True As It Can Be - 5. Chapter 5

Chip takes me to the dining area. The smell of food fills the air, but my thoughts are still stuck on the revelations I learned. Francis lost his sight due to Brad. Gary knew Francis, because Francis used to be part of his football team, until he became critically injured during a game that cost him his eyesight. I’ve heard the stories of traumatic injuries in high school sports, especially football since you are supposed to leave nothing on the field. If I take Francis and Gary’s words together, they obliquely hint that Brad and Gary knew each other and were part of the same team. I know what caused Francis’ blindness, but what caused Brad’s injuries? My mind quickly connected it to Gary Gaston, but why would he do that to someone like Brad? They were both rich and athletic. There’s a complex relationship and backstory there, but I still cannot explain everything away.

I am seated at the empty far end next to Paki and Chip, while Warren, Min, and Francis sat across from us. Mrs. Potter sat next to Cook at the opposite end of the table, leaving an empty seat adjacent me and Warren. As the wooden chair appears to still shine with a coat of wooden varnish, it has probably never been used. I can guess that it was meant for Brad.

After a few moments at my seat, the food on the table becomes too enticing to ignore as we are waiting to start dinner, but there are things I have never seen before, or at least in the configuration they were arranged on the plates. There is a dish of fried bite-size items with a beige sauce next to it, which I presume are the catfish bites I heard Chip chiming about earlier. There is a tray of breadcrumb coated eggplants, but they did not have the customary red tomato sauce I was accustomed seeing at Italian takeout places, instead a rich white creamy sauce with a fragrance of herbs and pungent spices covered them. Another tray lays parallel to the eggplant, it is filled with Cornbread with what appears to be green peppers embedded inside. A large bowl of rice is located at the center filled with an unusual combination of chicken and shrimp with black-eyed peas.

I know that a bunch of the guys in the house probably came from other countries, like Paki, but there’s something very familiar about this kind of food. I’ve never encountered any of this stuff before in Minnesota, nor during the last few months in New England with access to a college cafeteria and local takeout places.

Cook, noticing my awe at the dishes, answers my unspoken question, “Pardon me, Beau, but I see your sights are caught at the gander of these delicacies. Have you ever had Cajun cooking before?”

I shake my head, “No sir, what country do they come from? I see rice, I see breadcrumb coated eggplants, cornbread with peppers, and fried fish with a strong spicy scent.”

Cook smiles at me, “Well, I don’t think Louisiana is its own country, but you may think it is compared to the rest of the states with this food. My cooking comes from a melting pot of French, Spanish, English, and African cuisines. It’s what America should probably be on a plate rather than stupid Hamburgers and Fried Chicken from a fast-food place, at least to me.”

I’ve heard about Louisiana, I think. It’s a southern state right next to Florida on the coast, where the city of New Orleans is located. I don’t really know that much about their food or the people, except the stereotypes about southerners. Cook does not appear to resemble the stereotypical southerner nor is his speech that slurred. His complexion is slightly darker than my own. He has raven black hair and a few wrinkles, but his body did not appear that aged. There was a politeness to his demeanor and a professionalism to his words that appealed to me, like he could be a kind uncle, who is ready to dispense life lessons or offer advice about issues.

I return his smile, “Thank you sir for the wonderful meal, what should I call you? Everyone here seems to call you cook? Are you a professional chef?”

A round of laughter bursts out around the table, except for Chip, who speaks up after the laughter dies down, “Nope, we call him Cook, because he likes to cook. He’s good at it and does it for us, but he’s actually a doctor. My mom is a really smart nurse, but Cook is a really smart Psychiatrist. His real name is Evan Hooker, he’s 35 and gay like us. His boyfriend died years ago, because some people hung him to a…”

Mrs. Potter interjects her son from revealing too much, “Chip, what have I told you about revealing too much about other people’s personal lives?”

Chip blushed and uncharacteristically gives a short reply, “Yes, mom.”

Cook, or should I say Dr. Hooker’s reaction, briefly falters, but his smile returns, “It’s alright Angela, Chip is only telling the truth and I did encourage him to do so,” he shifts his focus on me, “Yeah, I am a doctor of Psychiatry, meaning I’m quite familiar with mental health issues and general medicine. I do prefer to be called Cook, rather than Doctor or Mister Hooker. It’s a pet-peeve I developed as a child due to the connotations of my last name and the fact of me working in my family’s restaurant growing up on the Bayou. I am a single gay male, my partner was killed in a hate crime outside a small town, years ago.”

I nod at the latest revelation, not sure how to reply, so I focused on the areas I could easily approach, “So, you live here with everyone, cook the food, and psychoanalyze people or something?”

Cook considers my points for a moment before answering, “I do live here and I prefer cooking, in order to engage everyone in social interaction. However, I am not performing psychoanalysis on anyone actively. Consider me to be someone you can talk to without fear or negative reflection,” he looks around the table, “I think we should start the pre-dinner acknowledgements before we get sidelined too far in discussions. Beau, we have a tradition here of introducing 1 positive event that happened during a day before eating dinner. Christians used to say grace, Muslims had prayers at sunset, and Buddhists had evening prayers, but in our modern world, many people have ceased the old traditions. It’s not the religious ritual that matters most in those actions before meals, but the positivity that acknowledging there’s hope and good outcomes, which supports mental wellbeing. Why don’t you start?”

I think back to my day, the sad departure from my dorm room with Morris, the encounter with Gary, and the revelation that the university’s administration accepted Gary’s predatory activities on campus. It was all so negative and cruel. My memory begins to bring forth the words of my dad, when he tossed me out of my childhood home on my 18^th birthday. I remember him calling me a “Faggot” with so much venom and spite. I remember the fear after being beaten by Gary, knowing what he’d likely do to me, when I was on the ground on top of the Blue Rose bush.

Then my thoughts begin to shift, the vibrant unnatural blue roses made me think of Brad’s face. He is a disfigured and horrifyingly cruel Beast, but at the same time, I feel a sense of protection and care from him. I remember Morris’ kindness and his family’s care package, when we became roommates. I remember the kindness of Mrs. Potter from the night before. I remember Chip offering me his favorite T-shirt and jeans. I remember Paki coming to our defense, despite his disadvantage in size and disability. I remember all the new items I received in my room.

I reply to Cook, “I am grateful for all of you, including Brad.”

Cook points to Warren, “and you, Warren?”

Warren’s makeup is less pronounced than Paki, less vibrant, but he is beautiful in his own way. He is effeminate as well, but there’s a different nature to him than Paki, he has far more feminine facial features, but his hair and clothing has more masculine color tones. He’s about 5 feet 9 inches tall of Latino descent, not too skinny or muscular with brown hair that was curlier than my own. He used to be a wrestler, which I’ve always thought was exciting. Being the only sport, where it was okay to be rolling around with another male body on top of you or you on top of him with friction, I just feel like it was probably made for gay guys. However, noticing how Warren is wearing a thick glove on his right hand and skin-tight compression clothing under normal clothes, I guess he can’t enjoy that anymore. His burned skin on the right side of his face and body in general would indicate he’s sensitive to his surroundings. In a way, his injuries remind me of the Beast’s deformities.

Warren sighs, “I am grateful for the new aloe skin ointment. Min, it’s your turn.”

Min, who sits in his wheelchair next to Warren, stares guiltily at me, “I am grateful for not inconveniencing you Beau. Francis, it is your turn.”

I want to protest the statement, because Min had no obligation to help me earlier. Why does he feel guilty about that? There’s something about Min, a sadness that I do not understand. While in his wheel chair he’s already the same height as Warren. He has jet black hair and a muscular torso. Being a former baseball player, I can see the athletic build in his upper body especially his arms, but there’s a hesitancy in his gestures. Based on his features and last name, he’s probably of Japanese descent.

I haven’t really been around either Min or Warren, but there have their own stories. I’d like to know more about their pasts as well, if they are willing to share it.

Francis snorts, “I am grateful for Paki. Mrs. Potter, it’s your turn.”

Mrs. Potter gleefully smiles at me, “I am grateful Beau has a safe place to stay. Cook, it’s you now.”

Cook agrees, “I am grateful my cooking turned out so well. Paki, will you do us the honor.”

Paki laughs, “I’m grateful for this lovely new eye shadow I created. Chip, keep it short umncinci, we don’t want this food to get cold.”

Chip places his hand against his chin as if to concentrate on a simple answer, “I am grateful for the kiss Robby gave me at lunch. He tasted like chocolate milk and pizza, which is what we had for lunch on Fridays and…”

Paki ruffles Chip’s brown hair to interrupt him, “…and now it’s time to eat right, Chip.”

Chip looks at the food, then smiles at Paki, and nods without uttering another word. Paki is a direct guy, but he wasn’t being hurtful towards Chip in their interactions. I can enjoy listening to Chip speaking for hours on end, giving me commentary and anecdotes in his ADHD-Autistic preteen mind, but it is dinner after all. There’s a brotherly bond between Paki and Chip, it’s cute to see Paki keep Chip in check.

The food has every kind of flavor, but the most pronounced flavor was spices. Cook passed around a pitcher of ice tea, sweetened to perfection. For a guy who considered KFC and Pizza to be exotic, Cajun cuisine must be from another galaxy. That’s the thing though, it’s an American cuisine, but few people in America ever get to enjoy it.

Dinner is quiet for the most part, but it isn’t an uncomfortable silence, until we started hearing the wailing. At first, I thought it was just an animal outside the house, but then I detected the sounds were much closer like an echo within the house itself. However, everyone around the table seem to ignore the wailing as it continues, they do not comment on it, except with glances at one another. I consider the options and know who it might be, but want to be certain.

As I swallow my last piece of delicious eggplant, I ask, “Is that Brad?”

Cook becomes serious, “Yeah, he’s going through severe withdrawal, right now. I had to tie him down in his bed earlier. It’s quite a process, slowly escalating until this point every week. He’s hurting bad from the medicine’s symptoms.”

My voice quivers as the wailing of pain intensifies, “Is the Methadone really necessary for him?”

He nods, “Yeah, it was necessary for what happened.”

Warren scoffs, “He could go in for surgery to fix everything. Cosmetic for his face, muscle repair surgery for his body, and probably some kind of surgery for what they did to his ass. Cook’s job is to help push him to make that choice, informed fucking consent and shit. He’s got an out with all that money; unlike the rest of us, who have to live our lives cursed like we are with shit we can’t change about ourselves.”

I focus on the last piece of Warren’s statement about Brad, “What they did to his ass?”, everything just connected all at once, “Gary Gaston raped him!”

The room falls silent for a moment, until Francis chimes in without the bitterness he usually holds for Brad, “That’s the most likely scenario. He loved…had his heart set on the prick for years. The police couldn’t find anything on what happened. His parents couldn’t dig deeper into Gary. He wouldn’t talk about his assault. No evidence and uncooperative victim meant no case. The prick probably planned this all out, because Brad…”, Francis realizes he is using his real name for the first time, then corrects, trying to desperately hold on to his anger as Brad’s screams of anguish echoes, “The Beast would be in the backup position right now instead of Gary for QB2 and RB2.”

I’m shocked by all of this, “You all know this shit, but you’re still sitting here. Isn’t there someone he can go to?”

Mrs. Potter sighs, “As you can see Beau with our efforts today, the administration like any other authority that could be reached is beholden to the Gaston family. Brad’s family, the Brooks, may be wealthier by far, but wealth alone is not enough to offset influence built up over generations.”

Everyone at the table bow their head, except for Chip, who surprisingly holds his head high and grabs another spicy cornbread. Brad continues wailing from his bedroom throughout our silence. None of us have Chip’s innocence or sincerity to continue eating the wonderful meal in front of us; though most of it was already finished by this point. I left the table for my new bedroom soon after the confirmation. I begin to unpack my books and clothes into the appropriate shelves and drawers. As I pick one book up, I had an idea to do something for Brad. I am not a doctor or nurse, who can help with his pain or withdrawal symptoms, but I still want to help him. I am not sure if it’s smart or not, but I wanted desperately to do something for Brad. Everyone, except Cook, seem to have given up on him or accepted the ugly reality he has to live with, maybe Brad is the same. Truth is necessary to fight illusion, but it should never be accepted to the point of despair.

I leave my room with a book in hand and approach Brad’s room downstairs, the door was unlocked and I enter. I can barely make out he outlines of Brad strapped to his bed loudly wailing in agony. I know he’s tied down and Cook has a camera keeping an eye on everything, I hope he’s okay with this impulsive decision.

He pauses his wailing and stares at me, “Beau, what the fuck are you doing here? I need that asshole Hooker or Mrs. Potter with the Methadone. It feels so bad right now, I need...”

I cleared my throat to speak, “I heard you and want to be here. I want to…read this to you, it made me feel better when my parents stopped talking or caring about me. I’m not a doctor or a nurse, but I can do this for you.”

He groans as another wave of agony wraps his body, “What can a book do for me? If it’s the Bible, God can go fuck himself. If you want to be helpful, why don’t you use your beautiful lips on my dick?”

I checked out his crotch area and sure enough, it was tented. I cannot deny that the thought of getting in between his legs and sucking him off didn’t appeal to me, but I don’t know if it’s him wanting me or if it’s a reaction to the drugs. I really need to dig up my old biology report and see what the side-effects of methadone withdrawal was. Besides, he said it himself, I am not his type.

I lay a hand on his shoulder and tell him softly, “No, it’s not what I want, nor what you really want from me. You said it yourself.”

He breaks out in a wide grin and laughs, “You believed me, you think I would let you stay here just to take care of the blue roses and clean up after me. I’d be tearing off your clothes and fucking you against the wall, right now. I want you Beau; I want you bad.”

I am shaken by the admission and a little afraid, but remembered last night, “You could have done a lot to me last night after what Gary did. Why didn’t you do that stuff?” Brad didn’t reply except with another loud wailing.

I locate a mesh plastic rolling chair with a backrest, make myself comfortable, and place it near the bed, “I’m guessing you probably have heard of this book or seen the movies. Sometimes people need to just escape the horrors of their world, the seemingly inescapable reality they live in to face their problems and rise above them. At least, it’s what I got from the book. The author was homeless when she wrote it.”

Brad grunts at me, “I read plenty of books: Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince, Robert Greene’s The 48 Laws of Power. Reality is what it is, just like our physical needs and desires. People do whatever shit they need to get ahead, good and evil are just a matter of perspective between the winners and losers. That’s the truth, it all comes down to winners and losers, there’s no middle ground for fantasy in reality.”

Now it was my turn to laugh at him, “Really, your view on life is so bleak. Are you sure you haven’t read fantasy novels? You just quoted Cersei Lannister,” I begin pitching my voice slightly, “She said this in the first book,” When you play the game of thrones you win, or you die. There is no middle ground.” That truth can’t be what life should be based upon, it just leads to endless conflict and ultimately mutual destruction, since everyone is just out for themselves to be on some throne of their own.”

He groans in agony, “And what can that book you hold in your hand teach me? How to make friends who will follow me on absurd adventures, fight monsters, and ride broomsticks in some sport that looks stupid when people try it in real-life….”

I ignore his protests and begin reading to him, “Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived: Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…”

He wails occasionally, groans with my attempt at a British accent, and makes comments about my lips being of better use on his cock. Yet, eventually, he subsides and there is something new between us, a calmness that I can only describe as “peace”. Maybe, this was a terrible idea on my part, but the moment of peace between us, as I am reading to him the sorting hat scene in the great hall, removes any doubt in my mind. He needed this, needed a reminder that life isn’t just a cold calculated series of events happening. At some point, Brad falls asleep. Eventually, I close my eyes as dreams of a magical world overtakes my reality, too.