Everyday Psychopaths Read online

  ***

  After a piping hot shower, I headed down to the kitchen for lunch and chef Jorge’s famous tuna salad. I sat down by the kitchen island and Jorge, who looked weirdly forlorn, placed the plate in front of me in haste. His tuna salad was the tastiest way to cut the carbs and it was something I needed to do badly. I never had the rock-solid, action hero body with visible abs and I was fine with that, but I was still concerned about how soft and doughy the skin around my midsection had become. I was nearing 30 and part of me was terrified it was all going to be downhill from there. My indulgences were few, the previously mentioned chocolate croissant, the half bottle of wine with dinner and possibly a slice of cheese or three afterwards, but still every digested gram seemed to count.

  But eating Jorge’s salad wasn’t a huge concession, he usually put the exact amount of dressing and seasoning and always used the freshest vegetables and the best tuna he could find. It was a treat. Usually.

  This time though, something was wrong with it. It was overly vinegary, bordering towards sour and the first mouthful made me cringe. I struggled through a few bites and then pushed the plate aside. I walked out of the kitchen and found Jorge sitting on a chair in the back garden looking like a ton of bricks just had fallen on him.

  “What's up?” I asked.

  “You didn't like it did you?”

  “What?”

  “The tuna salad. You didn't like it.” Jorge gave me a look telling me there was no point in lying. Everything about him was big, his body, his face, his heart and his mind and he knew very well that I didn't like it.

  “I don't know, there was something a bit different with it today, I guess.” I said, knowing how much his cooking meant to him.

  Jorge rose from the chair quickly, removed his chef’s hat, ran his left hand through his curly patch of hair and said: “Darryl, I botched it. The dressing. The cap came off and you know? Too much.” It seemed like to Jorge there was more than a tuna salad at stake here.

  “Don't worry, Jorge. It's a salad. I'll survive. What else is wrong?”

  Jorge looked at me with his big brown eyes and then let them travel out into the garden as if they were more comfortable there, and said, “It's my son, Luís. He isn't doing well in school anymore, his grades are off, he’s having troubles focusing, his teachers are concerned. When I ask him about it, he says he wants to be an RnB singer and couldn't care less about school. It’s very upsetting.”

  A young person in LA struck by the fame-drug, didn't sound too rare to me, but finding a cure was more difficult though. Once the desire for an exuberant existence gets into your brain, it seems to develop much like a virus, soon taking over your whole being. It becomes difficult to focus on anything else than finding a way to the spotlight. I don’t have any research or stats to prove it, but I’ve seen it up close.

  I tried to soften the blow, “Well it's good to have a dream and a drive to achieve it. Does he have any actual talent?”

  “I know it sounds harsh, but I don’t think so. His interest in music started rather late, too late if you ask me. Or maybe I just don’t get what he’s trying to do. I’m afraid he's throwing his life away trying to be the next MTV sensation.”

  “I haven't heard him and I doubt I ever will by the sound of it, but I agree with your thinking. It will be hard to break it to him though, it sounds like his desire is firmly rooted.”

  Jorge shook his giant head and reached over and touched the stem of a pink flower very gently, like it was a sacred object, “It worries me, the way he's wasting his time only setting himself up to get hurt. I wish he could put all that energy somewhere else. In education, a serious profession. My family never had the money to study and get a degree and the one who finally gets the chance, is suddenly eager to throw it all away. It breaks a father’s heart.”

  “The world puts a lot of pressure on the young, Jorge.” I said, still counting myself among the world’s young and feeling the pressure. “Besides, you're a celebrity chef, well at least a celebrity-hired chef, so my guess is he would want to do something big, as not to disappoint you.”

  “He wouldn't disappoint me even if he decided to work at McDonalds for the rest of his life. The important thing is he's happy, that’s all I care about.”

  “But maybe that’s not all he cares about? I think sometimes parents make the mistake to think that whatever their children do or want, they had something to do with it. And besides, trying out a music career might make him really happy, no matter how silly it may sound to you.”

  Jorge appeared to consider this odd piece of wisdom, coming from a much younger guy with no experience in parenting whatsoever. But everyone’s free to have opinions and I’m kind of keen to throw mine around sometimes.

  “True,” he said, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely sure about my reasoning, “How's B by the way?”

  “Better now, but obviously not great. I’d say she’d love some comfort food today, but I’m not sure her body needs it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I won’t make her a tuna salad, that’s for sure.” Jorge finally gave me a smile, which was nice to see. He was generally a very happy camper and I really disliked seeing him worry like this.

  “Just go easy on the dressing and you’ll be fine. I'm going to run back to the office now. I'll think if there's something we can do about your son. Does he have a website or a Myspace page or something where I can check him out?”

  “I don't know actually, but I doubt it. What’s Myspace?”

  “It doesn’t matter, I’ll google him. Thanks for lunch, Jorge.”

  “It was nothing. And I mean it this time.”