I work as a houseboy in a sorority mansion; in exchange for washing dishes and dealing with the trash, I do not get paid, but I do receive three meals a day and free parking. I used to get free dates, as well, but apparently you can only take a few girls out before you get blacklisted. But, come on - why only pick one apple in an orchard?
Last year, the house cook was a man named Chef John. Chef John was a superhero - he made a dessert for every meal and he sculpted tribal masks while working in the kitchen. This man's life vita was something to be coveted; he built his own house, he married a woman from Yugoslavia, and he baked a very soft cheesecake at least once a week. We were best friends.
Chef John is no longer working at the house. He left in order to train and apply for his five star chef rating from J.D. Power and Associates. I think. The point is, when I came back to school, the house had a new chef, and he was my worst nightmare.
When I was in tenth grade, I was very skinny (as opposed to now, when everyone has stopped telling me how skinny I am). I played football, and as a joke, I played offensive line. It was not a very funny joke. I always had to line up next to Will McCormick, a six foot, two hundred and eight babies he ate for lunch pounds beast-student. He had a clay face and was the kind of guy who would punch you when you weren't looking, in order to test how effective the padding on his new blocking gloves was.
The time that I spent putting on my pads that year was the closest to hell I'll ever be (until I actually get there). Anticipating Will's violence was impossible, and since he thought we were friends, avoiding him and his fists was also impossible. When he graduated high school, all the bruises I had been holding inside myself floated to the surface, and I turned purple.
I had lost contact with Will until last week, when I found out that he apparently went directly from football practice to culinary school, where he studied for three years; after that, he interned for two in a five star restaurant in Boston, under a man who used to be the chef in the White House.
Will told me all this himself, when we met in the hallway at the sorority house where we both now work. I clean the dishes, and Will makes all the food. And pulls an actual wage.
I would think Will would only make meat and potatoes mixed together, and maybe some coffee with cigarette butts floating in it, but as it so happens, he had to explain the English translation of all the French words on our new menu to me. He even went so far as to advertise "pomme frittes" with our "Classic Cheeseburger." Basically, pomme frittes are French Fries.
The girls love him. The house mom loves him. The houseboys think he's funny. But he hasn't fooled me. He may be putting up a fake French accented menu, but its only a facade for frozen French Fries, and I'm just waiting for the day he tries to punch me to test out his new oven glove.
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