Burn, Baby, Burn by Michael Seale (Revised Prologue and Chapter 1 and 2)

 

Burn, Baby, Burn

By

Michael Seale

Prologue

Into the Dark

“The truth is the light, and the light is the truth.”—Narrator Invisible Man

Prologue One

Mike steeled himself. His father’s bellowing voice from the bedroom below, his mother’s screams of pain followed. He held the hand of his little brother tight.

“Don’t be scared,” this mantra he said, more to himself but to his younger brother who crouched with him as well.

Mike listened and counted the seconds between the hits and the screams in his head. “Bitch” his father’s voice bellowed. One… two… three… slap… one… tw… scream… “whore”… one… two… slap… scream… one… two… three… “please… stop”… slap… one… scream.

“Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared.” He had lost count of how many times he had repeated it. They both shook with fear, clutching at each other.

Prologue Two

The bruises had faded from a deep purple to an almost yellow-green stain which covered his ribs, back and arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he was free from them. It had been days since the last beating; he knew it would come again. They always came. It was like a bad penny, turning up when you least expected it.

“Mike!” the word slurred and dragged out. “Mike! You fucking useless shit!”

He flinched, the words hitting him just as hard as the fists would. But those bruises never faded. 

Prologue Three

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be in your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as front-lets between your eyes... Deuteronomy 6:4-9

The bastard held Mike’s hands in his, crushing his little fingers. His fingertips reddened. The old man’s eyes blazed as the scripture flowed from his lips. Drops of spit sprayed across Mike’s cheek as he tried to turn away. The wet tears and sobs of pain escaped him, even as he tried his best to hold them in. 

“Do you understand me?” he asked the boy. “You are in the darkness. You are a sinner. You will hold these words in your hands and before your eyes, they will bind you. And when you walk, the darkness walks with you. When you believe you are in the light, the darkness with take hold of you and it will bind your hands and your eyes to his will.”

He squeezed the boy’s hands tighter. A loud pop echoed, followed by a scream of pain.

Prologue Four

For once the small cookie cutter house was quiet, no TV blaring, no yelling, no crying. Thirteen years old and he had never known silence like this. The strangeness of it cut him. There had never been stillness at home as long as he could remember, perhaps early in the morning after his father had left. It was as if then the family finally breathed their fears for once at rest.

They had called this army base home for the last eight months. There had been so many before, never staying too long in one spot. Their house lay at the end of a long street; it was the last before the extensive field. The vast emptiness overgrown with tall yellowing grass; it waved in the wind; ending with a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Mike never knew if that was to keep the bad people out or the bad ones in. All the houses along the street looked the same, white siding with yellow trim. The lawns, neatly trimmed. Each house with at least one car in the drive, sometimes two. Once the weather had turned warm, the neighborhood kids played baseball or tag football in the streets. The ones that hadn’t moved away yet, that is. Families were always coming and going. There was no permanence here.

He stepped as quietly as possible, scared to break the silence. His brother and sister would be home soon, and it would all start again. His steps were cautious. The terror in him rising as he searched for his mother in the kitchen, her one sanctuary, the one place his father let her run. It was empty, but in disarray. A box of cheerios lay on the counter top, its contents split onto the floor. The faucet dribbled as if someone had carelessly let it run. A chair lay on its side, the picture on the wall hung askew. A smashed bowl lay below it in a puddle of milk. Mike shook with fear.

The phone rang. Cutting into the silence of the house, he jumped at the sound. His heart raced, pounding in his chest. The receiver hung on the wall in the kitchen, next to the old fridge. Its beige plastic coated bell rang out over and over, its long tangled cord dangling to the floor. Mike’s hand reached out instinctively to pick it up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that would forever change his life. 

In a real sense, all life is inter-related. All men are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be, and you can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be. This is the inter-related structure of reality. — Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Seventeen years later...

Chapter 1

Stalking

He of no name, he who lived in the dark, watched them both. His vision blurred as if looking through milky glass. Kissing, touching, stripping. It all made him sick to his stomach. How could she, he thought? The strong acidic taste of yellow bile rose in his throat. He retched, wishing it over. Watching, leering with hatred. He had to know, so there would be no mistake. He would do no such thing now that he was so close. Mere moments before, she was most beautiful, unblemished, but now she was dirty. The other, the one of the light, the one he hated, the one he would soon control, had defiled her, dirtied her.  

The fucking bitch, he thought over and over, like an old record on an endless loop. He should pity the other, but he had no choice. The other was a mere pawn in the ultimate plan of life. If the other was the beginning, he was the end. The other who walked in the light was unwittingly charged to bring the sinful, the dirtied, and the defiled; so that he of no name, he of the darkness, can deliver them to the true light. He watched as their writhing bodies moved rhythmically. His breath came in labored gasps. He felt lust and hatred pulsate together through his veins. And yet he refused to look away. It intrigued him, how one could be so oblivious to their sins; he watched them like a captivated audience. The acts disgusted him and enraged him, and still he did not look away. 

“So then each of us will give an account of himself to God.” He thought of the scripture and knew that soon they will meet Him and have to give their account. 

The woman was on her knees in front of the bastard; he moaned in pleasure. Again his own stomach lurched. He wanted to end her suffering now, clean her, but he had to wait. He hid in the shadow, an unnoticed witness to this perverse act. 

Her body moved faster, her glasses tossed aside. Without them, she looked like his mother; he thought. He dry heaved again. The thought of her pained him, and for a moment he looked away in shame. He remembered his Revelations, just as Balaam taught Balak to cause the sons of Isreal to stumble. So will this bitch. The Bible always showed him the way back to the light. This image, this thought, was another trick from the sinful, he knew. Remorse or longing, a distraction to take him away from his true calling. Bring the world to the light, one repugnant sinner at a time. 

The man in the shadows looked back to the naked couple and watched as their bodies writhed together. The other tasted her wetness between her legs. She smiled and pushed her hips to him and pulled on his hair. He wanted to scream at them, to lash out and end their miserable lives. But he only watched until the other finished.

Chapter 2

New beginnings

Mike squinted. The sun burned as his head pounded from the booze the night before. Had he even slept, he asked himself. It was almost lunchtime, at least he had made it on time. He hadn’t even realized he was driving. He had only seen blurs as the streets and buildings past. Thankfully he hadn’t driven far. Now Mike parked his old Pontiac in the graffiti covered alley behind the restaurant. God his head hurt. Mike opened his door falling out towards the pavement. He caught himself on the hand rest just before he truly crashed out of the car. The young man stood trying his best to suck in some fresh air and clear his head. What had he been thinking, going out the night before starting a new job. Oh, but it had been fun. He remembered the blonde, he remembered her mouth, her tits. He remembered the alcohol, he remembered lots of alcohol. He had only woke an hour ago. The blonde was gone. That was alright, it better this way.

The sun glinted off the windshield of his beat up piece of shit car and he caught a glimpse of himself, at least he thought it was himself. An odd feeling of deja vu fell over him. It was his image but it was different. The eyes were black. Like holes in his head. The image had not even lasted a second, but those eyes, those pits. Emptiness.

“Fuck yourself.” he said out loud. “Get your shit together.” We need this job, he thought, taking a deep breath, hoping the mouthwash had killed the alcohol on his breath.

A tumble of freshly cut logs blocked the path to the hideous graffiti littered gray door. The alleyway behind the restaurant stunk of trash, cigarettes and piss, Mike could feel the bile roiling in his stomach, when was the last time he had really eaten. Most of his meals were the liquid ones lately. He tried the door, locked. His knock thudded dully. Mike rubbed at his temples, he wished his head would stop pounding.

Nervously, Mike looked back towards his car, what had that been, he asked himself. Pay attention, you stupid fuck. We need this job he thought. His piece of shit needed repairs, he needed to pay rent. God, he needed this job. Mike exhaled the deep breath he hadn’t realized that he had been holding. His thoughts raced as his head jack-hammered away. Mike raised his hand intent on knocking louder, as the door swung open briskly.

“Yeah?” a disheveled cook snapped. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, Mike thought passing a snap judgment.

“Hey... I’m Mike” he waited expecting the cook to understand. The cook, Mike had assumed he was a cook, but judging by his state he could have been a homeless guy that had wondered into the restaurant, just stared blankly back. Mike waited a few more beats hoping that his name had been enough. The sun baked the alley, casting ripples of heat waves off of the asphalt.

“I’m starting today. Tom told me to come to the back door.” Mike finally said.

“I know, Tom’s not here yet.” the young cook stepped out and lit a cigarette, sitting on down one of the larger stumps. “You can change downstairs. I’ll be in a minute. Ahh, shit.” He eyed the pile of wood, which blocked the alley.

The stairs were wooden and well worn, slick with oil from the years of cook’s shoes. A perfume of drying herbs scented the air. The green, brown boughs of sage and rosemary hung in from the wooden rafters over the stairs almost hidden in the shadows. The stairs and hall seemed black after coming in from the sun soaked alley. He fumbled on the wall for the light switch, clicking it on. At the bottom Mike waded through the empty carton boxes which were strewn about on the bare concrete floor. The cellar doubled as a locker room and prep kitchen. To the left were the lockers, the other direction was a band saw, a walk-in refrigerator, a few stainless-steel prep tables and a small freezer. Mike changed into his chef whites, grabbed his black knife bag, and ran back up the stairs. 

The disheveled looking cook waited by the back door, he donned a stained dishwasher’s shirt and faded jeans. Loosely tied around his waist was a wrinkled apron, it hung slightly askew. He looked as though he had slept in his clothes. Maybe he had, Mike thought.

“First up, we gotta stack the wood and break down the carton at the bottom of the stairs,” he said, a bit too cheerfully. The unwashed cook turned and was out the door again. A cigarette was between his lips again before Mike could walk out behind him. 

“So, you’re the guy, Tom has been talking about.” he said over his shoulder.

“I guess so. Where’s he at?” I asked.

“He’s always late. But so is Bill. They’ll be in before lunch. I’m Ollie by the way.” Finally, offering me his name and a bit of kindness.

It didn’t take long to get the wood piled up next to the back door; which actually covered up some idiotic graffiti. They walked back inside and headed for the kitchen. A few wine glasses littered the dish station from the night before, but other than that, the kitchen was spotless. A mise en place list lay on the hot-pass, there wasn’t much on it, the list read:

Pasta dough

Port wine vinaigrette

Chocolate Whiskey Ice Cream

Gnocchi

Polenta Cookies

Risotto

Balsamic Reduction

Wild Boar Bolognese

Soup? Onion?

Every kitchen was more or less the same. The ventilation hummed in the background with its droning, lonesome song. The gleam of the florescent lights reflected off the stainless-steel counter-tops. Black rubber mats covered the terracotta colored floor. In the middle of the kitchen sat the hot-pass, facing the entrance. Stacked white porcelain plates lay high on the top shelf. Last night’s tomato sauced stained tickets lay stacked on the metal spike. Mike stood in the open doorway and watched Ollie as he turned the CD player on. The screams of electric guitars and the crashing of drums filling the quiet kitchen instantly drowning out the constant drone of the fans. No wonder he hadn’t heard me knock, he thought. Ollie immediately started bopping his head to the music.

The disheveled young cook smelt like yesterday’s fry oil, garlic, and BO, a combination of odors which isn’t uncommon in most kitchens. Perhaps I judge him too harshly, thought Mike but Ollie’s overall look was that of a young man that has spent the last month or so in a perpetual state of hungover ness. Or perhaps he had never really sobered up enough to be hungover. Mike stifled a nervous laugh because he knew he wasn’t fairing much better today. Either alcohol or drugs or sex or all three get us at some point. Mike knew he was headed down this path as well. The other guy just got there before I did, he told himself. 

“So, let’s get started, uh… Mike, right?” Ollie said, pulling out a handwritten, stained recipe from a binder next to the speaker, which blared the horrible music. ”We’ll start with the polenta cookies. The dough needs to rest for a bit, and then we can get to the other stuff.”

Mike watched as Ollie picked up a small bag of yellow corn polenta which had been carelessly tossed onto the steel counter next to his station and inspected it. The bag was an off white cloth with red lettering in Italian. The only word he could actually read was polenta.

“Hm,” Ollie did his best impression of someone contemplating a hard algebra equation, his forehead wrinkled.  

“What’s up?” Mike asked. 

“It’s nothing, it’s just... this isn’t the polenta that we normally use.” Placing the bag next to the recipe, and began showing Mike where they could find all the other ingredients. They made their way through the kitchen, grabbing what they needed before heading down the stairs to the fridge for the eggs and butter.

Mike had trouble focusing, his mind wandered, as the recipe could be made by a six year-old. He hadn’t been sleeping well since he had been fired from the hotel a few weeks past. His rent was due again. He was broke, again. God damn it, he thought, when do I get a break? He rubbed at his eyes, trying again to concentrate. What the fuck is wrong with me, he asked himself. His eyes rested on the still warm pizza oven, it was huge for such a small restaurant. Old Italian cool, laid in brink with a cast iron door. I bet I could fit in there if I tried, he thought.

“Dude, you with me?” Ollie asked annoyed, snapping Mike back into reality.

“Yeah, sorry.” he said turning his attention away from the enormous pizza oven and back to the cookies.

They finished mixing the dough and scraped it into a plastic container to rest, as the backdoor open and closed with a slam. A slow, cheery whistle rang out before they saw the whistler. Bill strode past the kitchen door, through the hallway and into the service corner.

“Hey Ollie,” he called out absently as he turned the coffee machine on. “What’s up?”

Bill was tall, with long, straight brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, he had dark brooding brown eyes; he even looked a bit wild, a little rock star like. Mike had heard the rumors that Bill paid his way through college being a Gucci model or something like that.

“Hey, did I leave a small bag of polenta on the counter last night?”

Ollie’s eyes widened. He look terrified towards Mike. His mouth hung open, unable to answer Bill. Ollie blankly stared down at the plastic container and the yellow cookie dough that filled it. Bill poked his head into the window of the kitchen. A few stray hairs from his ponytail hung over his face. He was unbuttoning his denim jacket.

“Ollie? The polenta?” The moment, the words left his lips, the nearly empty white bag with red lettering caught his attention.

Ollie began stammering. “Bill, I thought you put it there so I would make the polenta cookies.” he said, finally finding his voice. It sounded mousy under the noise that he called music. Bill’s face immediately turned a bright shade of red, his brown eyes were black with rage. Seconds before he was whistling lightheartedly and now he took on a form of a hulking Neanderthal ready to slobber, rant and bash the heads in of anyone close enough. Mike recoiled a little at the sight.

“What the fuck, Ollie,” he yelled. “That was a fucking present, you asshole. A couple of guests brought that back from Italy for me. It’s a fucking stone ground polenta from a 500-year-old mill in Italy.” Spit flew from his mouth. Mike watched it land on Ollie’s arm.

“But it was on my station.” Ollie protested.

“You are such a fucking dipshit. What the fuck? Fucking cookies?”

“We looked at the list and I saw the polenta, so I thought we should make that first.”

“We?” Bill had apparently forgotten that Mike was starting today.

Up until that moment, Mike hadn’t said a word, it was as if he was trying his hardest to blend into the shadows of the kitchen, which weren’t many. He needed the job and getting roped into this situation would not help his chances of being a permanent member of the team.

“Hey, we met last week. Today’s my first day.” Mike said, trying to be as cool as possible. He tried his hardest not to give away the fact that Bill scared the utter shit out of him. Bill didn’t even acknowledge Mike. He only directed his death stare at Ollie. His breathing was loud and labored, his cheeks blazed red. The big man sounded like he might just explode right in front of the two. Ollie huddled just out of hand’s reach from the newly formed cave dweller. The moment seemed to drag on for an eternity, none of them saying anything.

The backdoor banged open, breaking the tense silence. Sunlight flooding the dark hallway, illuminating Bill from the side.

“What’s up, bitches?” Tom called out as he stepped into the shit.

“I’ll tell you what’s up,” Bill called back without breaking his stare. “Tweedle dee and Tweedle dumb fuck here used up that polenta I got last night from the Jefferson’s. They made fucking cookies with it.” He turned and walked away without a word. From the service station, the espresso machine whined and hissed. Tom walked into the kitchen, his mangy looking dreadlocks hung over his face. His glasses were dirty as usual and clothes that were about three sizes too big hung off his lanky body. Tom stood in the doorway to the kitchen and hid his grin.

“Hey Mike, first day and you already pissed him off?”

“How is this, my fault? Ollie was showing me what to do. Shit, Tom, you know I need this job.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’ll get over it, anyway. He’s probably still hungover from last night. Just play it cool the rest of the day.” He said as he turned to Ollie.

“Tom, I didn’t know.” Ollie said, with actual tears in his eyes. His voice cracked and shook.

“Fuck off, you’re such a fucking idiot. Turn that shit off.” He said, gesturing to the CD player. Tom stormed out of the kitchen and walked towards the hulking neanderthal.

***

Mike had the feeling that the dinner service had run smoothly. Ollie showed him the ropes on the salads and desserts, Tom worked the sauté station and ran the pass, Bill on the grill, and Gustavo covered the rest.

“Alright, guys, that was the last ticket. Let’s clean up.” Tom announced. And just like that, Bill and Tom walked out of the kitchen.

“I guess, the let’s clean up, means we clean up.” Mike said to Ollie, who had tried to make a few jokes throughout the night but no one really spoke to him.

“Yep.” He said as he walked to the bar. Mike looked at Gustavo; he was knee deep in dirty plates, pans, silverware and glasses. It looked like an endless supply of work to finish. He didn’t even look up. He just kept his head down and did his work. Ollie walked back into the kitchen with a pitcher of beer and few glasses. They drank and scrubbed the kitchen clean. It is probably the job that every cook hates the most in the kitchen, but it is actually about 80% of the job. As they finished wiping and polishing everything, Mike looked for the broom, after they had removed the black mats.

“Don’t worry about that. Gustavo does the rest. Right, Goose?” he said it more as a snide remark than as a fact. It was as if he was trying to put down the dishwasher.

“Cállate la boca,” Gustavo replied. “culos perezosos ebrios”

“What did he say?” Ollie asked.

Mike smiled and shrugged his shoulders, it wasn’t that he was fluent in Spanish but that he understood. Gustavo laughed hysterically and continued his work. Ollie and Mike went out back to the other two. They were smoking and talking about the orders for the next day.

“Hey, Bill, we finished up.” Ollie said, lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag.

“Did you fuck anything else up? Like use the good olive oil to lube up your tiny dick.” Ollie turned bright red.

“Go fuck yourself.” He threw his cigarette down and walked away.

Mike stared after Ollie watching the graffiti laced door slam shut. He actually felt a little sorry for the guy, he was trying, the problem was, he would never get it.

“Alright, see you guys tomorrow.” he said and turned to follow the pissed off little cook back into the restaurant.

“Mike,” Tom called out, “Wait up.” Mike stopped and stood by the graffiti littered backdoor; he watched the smoke rise in the light of the street lamp, as he dreamed of the beer he would drown himself in later. Tom walked over with his nearly empty beer glass, tossing his cigarette down into the litter of butts which blanketed the ground. He smelled like an old ashtray wiped with sweat and old onions.

“You impressed Bill,” he said. “He thinks he might tell Ollie to fuck off and put you in his place.”

“Yeah, cool. Sucks for Ollie though.”

“He’ll be ok. Bill’ll never fire him. He’ll just put you in charge and Ollie will have to deal with it.”

Finally a break, Mike thought, as he changed into his street clothes and hung his whites in the locker; they’ll be more or less good for another day or two before they need a wash. After a quick cologne bath, Mike was up at the bar stinking of Cool Water, onions and garlic, the perfume of cooks everywhere. It seems no matter what they do, they always stink.

Verdura’s tiny bar was two deep, so Mike set off to the Black Cat, his favorite dive bar, as a matter of fact it was the dive bar for all the other restaurants in town, it was open late, had cheap beer and good music. It was just down the street from Verdura, which was perfect as he wouldn’t have to drive his car. Mike planned to drown myself in a swimming pool's worth of alcohol, listen to some fantastic music, and try his hand, again, at the hot bartender he had been flirting with for the past few weeks. It was the best place for a future alcoholic, just like Mike