White Goals

Happy wouldn't be what Matthew would call himself, but he was content. Distracted perhaps, with his work as a head chef that allowed him to take his mind away from the on-goings of the outside world.

The best Chefs tend to be the first to arrive into their kitchen and the last to leave. This is what Matthew was taught and he still lived by this principal, he spent most days stowed away in his cramped kitchen downtown.

The kitchen was his world, his universe. Sixteen hours a day working over blazing stoves would dictate that.

Although Matthew was now of age where it would probably be wise to make time, find himself a life partner and maybe raise a child, or two.

Nonetheless he briefly wondered to himself where all the time had gone, then the answer stared him right in the face at four o'clock in the morning when he unlocked the back door of his kitchen with his keys. A flick of a light switch would illuminate premises.

No one else was to arrive until at least another four or five hours. For a cook, this was always the best part of the day. The quiet before the storm, if you like. He would cherish the peaceful tranquility of the place before customers, kitchen porters and waiters would disrupt the serenity.

He opened the rackety old cupboard in the hallway that served as his locker, placing his wallet and keys on the top shelf. He stripped his late father’s silver watch off his wrist and stared at the ticking clock face. The timepiece subliminally made Matthew stroke the small scar on the edge of his eyebrow which served as a permanent souvenir from his father. A time, many years ago where his old man was so drunk that he wasn't accurate enough with his backhand and ended up clipping him on the eyebrow with this very same watch.

The childhood memory made Matthew freeze and reflect for a moment before placing the watch on the top shelf alongside his wallet and keys. Leaving them in blackness as he shut the door.

Now dressed in his Chef whites he was ready to begin his work in preparing for the dining room which should be filled with hungry and fussy diners much later.

Usually downtown, it would be the norm for Chef's to play the radio on in their kitchens or to run some form of audio playlist, but not for Matthew.

The bubbling sound of boiling pots and the delicate sound of his knifes slicing through his god given ingredients was the only music he needed to hear and didn't need it drowning out by anything else. Sometimes for the sake of his fellow kitchen porters he would allow the radio, but only for those rush-hours where he couldn't even hear himself think anyway.

Whatever may be said about the state of working in the restaurant business, one thing Matthew could agree on is that it was never boring. As these long hours would pass, each of them would be different and would pass quickly which gave his days a sort of a roller-coaster effect, from the calm beginnings to the busy peak hours back again to the serenity when it was time to wind down, shut down shop and clean.

*

Just as Matthew slid his finely chopped celery into the boiling stock that he was brewing, he was disturbed abruptly by a sharp rap on the window from outside. The noise made him jump out of his skin.

On the other side of the glass Matthew could just make out in the morning darkness; a frail human with blotchy skin and a figure which was thin and gaunt. He eyes looked pained and in need yet slightly determined at the same time.

The being at the window gestured to the Chef to come speak to him outside which caused the Chef to grab his knife even tighter, only to then realize, on a full second take that under this guy’s thick woolly hat and past his long greasy hair this was no stranger. It was his own younger brother.

Out the back of the kitchen in the cramped and fenced-off courtyard, surrounded by piles of bulging bags of garbage, Matthew stood at the doorway of his kitchen.

Situated on top of a couple of stone steps which was enough to make him tower over his younger brother who he clearly wasn't too appreciative of the visit. Going by the expression on his face.

"What can I do you for, Steven?" the Chef calmly asked his brother. His tone was steady, yet the question itself was a clear message that he was in no real mood for small talk.

"I need your help." Steven said with fearful eyes and scratching away at the hairs under his chin. He stood a troubled figure in the dark only slightly illuminated by the light emanating from the kitchen and from the glow of the streetlamps around.

"I'm not giving you any money, I know what you will do with it, I am not funding your habit again," Matthew's face coiled slightly "Christ, Stevie, you stink to high hell!"

With that Steven reached into the top pocked of his tattered shirt with trembling hands to pull out a scrunched-up packet of cigarettes, he pulled out the last member of smokes only to be visibly disappointed to find it broken and crumbled. Still he stuffed it back in the packet to save the remains for later. Matthew pulled out his own pristine red packet and handed his brother a tab and plucked one out for himself.

Through exhaling the smoke out his nostrils, Matthew queried his brother "Have you paid Mom a visit yet?"

"She has no idea who I am anymore." said Steven hunched and shivering slightly which made his baggy and dishevelled clothes rattle.

"None of us do Stevie, but she's still your mother."

"Well, that's easy for you to say. You were always the favourite," Steven replied with a sarcastic sneer.

"Not true. You were hailed as the clever one out of the two of us, remember?" Matthew allowed a moment for his brother to ponder at the thought. "I held the title of troublemaker whilst you were hailed as the gifted one. I am still yet to meet a better mathematician."

"You must have not met many mathematicians then," quipped Steven. Both couldn't help but share a chuckle over the remark. Matthew would actually feel a slight warmth inside himself when sharing a laugh with his kid brother. Even when Steven did resemble death itself, only slightly warmed-up.

Matthew let out an exasperated sigh. "Listen, I know why you are here, and I mean it. I am not giving you any cash. But if you wait here, I will at least give you something to eat. God knows when the last time was you has a proper meal," he threw his cigarette the ground and stomped it out.

"Can I come in?" Steven asked with a forced innocence to his tone. It was dark and a slight chill did fill the air deep into the early hours of the day, however Matthew would still have none of it. It was summer at least.

"No, you are not to enter this fucking kitchen!" Matthew shot his brother a look which only expressed how deadly serious he was. "You set one foot in my kitchen and I will cut your fucking cockles off, do you understand me?" Matthew clearly still held a high distrust towards his brother.

Steven raised his hands up shoulder-height in a sarcastic surrender, the odour from beneath his armpits was unbearable. "Okay, no need to be hostile."

"We will see about that. Wait here, I won’t fund your crack habit or whatever white substance it is you're into these days, but I'll put food in your belly at least." The Chef grabbed the insides of the door frame and hoisted himself back inside into his kitchen, gliding inside smoothly.

Stevie did as he was told and stayed within the bounds of the concrete courtyard, he scratched at the bristles on his chin and cut a paranoid figure as he looked around the environment anxiously. As if he was being followed.

*

A large kitchen cauldron was dumped in front of Steven and steaming hot water sloshed over the sides as Matthew planted it on the ground. The Chef disappeared back into his kitchen for Steven to see a bar of industrial soap come flying at right him which he caught, followed by two dish towels which he caught, with his face.

"Not exactly fancy body wash, but it will certainly do," said Matthew, as his brother again looked around as if he was being watched. "Don't worry, it's fine, just lock the fence. No one can see in here and no one comes bye at this hour"

Steven remained looking nervous as his older brother gestured towards the steaming pot. "Wash yourself. Then we can eat!"

Steven stripped with reluctance down to his underwear and squatted in front of the pot right there in a darkened courtyard. He used his hands to rinse himself all over and to work the bar of industrial soap to rid the grime off his skinny frame whilst Matthew continued to work inside.

*

After some time, the chef emerged from his kitchen with a couple of bowls of steaming hot soup and fresh bread rolls to go with. Steven now dressed again and despite looking damp he looked miles better after a scrub. He still cut a nervous image, biting away at his nails. Matthew nodded his head towards the stone steps to silently gesture to his kid brother to take a seat at the doorway.

As brothers they sat next to each other on the stairway squashed together side by side, shoulder to shoulder enjoying their soup.

"This is good" Steven threw a compliment at his brother.

"I know." The verdict was appreciated but not needed.

"What's in this?"

"Tomato and Basil, mainly. With leftover bacon lardons to boot and other bits and pieces thrown in. I threw it together from some of the leftovers we have some time ago. I give it to the rest of the staff should they get hungry." Matthew shot Steven a wink. “ But if you want the good stuff instead, that will cost you”.

When finished the two brothers sparked a cigarette each for their dessert, they even used the time to exchange some mild pleasantries from their shared memories.

It wasn't always sunshine and butterflies in their upbringing, yet if you dig far enough into anyone's past there will always be something to find that can bring a smile about, even in the bleakest of memories.

Getting into trouble with his brother usually was worth a story to share. Although the tales of getting caught may be best kept for the therapists and the shrinks.

Matthew turned to look at Steven and wondered why it couldn't always be like this. Moments like these he knew wouldn't last with his addict of a brother who was always on the hunt for his next fix There was no doubt that it was his addiction that brought him to the doorstep of his kitchen and not because his younger brother wanted his love or company. They both knew that.

Still, whatever fate would bring them together peacefully, might as well be enjoyed. The world only served to be cruel to both. As brothers they were never dealt the best of hands. The only difference was that Matthew's younger sibling never really had the strength to endure any of it.

If Steven was blessed with brains, Matthew would have been gifted with a thick skin, a much more useful skill considering the circumstances.

"You promise me one thing, Stevie?"

"What's that?"

"Promise me you won’t steal from Mom again," said Matthew as Steven bowed his head in shame. "That's right I know about that."

"She doesn't-," Steven's eyes slightly swelled tears whilst his voice began to croak. "She doesn't know anything is missing."

"That doesn't make it okay, she's our mother and you do know better."

"Do I?"

"You do Stevie," Matthew wanted to make eye contact, yet Steven had other ideas. "You're lucky that she has no recollection of what you did."

Steven spoke through tears. "Yeah, well Alzheimer’s a bitch."

Matthew didn't appreciate the witty remark this time round, he certainly thought it warranted a slap, still he knew imitating their father's style of reacting would not resolve anything and only serve to make matters worse.

Matthew continued, "Listen, if you needed money you should-"

"Have come to you?!" Steven finished the sentence for him, he turned to look at his older brother with reddened eyeballs. "Why do you think I'm here? Now! You've already given me you're answer so why are we even having this conversation?" Steven's voice was beginning to raise with each syllable "You want me to beg?!"

"You're right, Stevie. I just don't want to hand over cash so you can go ahead and burn it in that crack pipe of yours," Matthew placed an arm around his shoulders of his little brother. "You don't need money. You need somewhere safe to stay and you need help. Medical help. We can seek that together, Stevie. Throw away that pipe of yours and ditch those godless friends in that shit-hole squalor that you're calling a home, you know it makes sense, bud!"

Steven stood upright clenching his hair between his fingers looking ready to pull the lot out in clumps.

They stared at each other in the courtyard. This time Steven looking down at his older brother as he was perched, sat on the stone steps.

The demons inside this poor boy were only too real, tears streamed down Steven's face at this point, pacing up and down until he kicked one of the bags of trash with all his might. Matthew remained still and unflinching. He wanted Steven to get out whatever was inside of him, for sure it must have been better to lash out than to subside the pain further with even more white substances.

"I'm... I'm, fucking scared. I'm fucking frightened Matt. God-, what have I become?" the sentence expressed in a soft and sweetly sorrow made Steven go from tears to a whimpering bawl.

The big brother wasted no time and jumped to his aid and held him in his arms tightly as he felt his teary face on his chest. The smell of industrial soap was clear as Matthew cradled his baby brother. As he caressed the back of his head, he immediately recognized this same person once as a young child needing the same comfort after a fall from his scooter. Something what felt only just a few moons ago.

Steven managed to speak with a quiver amongst all that emotion, "Dad used to always say that I-"

"Fuck him!" Matthew expressed softly. This time it was Matthew's turn to finish the others' sentence.

"Yeah" replied a sobbing Steven and they remained in their embrace. "Fuck him."

A loud knock echoed through the kitchen. This time it was coming from the door in the front of the restaurant. Matthew ignored it until the knock materialized a second time, more loudly and impatiently. He broke the embrace and saw that Steven was still teary eyes still yet much calmer. "I will go see who that is, okay? Wait here".

Steven smiled and nodded in his silent approval.

Grabbing the keys from the top shelf in his rackety cupboard Matthew paced through the darkness of the empty dining area, with the front of his chef whites stained with his kid brothers' tears the Chef went on towards the front door where the visitor persisted in banging increasingly impatient.

On his way he couldn't help but hold a feeling of delightful optimism from the connection that he just made with his troubled and haunted younger brother. This could be an opportunity to start a new life with him. For him.

He knew deep-down inside past all those lies; past all the thievery that his kid brother 'Stevie' was still in there ready to live a more fulfilling life.

Matthew wanted nothing more right now and silently committed to himself to do everything in his power to get his addict of a bother clean.

After turning the lock with his keys and opening of several latches, the Chef opened the door to see the visitor was a thin and gaunt woman who instantly let off the same rancid aroma he got from his brother previously.

Matthew couldn't clock a better visual description since the woman took off like a rocket down the main street as soon as saw the Chef open the door.

No!

Matthew this time sprinted back through the dining room even going as far as slightly tripping over a chair in his haste.

When he got to his cupboard in the hallway, his late father’s silver watch and his wallet had vanished completely from the top shelf.

Matthew moved swiftly to the backdoor and as he stared out into the courtyard outside he saw the sun beginning to rise over the horizon beyond the rooftops downtown. Illuminating the sky in gold.

Steven was nowhere to be seen.