I go home Saturday night with a sulking cook getting crispy around the
edges on my mind? Someone in my kitchen talking about going AWOL,
exhibiting symptoms of the dreaded martyr mode? My weekend is
ruined. All I'm going to be thinking about for every waking moment is
that cook and what I can do to fix the situation. I'll lie there on the bed,
staring into space, paying scant attention to the TV, or what my wife is
talking about, or the everyday tasks of bill paying, maintaining a home,
behaving like a normal person.
I don't know, you see, how a normal person acts. I don't know how to
behave outside my kitchen. I don't know the rules. I'm aware of them,
sure, but I don't care to observe them anymore—because I haven't had to
for so many years.
Okay, I can put on a jacket, go out for dinner and a movie, and I can eat
with a knife and fork without embarrassing my hosts. But can I really
behave? I don't know.
I have responsibilities, I tell myself and my wife. I've got things on my
mind. I'm in charge of people's lives . . . and it can weigh heavily on me.
In my world, you see, my friend is a killer.
No, he's not, you say. How could he have predicted what this drug-addled
maniac was going to do? How can what some cokehead cook has done to
himself and to his family be laid at his door?
Because it can. Because when you look somebody in the eyes and can
them, there's no telling what terrible result might ensue. He might come
at you with a meat cleaver or a boning knife. He might, like Adam Real-
Last-Name-Unknown, drag you into court, on whatever specious yet
embarrassing grounds. He might turn tail and simply leave the business,
move to Arizona and sell insurance—as one talented cook of my
acquaintance did. On the other hand, he could simply suck it up, move on