The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard Elijah Douresseau (read aloud books .txt) 📖

merciful God who turned circumstances into something for his good.

But the damage, the unresolved hurt was there. It was the stuff Alvin could never let God have, let alone anyone else who would come close to his heart. Grandma was the only exception.

His mother’s fatal car collision with a bus was a sledgehammer to the gut. It hurt. Simply. As a kid, the death hurt impossibly. Completely. It took him a long time to catch his breath.

The chef’s grandmother taking on the responsibility to raise him was a horrific, debilitating thing some nights. It was a struggle for Alvin to sleep, not too long after his mother passed.

And Grandma was older. Even back then. She had less days left. The vivid fear of having to not only emotionally cope with one death, but two…it was going to be one of the hardest things Alvin had to do. Too much for a little boy to bear.

Then he would wake up the next day, his brain having had to shut down to protect the mind from the sheer fright; his body, sweaty from the shivers.

It was the anticipation of his grandmother’s passing. Alvin hated it. If his mother’s death was a hard, steal shot to the stomach, Grandma’s death was a full semitruck, firing on all cylinders. It charged down the road with no intention of stopping at the young boy who just stood there.

He faced the raging beast. No restraints. No material holds. He could not move out of the way.

Suffice it to say, Alvin had issues. Issues with human beings leaving him.

But in some strange order of things he needed in Witness Protection, few things were as satisfying as providing something to someone who would need some thing themselves, and would just leave afterwards. No strings attached. No need to grow feelings to have them struck down later.

Sure, plenty would come back. Only a handful of restaurants in town. Only two diners. And the other closed at 8.

Alvin got what he needed, and so did the customers. Look out for you and no one would get hurt. It was how too many of the chef’s romantic relationships would conclude, until the numbness of taking got old and boring.

Fine.

It was just how things in their current state would go.

***

So this was Matts’ master plan. Soft prison. After the fifth month of hiding away in menial fashion, Alvin was sure of it.

The fry cook, a seasoned captain of his diner-shaped ship by month five, started to resent the mediocrity of his new life in hiding. It was profoundly peaceful at first. Not having to watch what he said. Not having to avoid being made. No conflicts of interest with other projects or people. By the time the rash of dullness was ablaze with irritation, Alvin swore he would have been happy to service customers out of a drive-thru window, just to spice things up a taste.

He missed saving people with food.

It was insane to face adversity with a steaming plate of something. But it worked. Time and time again. And it felt great. The food might not have solved every problem at hand, but humans needed to eat. Whatever they were venturing or conspiring to do, people neglected their appetites in their dream-chasing affairs.

Until Alvin showed up.

He was good, and he felt his talents atrophy with each passing shift of starchy gravy, starchless rice, and orange wedge garnishes.

He missed that peculiar need for food. When it was the accent to the moment. A movement. Big food that paired well with big ideas. That was when it was art.

But that was when Alvin’s food might have been dangerous. Apparently, his food was perfect for a villain in training. Fuel for the bad things people did.

Though, conversely, that was interesting.

After a while at the diner, the chef got comfortable with knowing people. Most of his day was spent at the restaurant. Surely, he had to cooperate with his boss and co-workers. The bussers, waiters, and hostess – people in the workplace start to look to discuss more than the work at hand.

The job was only a necessary thing. A bratty sibling you are forced to take with you to the mall because you had demanding parents. So Alvin developed a craving for interests outside of the workplace. He was willing to try anything. Meet anyone. Just to feel needed as a super cook.

Birthday party?

“Need food provided?”

Champagne party before prom?

“You could probably use a tower of sweet nibbles for that, right?”

A welcome-home-from-jail party – Alvin could fire up the grill. Why not?

Small towns were self-sufficient. People preferred to keep to themselves. It felt like racism a couple times. But in almost dealing with others, it was just the way things were.

The itch was unbearable. He could not even cook for himself at home to satisfy his professional restlessness. Uninspired, Alvin resorted to eating terribly. Matts might have been impressed, misconstruing his extra weight for an attempt at blending in a little more with the populace.

One lunch shift, a patron ordered liver and onions. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Small town. Older customers. The dish was a diner staple. Except, this curious person wanted eggs instead of rice. Nothing too unusual there either. It kept Alvin’s work an eighth of a notch more eventful. The person must have already known the rice was too bland, too separated at the grains. Too much like frozen or TV dinner rice that was only meant to fill out a plate. The scrambled eggs would do the same job, but would be more effective at soaking up the liver sauce. It would also be a good texture to pair with the somewhat squishy main component.

The customer’s order was not all that weird. He or she just had good taste. End of story.

“Joseph.”

“Hey, Joe?”

“Joseph!”

“Oh, sorry. I was just in my head about something.”

Alvin was Joseph for his Witness Protection tenure. He was used to the name, pretty attentive at responding when called. But there were times when he wished he