The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard by Elijah Douresseau (top books of all time TXT) 📕

critique your food, in Jonathan Gold fashion, to the camera.

It would probably be the best food that day. Because it was free. And they could help themselves to plenty of it. While supplies lasted.

Alvin wanted more than that.

He wanted people who ate his food to be sorry the party would end in a couple of hours, to probably never eat the cook’s food again. He wanted them to know the food from a deep, emotional place. So he could not feed on superficial guest praise, after a time.

But Alvin considered himself an artist, and his ego could still be buttered up so much that the validating words and phrases from attendants could become a feeble source of sustenance. A couple nuggets worth.

Though when it was all done, and only one or two people said thank you directly, the catering cook felt emptier and more dehydrated than when he arrived. Drained, even.

One of the best things he could was be a humble, practical man about things and grab some snacks and water for the marathon. Varieties of assorted nuts. One sweet, two savory – a mild, and a spicy – and a six-pack of water. Maybe some dried fruit. If he could find the right kind.

At the store, Alvin was soon crossing items off his endurance list, when at the end of the sports drinks aisle, a couple stopped him.

“Excuse me. Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

It was the girlfriend who asked, but the boyfriend stuck out his phone before Alvin could sound off an answer.

The chef looked around to make sure they were, where they were indeed standing.

“Here?”

“It just got to be a special moment for us. She said yes!”

Is that what they were fighting about?

Alvin turned into the aisle to find them quietly fussing about something. When they sensed they were not alone, they straightened up and stole a couple of glances at the other store patron, but nowhere in those short moments did it appear that anyone proposed – let alone, accepted such a proposition.

And it was 6am. Who asked someone to marry then early in the morning, at a grocery store of all places? The boyfriend, or fiancé, did not even have enough sense to ask in an aisle that was more lively. At least in front of some novelty chips or limited editions Oreos, or something.

But it was Los Angeles. And Alvin had witnessed much stranger things walking around his neighborhood.

“Yeah, sure. Who am I to stand in the way of love?”

He grabbed the man’s phone and stood opposite the newly engaged couple. The girlfriend – slash – fiancée was near explosion then. Sheer glee. Alvin put the phone up to eye level, between himself and his new friends.

“Say chicken or fi—”

Through the camera lens, Alvin saw the man pull up his sweatshirt to show a gun bulging out of his waist. The cook promptly took off his camera phone glasses. Perhaps he imagined it. But the gun was still in view. The man had it out, but positioned it close to his side, so as to keep a discreet profile. They were in a public place after all. As public as they came.

“Are you guys even together?”

The woman, relived the hardest part was over, was ready to speak on behalf of the team.

“We’re not there yet, but one day. Maybe.”

The confirmed boyfriend’s eyes softened, hopeful.

The girlfriend was not done driving the interaction.

“Now we’re gonna need you to get us some supplies.”

A prolonged stickup? Alvin did not have the time. But he had a better idea. He hope it worked.

“Food?”

“We’re mighty hungry.”

“I think I can help you then.”

Hollywood could not have written a better ending. But it was fitting for some restaurant commercial, the way things transpired. The couple walked Alvin to his car, at gunpoint, and he was able to explain his case. He gave them some of the Quince food, and what was going to be his breakfast on his way to Hendrix’s.

They wagered if they liked what they were stealing, they would leave him alone.

The chef was soon on his way to his next destination, the rest of his food intact. The freeway onramp came into view, the path to the rest of his day.

An old, begging man stood on the median next to the turning lane. He smiled as Alvin pulled up.

“Got a sec, old-timer?” The cook’s words rolled out of the lowering car window.

The weathered man on the median smiled even bigger.

“Think I can push some things back, if you really need my eyes.”

He shook Alvin’s hand before hurrying over to the passenger side of his car.

Ten minutes later, the two men sat at a park table, a plate of breakfast between them.

“What happened to your food?”

This was one of the things Alvin appreciated about his friend, Bertram. That was a simple question, but Bertram always seemed to reside directly in the center of his emotions. They were so pure with him. Nothing was more important, in that moment, than finding out the fate of the cook’s breakfast.

Alvin mentioned it to him once, Bertram’s tendency to be so present, but his friend assured him he kept up with all that was popular in the world. Even homeless people were on Facebook.

“I only had enough time for a plate. Got a job after this. But I have to keep my customers happy.”

Bertram studied the plate and looked up at Alvin the way that people with jobs never did. If he thought something else happened, he did not ask further.

“Works for me. Wanna make sure I can have at this nice collection of viddles.”

“Have at it, friend.”

“Just being polite.”

Bertram took the plate and placed it squarely in front of him. He carefully unwrapped it, the way he always did. This time, instead of giving it his undivided attention, he looked up at Alvin. So suddenly that the personal chef thought for a second that Bertram was either some Manchurian candidate for Coco, or he was some food savant who could spot