What happened to the money? We'll lose the apartment."

"Things got away from me. I'm sure we can put something together to work this out."

"What are the chances of that happening?" I shrugged. I didn't want to lie to her.

"Do you know what you're doing to us, the fact that you can't control yourself? Why don't you admit it, stop being in denial."

She looked at me with smoldering, black eyes.

"You need professional help."

"I don't have that kind of problem."

"You're forcing me-no, you're giving me no choice but to leave you."

"Come on," I said. "We'll work this out."

This time she laughed bitterly.

"Sure we will," she said, but we both knew that was a lie.

After that she moved in with a friend and refused to talk to me, but that particular humiliation didn't sting much because later that week in court I pled guilty and was sentenced to nine months in a minimum-security prison.

In some sense I was content to be going, having done enough damage to my self-esteem that I wanted to crawl away into a corner and wait for the room to stop spinning. And when it did, I woke up to the humiliation of getting processed, prepped, and more to go to the place to do my time. My only regret is that I wasn't high during that humiliation.

The days inside prison weren't totally unpleasant. They had a good enough library, and I spent time lifting weights for the first time in my life. That's it, I thought, do positive things for myself while incarcerated and avoid being raped, but in a minimum-security prison, the only thing I had to worry about was getting athlete's foot in the shower.

I had hoped to hear from Elena at some point, but after months had pa.s.sed, I began to wonder if I would.

When I was released and moved to the halfway house, she wrote and said she would be coming to visit so I could sign the papers.

Divorce papers.

I tried not to allow those words to rise to the surface. I waited with far too much hope on that moment when she'd appear at the door of the halfway house to be shown inside by one of the workers, who would sign her in and bring me out to sit across from her on the worn couch. Me, smiling stupidly, thinking, feverishly hoping, that her seeing me again would jar something loose and she'd want to forget about the divorce. It was what it was, paperwork.

She wore all black, tight wool skirt and a sweater that looked good on her, but she kept her arms crossed, probably remembering how much I liked her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I don't think she ever smiled. Talked to me about some issues, bankruptcy, insurance policy. Nothing I was interested in. I was interested in her, but that was dead.

I was dead to her.

She took it personally, like I had rejected her for cocaine, but it wasn't like that.

How did she ask it?

"How could you be so f.u.c.king stupid? Getting yourself arrested buying crack on the subway?"

I shrugged. I guess if it was the first time, she might have been able to excuse it, but it wasn't.

To this day I don't know how stupid I am. I don't think I've plumbed the depths of my stupidity, and when I do, I plan to get back to her. I'll have charts and graphs, a PowerPoint demonstration.

I ruined my life, I know that, last thing I wanted to do was betray her, but I was good at that, too, excelled at it, even. Asha, the woman who ran the halfway house, realized I could cook South Asian. Being Gujarati she was surprised that I made a better bindi, spiced eggplant, than her mother. She discovered that I could stay in seclusion in a sweltering kitchen cooking up meals for the dozen or so losers that lived at the halfway house. I labored away in silent grief, working with old vegetables, day-old bread, not much meat, which pleased Asha because she didn't like the smell, some chicken, beans, lots of beans. I came up with meal after meal through backbreaking efficiency and invention. When I wasn't cooking, I cleaned. I scoured that kitchen, boiled water, added cupfuls of caustic soap, cleaned the filthy ceiling, cleaned everything. Made it spotless, and kept it that way as long as I was there, my six months climbing out of the black hole of my life.

Cooking and cleaning and not thinking was a meditative balm. I hated when thoughts would slither in on their own and have their way with me. Grief caught me slipping, I needed to see her. Thought of leaving, blowing the whole thing off, my contract with the halfway house staff, to make a run to see her, force her to listen to me.

I'd go to prison, and I had sense enough to know I didn't want that. Maybe I might have tried, maybe prison would have been worth it, if I got her to listen to me, but in reality I had no words left to beg with.

I was out of prayers and I was sick of lighting candles to the saint of hopeless causes.

She was gone, maybe here, probably some other city.

"It's for the best," my caseworker said, when I confessed why I wouldn't talk in therapy.

"It's not about the drugs. It's about losing my wife."

"Drugs are why you lost her. You drove her away."