Wax - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

What a thing to remember—the taste of a memory. Not the fragrance of his food; not the sound of his voice or how he smelled like, or even the useless remnants of appearance that would, without a doubt, change with age and time. The song itself was no classic. Whatever device he was using to play it however, shaped its tone into a fading nostalgia of fireworks and tea and together, they tasted like fire and ice.
Bitter was the new sweet I as a critic would've never subscribed to, having quite had enough of one-dimensional desserts and entrées alike. And as the average human being, too, would experience, I had, as of recent, been craving for a burning bitterness presently absent in my life.
But to ascribe my coming here to mere cravings—temporary and fleeting in nature—would be unwise. Returning was not an option for the people who try so hard to let go, and compounded by the knowledge of exactly how hard it would be to allow the repeat of a difficult past, returning would never appeal to the rational logician.
As it stands, I am very logical. And rational. But as it stands, I am neither when it comes to candles and flames.
I had not been expecting to be surprised; especially not if the man himself was perfectly aware and informed of his guest, myself, and the details of a visit but he had against all odds, as said man often does, surprised me so. The very first of which I had noticed going up the winding stairs, tailed by the most obedient animal I'd ever had the privilege of encountering to date, hoping that the owner of the apartment was in the process of making himself decent.
It was a Bluetooth speaker. Red. Right by the first door that was ajar, on an empty cabinet.
The rest of the room was a whole other surprise. At a glance, the bed was really the only other furniture I could identify for everything else was either lacking or simply open space. There was no dressing table, no wardrobe, no proper desk or chair for study; just the bed and an oddly-shaped platform protruding out of the wall beside it that doubled as a bedside table.
The dog making its way across the room brought my attention to the mess of covers on the bed, furthered by what appeared to be stray pieces of clothing dangling over the edge as though the owner had been so inert a creature to even bother undressing elsewhere that wasn't the bed. Technically speaking, it would account for the state of everything else in the apartment—absent of the characteristics one would associate with being 'lived-in'. Essentially, the two pieces of furniture that actually existed to the owner were the front door and his bed. Nothing else seemed to matter; bringing into question the size of the apartment and the resulting expanse of empty space.
Either way, the figure on the bed was barely clothed but (thankfully) censored by the mess that was his covers, sleeping on his stomach with one arm on a pillow that supported half his head and the other arm dangling over the side of bed. The descriptive identification of said creature had, indeed, demanded much capacity of the brain to actually make out only because at first glance, all that I could see was a mass of skin that was slightly tanned and and and bread rolls the perfect shade of golden brown—
"You're just gonna look?"
I removed myself from wandering thoughts in two collected blinks, crossing the room to gather stray clothing in my arms and pick up the extra pillow that had fallen to the floor along the way. The latter, I'd smacked over the mess of hair that was once a lion's mane but, upon observation, had darkened to an indistinguishable darkness.
"It's eleven, good sir. The day's practically half over."
A snort. Even underneath all that pile of white, he did not bother removing a single item on his head. He remained buried and completely still, seemingly unwilling to move a muscle like the sleepy lion that he was. I was allowed the disappointing conclusion of 'five more minutes' and that no amount of crossing my arms and waiting with patience was going to get him out of bed, so I wasted no time in giving up and heading back down to the kitchen with a sigh. Some breakfast might help, I supposed.
Quite frankly, the spiral stairs were a pain to descend.
"I fly oceans to—well, no, I'm here for business matters only but that said, I make time amidst an unforgiving schedule for him and to think the very person wouldn't even receive me at the door, and now I am to make him breakfast," said I to the dog, who followed. "Just, humiliating. What a terrible decision and I doubt there's a single food item in the refrigerator that isn't... well."
The last three eggs and some frozen bacon had to do. Whilst waiting for the latter to defrost in the microwave, I'd commenced yet another search for butter only to settle, three minutes later, on a tiny bottle of inexpensive cooking oil hidden away in the pantry.
It was only after ensuring I had everything in place—the frying pan, a pair of chopsticks in place of a spatula he did not have—that I proceeded to unbutton my vest and roll up my sleeves. The intention had been to make way for an apron but it did not take me long to realize, yet again, that there was no such thing in this household.
Either way, I was ready to fry some bacon.
Admittedly, bacon-frying techniques were well out of my comfort zone as a privileged, full-time critic who practically had most of his meals made by others. It certainly helped that there wasn't a vast range of options to choose from; the only crockery in the kitchen was really the frying pan.
"Oh—"
I'd tipped the bottle of oil to grease the heated pan, only to realize that the mouth of the plastic bottle was in a similar state as the rest of the kitchen—damaged or expired.
A pan that was unnecessarily oily stared me in the eye. I surprised myself by pressing on with blind faith in my non-existent culinary skills and superior patience, cultivated over years of food-waiting and atrocious restaurant owners who truly believed that having over sixty items on their menu was going to earn them a Michelin star.
My intention was to remove the additional oil in the pan by tipping it over the kitchen sink but lo and behold—the cheap material lining the bottom of the pan had it stuck to the stove on high heat so that I was, in a matter of seconds, left with a layer of sizzling hot oil that could not be scooped out with the kind of utensils the kitchen was equipped with.
Naturally appalled, I was forced into anticipating the greasiest bacon (or perhaps no, not really; not after that horrendous review at an American diner three weeks ago) of my culinary experience to date. Gently, I lowered the strips of back bacon onto the pan and watched it sizzle and pop.
Sufficiently satisfied that they looked and smelled like, well, bacon, I moved on to cracking the eggs into a bowl and beating them for a good scramble. There were no herbs, fresh or dried, at my disposal and so I had to settle for the basics—salt and pepper—and a remaining bit of milk in the fridge. The expiry date on the carton was, fortunately, the day after tomorrow.
With the scent of a savory morning wafting in the kitchen and the occasional crack of bacon that I'd flip every now and then, all was well. In fact, the only thing that fazed the soul of a critic in an apron was the unspeakable, monstrous hazard of oil splatters. Besides the most recent sort of culinary assistance I'd provided over at Chip's place—batter-whisking—nearly a year ago, there was nothing else concrete enough to be considered expertise. Another excuse of mine would've been the inability to operate anything other than an induction cooker, and so the gas stove was quite simply ancient in the memory of someone like myself, a writer who'd last used the contraption some four years ago back in culinary school.
So here I am, flipping bacon strips with my arm stretched to its maximum and the rest of my body leaning away from the spitting pan, appalled by the state of my gutless, feeble soul that, despite having spent years in the culinary industry, was ultimately defeated by oil splatters. A wonderfully perfect start to a dull Tuesday morning.
A figure emerged from the hallway, turning into the kitchen with a mug in hand and stopping right in the middle of the doorway so that I was, in some way or another, obliged to meet his gaze that alternated between me and the sizzling pan of greasy bacon. The instance, as described above, soon turned into something unnecessarily prolonged only because I had so unfortunately observed the absence of clothing on said person's upper-half and, well, promptly malfunctioned as a result. A natural state of things.
"I believe you, um, need to..." The brain managed. Somehow. "Get dressed."
"I am dressed."
Fortunately, my eyes were much more obedient than irrelevant, improper thoughts and were, in an instant, back on the frying pan that appeared increasingly aggressive. Sizzling was well within expectations, but the sheer amount of popping and cracking of oil was... um. Slightly abnormal. Either way, I was about to turn off the heat after being decently satisfied with the color on the meat.
"You know what I—"
Flames.
Everyone has a word for the times when things go wrong but, as it stands, I was fond of distinguishing myself from the status quo and as such, often had many. Alas, I was not expecting bright blue flames to burst into a shade of tiger, leaping forth into the pan and licking it alive.
The fault was mine. I had, by accident, turned the knob towards the end that guaranteed some hellish heat instead of, well, the other... yes, well, as much as I would like to explain what had happened in the matter of seconds and attribute my awful mistake to the stove being old and unused and quite frankly a chore to operate, I could not. And the presence of an idiot, too, might have had to do with it.
Either way, I was looking at a grease fire the size of a frying pan lighting up the kitchen, rising upwards to the hood and triggering some sort of emergency beeping panic from above. The dog was barking for the first time.
"Oh good god," I recoiled from the intense heat and was at once frightened by the absence of reasonable thoughts in an otherwise rationally-trained mind. The flames had, momentarily, wiped it clean of words—burning the lake in a sweeping gust, setting it ablaze and blank, I'd turned at once to the doorway. He wasn't there.
Refused by the first of solutions that really wasn't a proper one at all, I felt the mind begin to collect remains of melting shards in alarm, searching the countertop and basin for a wet towel the kitchen was so clearly lacking of and then it was for the lid of the pan but for goodness sake, no dirt-cheap crockery would ever come with a lid and water on a grease fire was easily the silliest mistake one could ever make so—
"Back up."
There was clinking; to the left, and there he was in the doorway with a Class B extinguisher out of god knows where and as soon as I stepped out of the way as instructed, a flurry of white hit the pan in a dusty explosion of sorts. In an instant, the luminous flame was out.
All that remained was the tragic darkness of a crusted pan, the sharp beeping of a fire alarm, and whatever burnt pride smelled like. So stunned and in disbelief I was that the white flecks of powdery chemicals on my clothes and glasses failed miserably at distracting me from the fact that I'd nearly textbook-burned-down someone else's kitchen. I did not know which was louder: the awful beeping or the silence between him and I—so much so that it began to introduce a third thundering in my ears.
It was after what seemed like parallel universes combined that the owner of the house set the extinguisher aside and crossed the lounge to roll up blinds and crank windows open. I had to keep his curious mammalian companion away from the red metal cylinder.
The push of a button by the front door returned the apartment to its original state of silence before, seconds later, triggering a speaking voice from what seemed like the speaker right beside it.
"You know we ain't coming down even if it's real, right?"
I heard him snort as soon as the speaker came on. "Keep the new guy busy."
Realizing that I was eavesdropping on an emergency call that for some reason had directed him straight to his co-workers instead of, well, the owner of the building, I returned to my senses and attempted a search for cleaning tools. Rags or a mop.
"It's his first day, Cox. And you know how Zales gets when there's new people on engine. Hey, if you got time after lunch or somethin' maybe you could drop by. Get him going on the basics."
"No thanks."
"Right. Hope your house burns down then." The line promptly cut off and the urge to comment on the chaotic exchange between him and his colleagues was a hard one to fight. Fortunately, I was able to busy myself with a cleaning rag and an old broom while he joined me in the kitchen, grabbing the pan and dumping it into the bin without a moment's hesitation.
Guilt settled in like an evening fog in the woods, clouding judgement and vision alike. Admittedly, I'd been foolish enough to consider the idea of washing the pan. It made complete sense to dispose of the entire thing, chemicals and all, and replace it with another.
I had to apologize. Naturally, I did not know where to start—having to close a distance of seven years with someone who did not seem to care as much as he did and who was now, well, fully awake and standing before me without a shirt on.
"I'll... buy you a new one."
"While you're at it, get five more." He turned to fill his mug with store-bought water from a plastic bottle, the hint of a smirk on his lips. "You could use some practice."
This, I had paused to register, and then, accordingly, given him a look. "I imagine you lounging in that hideous blue armchair, waiting for your peers to arrive all whilst allowing the entire apartment to burn in flames."
He laughed shortly, into his mug. Taking a moment. "Not wrong."
I did not particularly mind the fact that he was simply leaning against the counter, watching me clean and not exactly being the best at making conversations because, well, since when was he ever? Either way, what bothered me the most was the lack of complaints or show of exasperation. I mean—I was seconds to burning down his entire kitchen! The least he could have done was call me out on it.
It was strange how the events, unfolded in the span of the last five minutes had simply... just... happened. As though it was nothing quite out of the ordinary and thus did not require much re-visiting, in the grand scheme of things. Of the two of us being in each other's presence after what seemed like a very, very long time.
Well it was, really. I suppose seven years is a very long time, spent apart. How on earth the warping of time could be achieved by the workings of the mind and the heart, I never really thought of figuring out. There'd always been something else to do, something else to think about. So much so that I'd come to realize I wasn't really doing anything at all.
"Fires like that happen all the time though." He brought up. Casual. Staring at the handle of the pan that was sticking out of the bin. "One minute you're frying up some bacon and the next, you're running the pan under an open tap without eyebrows."
"Grease fires?"
"Yeah."
"And you have an extinguisher stored away in your, um," I motioned in the general direction of his lounge, "well-furnished apartment for that very purpose?"
"I have about nine."
"Nine?"
"They expire in two months," he set his mug aside, reaching down to retrieve the extinguisher and move it over to the front door. His dog followed. "We do checks every now and then to swap 'em out for new ones. Like, in schools and stuff. Some of us keep 'em till the actual date before drop-off."
Oh, was all that I could think before realizing how little the general public was aware of what, exactly, came under the job description of a firefighter. Much of what I knew had been gathered over brief, exhausted texts characterized by the dullness of the busy lives we'd come to lead, especially after he'd attended the fire academy and passed related performance tests. The former, I'd helped in the sourcing of applications.
"So um... it's your day off." I noted.
More than half of the kitchen looked like it needed a serious re-modelling, but I was doing my best.
"I clocked out of my shift at six in the morning, so. Yeah. Its my 'day off'," he seemed rather lukewarm about the whole situation. "Usually I spend the next eight hours asleep."
"Ah. I, um. I see." Well, at least that explains his irregular sleeping pattern and inability to get himself out of bed. "And to think you woke to an unwelcome visitor and fire alarm! I can see how that would be... quite the nightmare. Oh and I wasn't, I mean, I didn't quite mean for any of that to happen, really. I apologize. For everything, I suppose. I'm sorry. And now I should, um, show myself to the door."
"No." He blocked the way at once. With an arm stretched out. "You were making me breakfast."
I was practically a block of ice. "Yes, but the pan is—"
"There's cereal in there." The owner of the apartment had the audacity to nod at a cabinet I'd searched beforehand.
"It is expired." And no milk.
"Fuck." He checked the box, staring at numbers for a tad too long; as though searching his mental calendar for today's date required more mental power than operating a fire extinguisher. "It tastes okay."
"Hm! Well. If you're willing to serve this guest some precious expired goodies, then," I gestured at the dining area that was really just a foldable plastic table and one wooden stool, between the lounge and the kitchen. "I'd be happy to accommodate."
A lion, rolling its eyes and presenting a signature, indecent finger: "There's a Morrisons down the street."
"A bakery?"
"A grocery store."
"Oh," was all I managed, wondering if he meant purchasing groceries or simply making do with ready-mades like more cereal or instant porridge. Or bagels. That apparently came in different flavours, in bags of five or six, available at any sort of grocery store in the region. I glanced at the time. "I have an hour. Well—not really, but. So the purpose was to... I mean, initially, I had the entire day but then the office called this morning and we have apparently been flooded with requests for features and, so. I'm sorry, it's just. We need the exposure. And, um, no, more specifically, we need the money," I corrected in a mess. "I've had quite enough exposure."
He seemed to agree.
"You're on TV a lot," he said neutrally, like it was an observation he'd made some time ago but never really thought of voicing. He paused on his way back from the front door, noting the folded jersey I'd placed on the loveseat and decided to put it on. The look on his face was nothing short of unreadable and, being the expert overthinker that I was, a sense of dread began to creep into the heavy mind, afraid that he had, along the way, drawn similarities between my fame and his father's commercialization.
"Yes, um. Yes, I am. Although I must say, sometimes I feel like the only reason they like having a critic on camera is that they expect some sort of clash between whoever it is doing the cooking and, well, the tasting." I'd somehow managed to turn most of the counter from what looked like an indoor avalanche into a decent scene of snow-dust but that was before properly observing the state of the floor and the cabinets underneath the gas stove. Furniture aside, my dress shirt was an absolute mess. Thank goodness I'd made the clever decision to remove my vest and tie beforehand.
"Forget about the floor," I heard him say, producing a track jacket out of nowhere before heading back down the hallway. "I'm sure you'll be around to get me a new one."
I promptly gave him a look, flustered into dusting my shirt and putting on everything I'd removed whilst following his back to the front door.
"How are you just taking everything so lightly and within stride? It is quite infuriating and—oh good heavens." He'd turned, abruptly, in a way that had startled the heart with the sheer lack of distance: inches apart, nearly colliding. I stopped short.
The moment was long and protracted. He reached out, and perhaps on instinct, I'd somehow, at the back of my mind, assumed the familiarity of such an act and thus expected 'the usual' with my eyes closed. Disappointing seconds later revealed that he was reaching for something behind me. The keys. The proximity, too, had allowed for a closer look at the state of the flame in his eyes. Once still and disarming; all intensity gathering at a point, the tip that was the candle.
It wasn't there.
"Say bye to Chicken."
"What?" I returned with difficultly, fazed by the strangeness of something amiss. The inches apart were another factor, coupled with the tension of his lowered voice. "Chicken?"
He nodded at the border collie that was wagging its tail and gazing up at the both of us. In conclusion, Leroy Cox was a massive, certified idiot and I could not believe that I'd actually flown 4587 miles to see him.
=======================
"You did not say a word about adopting a dog."
He shrugged, leading the way. "Some things just don't work out on text."
I faltered at this—feeling my memory jolt and dwell upon past instances in which he could be referring to. There were many.
One solution was to steer the conversation elsewhere and the only thing I could think of mentioning at present was the entire purpose of a morning visit despite the fact that work had cropped up at the very last minute. Gathering my wits and choosing proper words in a matter of seconds, I was about to take my stand when, all of a sudden, a man headed in the opposite direction ran into my shoulder on the narrow sidewalk. I offered a nod of apology. He did not seem to react.
My companion, who had been walking just a step ahead, turned to stare at the stranger's back. "Check your pockets."
"They don't exist, Leroy," I told him calmly, reading between the lines. "My pants don't have any pockets. Well, there's one on the inner side of my coat but that aside, no."
The look in his eyes would have been how lions looked like if they had the capacity for amusement. "Pants... without pockets?"
I rolled my eyes, averting judgement, but at the same time realizing the extent to which pocket-absence had an effect on my constantly-frozen fingers. How stubborn one had to be in order not to make the connection for the longest time, well, I suppose I knew perfectly well.
"Need a ride after?" He offered. It was a pleasant surprise.
"Well I suppose it wouldn't hurt. I'm headed to West End, where the office is."
"I thought you were studying." We stopped at a light and he turned to say. "Le Cordon Bleu."
"Oh. Them—well, yes I did mention the school but... ah. Now that you've put it this way, I can see how they could've been easily misunderstood. I'm teaching there, actually. As a guest lecturer for the semester. Global Cuisine and Menu Design."
I searched his expression soon after, only to register the vagueness of an impression that left me wondering if he had been listening at all. He had his gaze fixed on the road for a time to cross and as soon as it was clear, the traffic light did not seem to matter very much. "So you're a teacher now."
"Somewhat," I offered in return, unsure of the kind of face I should be making. He never seemed to do very well with good news. Things that suggested some sort of advancement in life; albeit I myself had come to realize how little importance they had in the grand scheme of things. As I had mentioned.
We arrived at the grocery store in the next minute or so and soon, my companion was picking up and throwing items into our basket without a moment to spare. I merely tagged along. The fresh ingredients he'd decided upon were familiar basics: eggs, shallots, bell peppers, spinach, ham; things that could go well in any dish at all.
Admittedly, I had been waiting for some chicken to fill up the remaining space in our basket. Alas, the certified idiot had, to the surprise of parallel universes, skipped the poultry aisle entirely. Neither of us talked very much during the process; he seemed to know the store inside out and combed it in a manner so oddly efficient that fairly impressed. Just as we were about finished with the shopping, I could not help but notice a toddler hugging a bag of cinnamon raisin bagels. The purple packaging stood out thanks to Si Yin's constant raving about them, toasted on a pan and filled with grated cheese. Violet had been the honorary parent of said culinary invention.
"You want that?"
I turned to my companion, slightly embarrassed that he'd noticed my staring and followed suit. "Oh. The bagels? Well. I've heard good things about them."
"They're store-bought... might not suit a palate like yours," he seemed to warn. Teasing. I wished to prove him wrong.
"I appreciate your concern but now I might just be dying to try those bagels. Excuse me while I get myself a bag."
We joined the shortest queue which happened to be the counter farthest away from the exit and, within moments, were arranging our items on the checkout counter belt. Having nearly burnt down half his kitchen and professionally destroyed breakfast, the least I could do was pay for everything.
"Mornin' darling. You alright?" The lady behind the counter directed this at the bagel-disapproving idiot standing beside me, a beam on her face. "Haven't seen you in a while."
"I'm good. Been busy."
"Saving the world, I'm sure," she laughed, reaching for our items on the belt and scanning them in a sweeping motion. After the bell peppers and spinach however, she seemed to pause. "What's this? You've got fresh food in your basket! Not in ages my love—what's happened to you?"
I blinked, searching his gaze.
"Nothing."
"Rubbish. It's been nearly a year and all you ever buy is canned bollocks and stuff at the marked-down shelves that nobody's in the right mind to eat. You sure you're alright?" The staff member went through the rest of our items on the belt in less than a minute. "Finally got yourself a girlfriend or somethin'?"
He laughed shortly, shaking his head without the intention to respond. I produced a contactless to pay and the movement sort of drew her attention away from him. "That's eleven-thirty. I like your hair, by the way. Absolutely stunning. Oh! Are you going to teach him how to cook?"
I did a double take, turning to my companion in mild disbelief. He on the other hand, was smirking in private amusement.
"He nearly set my apartment on fire ten minutes ago, frying bacon."
The urge to protest was strong but the entire statement, word-for-word, spoke nothing but the truth. I let him have it. The lady behind the counter had, very naturally, assumed he was joking and proceeded to respond with a heartful laugh.
"Alright gentlemen, stay away from the flames," she winked. "No one quite likes fires. Not if they aren't alive to see a rescue team of handsome young men. Cheers!" She waved.
Mixed feelings began to filter in and before I could properly register the reason behind the frost-like chill in my chest, I was staring at a massive idiot picking up our groceries with his bare hands—without a bag.
"There's no! Leroy, you don't just... you didn't bring one," I concluded, gobsmacked into outer space. A plastic bag was priced at fifteen pence per piece. "Oh god I should have realized." I caught a smile on his lips he was trying to hide and quite promptly felt like dying inside.