Swish the Kool Aid

Warning: This story concerns substance abuse, emotional and physical abuse, and sexual abuse.

Long Eddy, NY

Swish the Kool Aid

 Larry was pleased with the boy’s progress. He was a quick study, and knew how to adjust recipes on the fly. There had been some minor disasters, but the kid was 15, and he was attentive. Last week, there was a misunderstanding regarding tablespoons and teaspoons, but some potatoes and stock diluted the minestrone until it was just right. They simply froze an extra container of soup for the next week. Making meals for 60 was like steering a barge, you couldn’t make too many quick turns or adjustments. It wasn’t like à la carte cooking where you could throw the contents of a sauté pan in the trash and start over. The roast that they were cooking for the night’s meal would take 6 hours. Any mistakes that delayed serving-time would lead to serious repercussions. There were hungry laborers to feed and they came home slavering and rapacious.

Robbie was right around the same age as Larry was when he started working in restaurants. He saw a lot of similarities between himself and the kid, and he wondered if the boy knew how lucky he was to have a chance to grow up sober. Mostly, he rattled on about nonsense like stars and mitochondria, but the kid was basically ok, just a bit of a space-cadet. Lately, he wouldn’t shut up about something called SN1987A - the first visible supernova since 1600! The problem was you had to be in the southern hemisphere to see it. Oh, that’s just great, Larry told him. I’ve got to go to Australia to see a bright star that I wouldn’t recognize anyway.  

Still, Larry knew what it was like to disappoint a father. The agrarian types around him valued “getting hay in the barn,” and tractor repair. Instead, he spent summers shuttling between Kushner properties in the area, learning the fine art of amuse-bouches and reading “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.”  His hard-drinking father called him a fairy and made exaggerated sprinkle-dusting gestures when he referred to his cooking.  

Right before he died, his father and some flunkies were standing around a fire pit and draining beers when they saw him coming in from a catering event at 2 AM with his kitchen whites soaked through with sweat and grease. His father called him “Cinderfella” and pranced around in a startling likeness to Jerry Lewis to uproarious laughter from the farm-hands who surrounded him. “I’d like to see you hold up in a 140 degree kitchen,” he muttered mostly to himself.  

The coronary that took his father two months later left him as the sole provider for his histrionic mother. They sold the farm and bought the East Branch Inn in Hancock and he never looked back, except for those nights where he had to drink to come down from the coke that propelled him through grueling 18 hour days.  He went through Johnny Walker Black like water, ever since that “Johnny Girl” came through and poured for everyone in the Inn.  Now that was class. His father drank domestic beer and the occasional Wild Turkey, or some other rotgut.  “Not bad for a fairy, huh dad,” he’d mutter to himself when he was sloshed. Then he’d climb the steps up through the back of the kitchen to a tiny apartment and sleep for four hours until it was time to do it all over again.

From what he knew about Robbie, his father was concerned that he’d turn out to be some kind of gay degenerate, what with all the Queen records and his love of poetry and science. The boy’s father wanted a middle-linebacker-type, and that’s not what he had gotten. Robbie was a 5’2”, 105 lb waif who liked to run through the woods. In a tank top, tight jeans, and running shoes he looked just like Freddie Mercury without the overbite.

Even worse, he was caught smoking pot and drinking beer with some older kids when he was fourteen, so his prosecutor-father put his foot down and found the most hardcore God-AA-Church recovery facility that he could find in the tri-state area. Larry was present during his intake and Tony and Betty Argiros assured Robbie’s parents that they were victims of a sick culture that was perverting their child, but that ended right here and right now. They tolerated no governmental interference or regulation, and with a great man like Ronald Reagan as president, they could rest assured that The Family would have free rein in moulding their son’s character. They shouldn’t expect to hear from him for 90 days at least, and it was best if they left out of the back door, while the boy was being initiated by some of the ‘senior members.’ Robbie’s father took one look at the neat haircuts and threadbare but clean work clothes on everyone around him, shook hands and drove off. Larry, on the other hand, heard 🎵Mister we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again…🎵 in the back of his head, and chuckled to himself. They took this god-abortion-guns-liberty stuff really seriously.  He never read anything about that in AA’s Big Book, but it seemed like The Family got results. They did with him, didn’t they?

After the intake, the senior members of the house gathered to discuss their new charge. Larry shook his head in wry amusement about the discussion regarding the stack of Playboys under his mattress. That’s one thing he didn’t understand about The Family. They were obsessed with sex, and in particular, masturbation. As head of house, Tony ranted about it continuously and on a daily basis.  It was all part of the “All-Addicts-Anonymous” philosophy that they learned from the East Ridge Cult. Still it bothered Larry to think that there was concern the boy was gay - it wasn’t Playgirl under his bed, was it? So which was it, he was fucking everything? It didn’t always add up to anything except insults, accusations, yelling, and some mild violence.

Nevertheless, Larry’s life had changed for the better since Betty had recruited him at an AA meeting in Hancock two years prior. He sat by himself in the back away from the cluster in the center of the room and the ugly blue haze of fluorescent lights mingling with cigarette smoke. Betty sidled up to him and complimented his menu, as he had added bread pudding recently along with grilled eggplant and goat cheese. Most of the area’s denizens turned up their noses at the haute-cuisine, but Tony and Betty were from New York City and still enjoyed the occasional night out. The rest just wanted prime rib, pork loin, and staples like chicken cordon bleu. That and the occasional piece of sole or trout was fine-dining enough for them.

At first, Larry thought that Betty might be propositioning him, but he quickly realized who she was. He, like most of the area residents, knew all about The Family as they had appeared in the Binghamton papers a few times. Also, every so often, a runaway would break into a house or steal a car on their way out of town. However, despite the occasional malfeasance, The Family was regarded with respect and valued for the cheap labor that it provided on any jobs, including dangerous ones, in the area.  They did demolition and salvage, poured forms, and just about any job that was put in front of them. They cost about half of the rate of other laborers in the area, so there was constant demand for their services from Binghamton to Monticello. Hell, a kid broke his forearm on a site in Wilkes-Barre one day and showed up to work with a cast in Cochecton the next! They were tough and worked hard.  What they lacked in skill, they made up for in speed, thoroughness, and absolute obedience.  

So he talked to Betty while his three-day-binge assailed his eyeballs from behind and he felt the coke slowly ebbing out of him. He got free help for the Inn out of their deal, and in turn, he provided teaching and mentoring. He even had hoped to become an English teacher and had a manuscript that was two-thirds of a novel in his backseat, so he became an instructor at The Family “school.” He taught the kids expository writing exercises and public speaking, even videotaping them and critiquing their performances. Every ‘student’ wrote about the proper way to make a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich until they perfected it.

Larry genuinely loved working with the kids and teaching, but there were real and significant consequences for disappointing Tony or Betty. The downside to getting meal wrong at The Family was that you were going to get reamed heavily for it. The construction and farm crews worked hard, and they at least expected to be paid with a good meal. Tony was not above blasting anyone, anytime, anywhere, even someone like Larry that was being asked to join the Family. Tony dug in hard on his marriage with Trixie and whether he was caring for her in the way that she needed. It was outrageous, but it wasn’t far off of the mark. Since he had gotten sober, he hadn’t lost interest in sex, just the ability. It really fucking pissed him off when Tony talked about this in front of other people and pointed out that if Larry couldn’t take care of her, maybe someone else could.  

When Larry did his fourth and fifth step with Tony, it was like he lifted a passage straight out of the Big Book - the part with Mr. Brown and his attentions to the protagonist’s wife! He could have substituted Mark Roxcito for Brown and transcribed the passage. The worst part of the whole thing was finding out later that it had all been orchestrated by Tony.  

The twitchy fucking cokehead obliquely approached him after a meeting in Cochecton one night to let him know that he intended to move in with Trixie, and he wanted it to be ‘above-board!’ He could tell that Mark had been coached by Tony. There was no way that he would have the balls to basically propose taking his wife, assuming his mortgage, and ‘help’ Trixie with her piece of the East Branch Inn. He put the fact that Trixie didn’t have a stake in the Inn aside for a moment, and observed dryly that it was gonna be tough to pay the mortgage on a babysitter and busdriver’s salary. That pissed Mark off and he stomped away in a huff.  The fucking doofus couldn’t have been more than 5’9” but he was wearing size 13 shoes and looked comical, a bit like Daffy Duck.  Larry amusedly watched Mark board the bus and twirled his index finger while singing ‘the wheels of the bus’ sardonically. Mark glared at him as he drove off.

It was a few days later that Larry realized that it was probably Tony who sent Mark towards Trixie, the same way he was pushing Larry to ‘console’ Krystyna Telchak after her husband Harold got pinned under a tractor on his back 40. Larry idly wondered what the real story was because what he was told didn’t add up. It made zero sense that Harold would be out mowing on a cloudy day because the hay would spoil if it rained. It was much more likely that Harold was bending the arm, and started fucking around with his tractor. In any event, Harold’s realty empire had surely caught Tony’s eye, just as the East Branch Inn was now somewhat in his grasp. It wasn’t enough for him that the Telchaks allowed Tony rent-free use of abandoned houses that they owned in between Callicoon and Hancock, he wanted more. Hell, it had been Harold that had brokered the land deal that got Tony his big parcel off of Abe Lord Road. That was a swindle too and Tony was able to use his Conrail settlement to buy 170 acres with a working barn and utility service for a song. He threw in a house for his mother, a trailer for Betty’s mom, and was breaking ground on a 8000 square foot monster. He even offered Larry a ‘cottage,’ up the hill to which he politely demurred. In all honesty, it was little better than a mobile home dropped on a slab.

Eventually it became clear that The Family no longer wanted him as head chef, but as a social worker and a certified English teacher. He didn’t have credentials in either of those fields yet, but he had finally finished his novel about growing up in Hancock and put it out in a local press. That, the fact that they had known him in the rooms of AA for a few years, along with his success running the Inn, made him an especially desirable permanent addition.  Trixie and Mark were largely taking care of the Inn, and he was free to devote himself here and at SUNY-Binghamton finishing course-work.

Today, he was trying to teach Robbie the finer arts of cooking Yorkshire pudding in the drippings of a roast. You had to filter the liquid a bit and put it in muffin tins in a hot oven. If made correctly, you could poke a small hole in the rising batter to keep the pudding from collapsing, while getting some of the meat juices inside. It was a challenge to make 60 of them at once and he alertly set aside the best two for Tony’s and Betty’s dishes. They had just the right crispness on the outside coupled with a soft interior. The roast beef was rested and carved. It was a good late spring evening at The Family, the fare was hearty, the jus was perfect, and they were serving fresh vegetables from the garden.  He had to hand it to Tony, the guy enjoyed the best the sober lifestyle offered to him.

The kid wouldn’t really need him much more and it had only been about 2 months that he had been trained. He knew how to order food, butcher and slaughter, adjust the recipes for size, and work with leftovers. His only problem was that he was a chatterbox and he annoyed the other cooks because he constantly sought approval and attention. It was clear that Paul M was going to have to be moved elsewhere, as Robbie cooked circles around him. That wasn’t really his problem, but Tony had discussed maybe employing him at the East Branch. His parents were big donors, but after that issue with the girl, The Family really didn’t want him around any more. Just too much of a liability. It was a good thing that she was a ward of the state, and not able to make an issue of things. She was long gone anyway. Larry wondered whether giving Paul a chance could be made to work for him somehow. Just another line cook or dishwasher probably, but he could get away with paying him $50 a week and letting him sleep in his old apartment.

As he stood in the kitchen right before serving time, he reminisced about growing up in the area in the 60s and getting the fuck out, only to have cocaine and booze snap him back hard. There was nothing here though, just dark highway at night and the odd restaurant/inn like he ran, along with some scattered bait and tackle shops. A few dairy farms dotted the landscape. Still, that was all he could handle right now and he knew it was over with Trixie, but he didn’t care. They were both sober, but they had very different ideas about what that meant. That sniveling fucking weasel could have her for all he cared.

Robbie presented Tony and Betty with their plates while the others filed downstairs with theirs. They lavished praise on him and he grinned ear to ear.  

“Look at this,” Tony said, “this is what you get when you work your program.”  

Larry watched the kid come back to the kitchen, beaming until be got into the back by the ovens. He started cleaning right away and ate from a plate while standing up. Larry chuckled to himself and thought, ‘well the kid’s got that part down alright.’

Robbie saw that he was being watched in the reflected light on the back windows in the semi-darkened kitchen.  “Hey Larry, did you know that we’re going to put a telescope up in space so that we can look back to the Big Bang, almost?” Larry mused appreciatively, the kid did not really stop.  Robbie was going to get the hell out of here. He was meant for more than the commune. Larry just hoped that drugs and booze didn’t snap him back too. Get enough AA in that belly, and there’ll be no room for the booze!