Feed Your Fears

The smell of wet cement still permeated his senses and memories. He would never forget that smell, the feeling of damp, cold, starkness. He shook his head as if to clear a dry erase board and pulled his coat tighter over his greasy apron covered chest. This night was his and he wouldn't let any memory flood his excitement. He had been waiting for this and it was going to be most enjoyable. During the day the diner was packed with transients, dockworkers, the occasional mom and pop and teenage rebel. At night the diner became his world. The stars came out and he was the ringmaster of their circus.

Earlier in the day he had sharpened his knives and placed them in the canvas roll pouch as if they were gilded artifacts. The spice market had been alive with fragrances from near and far and he had chosen wisely. He knew the flavor notes would be a perfect combination for the delicate morsel of meat he would later serve. He grabbed a sweet Vidalia onion as a last- minute impulse buy thinking of how delicious it would be in a spinach and strawberry salad. A light touch to go with the delicacy he would grace the diner with. He had his basket in hand as he came through the back of the kitchen and he was excited to have space all to himself. He removed the black greasy apron and scrubbed his hands and nails to near perfection. His hair was neatly combed back with a Dark blue chef's hat pulled just above his brows. He took a bright white cotton apron from the cellophane wrapper and stood looking at it for minutes before slipping it on and tying the long strings around his waist.

He took the large stainless skillet from the rack above his head and turned the pilot up into a slow-burning fire. The white porcelain platter laid out on the kitchen counter was ready to display a treasure. They would begin arriving soon, this was the special time of evening when he had a full hour to prepare. He opened his basket to reveal a styrofoam box packed with small ice pellets. He put a few pats of olive oil into the skillet and crushed the clove of garlic into the sizzling oil and turned the fire down to the lowest burn. He unrolled the canvas pouch to reveal his tools. He chose carefully and took the pink delicacy from the styrofoam box and put it on the bamboo cutting board. It was beautiful. The tender flesh was so delicate and he could feel himself becoming aroused. Closing his eyes he set his mind to the task at hand not allowing himself to receive pleasure...yet.

His skills were never appreciated when he was in the joint. He hated every minute of being forced to cook for imbeciles who could never understand nor appreciate how delicate his palate was. He did his time, waiting and knowing that the minute he was free that he would rise to his former glory. He had found the diner on a night run of the city. His run had proved fruitless but he had found the diner and it was like finding a shiny copper penny among a bucket of dull nickels. He could remember the second he stepped foot through the threshold. It had smelled of old cedar and fish and fries. The luncheon counter was a throwback in time and the stale pie had begged to be thrown out. It was full of characters from the waterfront. Old longshoreman with rough hands and rougher faces. The blue leatherette vinyl bench seats were splitting with heavy cracks. The tables were worn and wobbly. It was perfect for him.

It didn't take long for him to talk the owner into a sale, it was forgotten and had long ago stopped turning a profit. He managed to keep it going during the daytime with easy lunches and coffee but the night, the night was when he had restored times of yesteryear. He had rekindled his old flames and had stoked the fires of those that had discriminating tastes. Tonight would be his ultimate showing.

The fragrant garlic and butter began to sizzle a bit and he sliced the sweet pink meat thinly, quickly turning it in the pan and then laying it out gently on the porcelain platter. He would saute' the tender squash and spread the beet coulee down the platter. The dish and flavor profiles were so elegant that he again became aroused.

"Not now James, not tonight". He could feel her essence permeating kitchen. The excitement at presenting her to his patrons was heady. No other time had compared to this moment. Her screams had been the culmination of all he had dreamed it would be and they would make the meat taste so sweet. He had been lost in his thoughts as he finished his preparations and did not hear the first patron arrive.

Marvella would be the most discriminating. She had a wonderful palate as well and would savor every bite. Stanfield would be his toughest, wanting to know every detail of the procurement. The others were added as witnesses to the stupendous moment. One of the Patrons worked for the Chronicle and wrote a food blog, another was a former sous Chef who thought he was the second coming of Gordon Ramsey and had opened the hottest new restaurant in town. He had been hard to convince and said his "plate was too full" to engage in the evening but had changed his mind at the last second. The other patrons were chosen because of their special affinity for all things pink. They were actually always there in the diner, twenty-four hours a day, 7 days a week. He had been so careful with their presence, their eyes had been so special to him that he knew just the place he would put all of them, they would always be watching. This was their night too, after all, they had been among his very first.

Marvella had arrived and seated herself, smiling with big wide white teeth set in dark coffee skin. Marvella still had the angular jawline of a former life but she was dazzling, owning her femininity, and ready for her meal. Marvella was his favorite. He felt they shared a secret knowledge. His pleasure came from the procurement and presentation and Marvella's came from the consumption. They were a match.

The next to arrive was the Chef who was impatient and antsy. James assured him he would not be disappointed and the Chef was intrigued enough to be seated. The last to arrive was the food blog writer, pretentious and haughty but willing. James had a flair for the dramatic, it is what made him so good at procuring. He was so believable and they came like lambs to him. He used his theatrical skills to charm the patrons and they proclaimed how fantastic everything smelled. His presentation had been perfect, he laid the platter in the middle of the table, bringing a special wine not served in the diner. He laid each plate down in front of each person and served them himself. The chef looked a bit bewildered and asked what the entree' was. James told them it was a delicacy especially for them.

Marvella raised her plate to her nose every so slightly and inhaled. Her face was pure delight and James knew she would be the first to taste. The foodie was next, instantly grabbing his fork and the Chef was soon to follow. James watched as they all took their first bites. He could feel excitement swelling up in his abdomen. They ate until there was nothing left. He had known the meat would be special. The pure contentment on their faces spoke volumes. They were all satiated like chubby cats on a warm windowsill.

They began to beg to know what the meat was. Where did he procure such a delicacy? James smiled and rubbed a scrap of red fabric that was hidden in his pocket. They drank wine and James eventually saw them all to the door. They were gone and he saw the headlights of morning longshoremen pulling into the parking lot, ready for their pancakes and coffee. It began again, the daylight wiped the night mist and magic away until the next run of the city. Procurement would wait.