Ravenous Read online

  Ravenous

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2017 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781634864985

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Ravenous

  By R.W. Clinger

  The cardboard sign read Help Me! Anything Will Do. God Bless U. The words looked as if they were written by a third grader who was just learning penmanship. The man behind the handmade sign had dirty blond hair, beautiful aquamarine-colored eyes with onyx black pupils. I guessed he stood at five-eleven, somewhat emaciated with lanky arms and legs. He had a post-summertime tan and dirt at the corners of his mouth and chin. Thick, grimy-looking scruff covered his cheeks; not really a beard, but close to it. I placed him at thirty-five, no younger. He wore a tattered Army green jacket, ripped jeans covered in grime, and boots that looked as if they had been to Afghanistan and back. Of course, I took him as a veteran, having returned from some distant and dusty land somewhere in the Middle East. One who witnessed suicide bombings, the horrifying deaths of his soldier buddies as they bled-out, and other graphic natures of war that could easily make a civilian like me weep, facing disturbing, graphic, and past events.

  I’d seen the man a few times before on the same corners of Lincoln and Dise. Another homeless person in Channing, Pennsylvania. Frequently, I had given him cash, simple hellos, and usually a statement like, “Hang in there, buddy. You take care of yourself.”

  He always said the same thing to me, “God bless you,” and gratefully took whatever I had to offer.

  His same reply always made me think: if there really is a God, why is he homeless and starving?

  October rain splashed against the Jeep Wrangler’s windshield as I pressed the brake, came to a slow stop on Lincoln Street, next to the homeless man, and lowered the driver’s side window.

  “Lots of rain, isn’t it?” I said to the guy, thumbing through my wallet for a five-dollar bill.

  “I love the rain. You have to love everything, in and out, every day in life,” the guy said, keeping his eyes on me, absorbed, thinking things that I couldn’t begin to understand.

  I passed him a crisp five through the open window. “What’s your name, anyway?” Thought I’d ask. Why not? Neither of us had anything to lose by being friendly, right?

  He took the five from me and stuffed it away in his war jacket. “Kevin.”

  Was he telling the truth or not? I didn’t really care either way. “I’m Hatchford Lye. My friends call me Hatch. Nice to meet you, Kevin.”

  He raised a hand for a shake: grimy and covered in filth. “Good to meet you.”

  I wasn’t above shaking any man’s hand and pushed my right one through the open window.

  The handshake lasted a few seconds.

  He smiled.

  I smiled.

  Some asshole behind me in a Lexus beeped for me to go through the intersection and continue my travels. A Botox-injected woman with big hair and too much makeup sat behind her expensive steering wheel. She had pearls around her throat and shiny diamonds in her ears. Probably was running late for her tennis lesson or afternoon affair with her college-aged pool boy who had a handsome face and young muscles in all the right places.

  “Gotta run. You take care, Kevin. See you around.”

  He said exactly what I suspected he would: “God bless you, Hatch.”

  Our handshake ended.

  Off I went.

  Maybe we would meet again.

  Maybe not.

  Whatever.

  * * * *

  Couldn’t get Kevin out my head. Tried to. Just couldn’t. I attempted to get some work done in my home office (a modern kitchen with all the proper ins and outs of a professional chef) for Ravenous, which involved testing recipes. Padington Cookbooks subcontracted Ravenous to test all of the three-hundred and twenty-six recipes created by author/chef Milo Dickerson. Passing recipes would end up in Dickerson’s new cookbook titled Milo’s Kitchen Tales.

  I currently tested recipe twenty-nine, a rose water tea cookie formula. Most people considered my job easy, but I always disagreed with those verbal rats and haters. I paused at the counter, baffled in silence, inactive and thinking of the homeless man on Lincoln and Dise.

  Kevin. Who was he? Where did he come from? What was his life’s story? Everyone had a personal story, right? Right. What did his entail?

  Curiosity burned within me. Did his days regularly consist of drug use, thievery, and starvation like some homeless? Where did he sleep at night, and with whom? How did the guy survive day in and day out among Channing’s streets and chilly weather? How long did he live among the rats, other homeless, and…

  The landline in my kitchen rang; a vintage, fire hydrant red AT&T phone from 1978 in the shape of a box with a plastic wheel and numbers on its front. Surprisingly, the thing still worked. Vintage. So old. I loved it.

  Between the first ring and second, I lifted the receiver off its cradle and said, “Hello.”

  “Hatch…we need to talk,” Jay Manson, one of my oldest friends, blurted into my right ear. Always hyper and a little too much to handle.

  “Why do we need to talk?”

  “Put your spatula and icing down and listen.”

  Although Jay was almost forty, a handsome thirty-eight-year-old with blue eyes and blond hair, he acted as if he were twenty: immature, foolish, and wild, always looking for a good time with anyone. The guy had never grown up, and never would. Living off his tycoon daddy’s money from Mason Beer, Jay pretty much did nothing with his life except drink, eat, and enjoy night after night of random sex with a variety of men, most of whom he didn’t know their names. Loose, funny, and demanding, I couldn’t believe he and I were friends of the same circle since we were so different. Friendship could be like that, though: unconditional, confusing, and nothing average.

  “I’m listening,” I told him.

  I pictured his handsome grin of all-white teeth and narrow lips as he said on his end of the line, probably at a bar, somewhere in downtown Channing by Lake Erie, “I’m seeing the Boulder twins tonight.”

  I rolled my eyes, smiled, unsurprised. Robby Bold and Kent Herr owned and operated their own contracting company, Boulder Boys. Both were gay, players, and studs. Some believed they were twins—Jay included—with their molten brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair. Both were six-three, muscular, and sported clefts in their chins. Rumor had it in Channing’s small gay community they were a couple. Another rumor suggested the two picked up guys like Jay, using the “somebody” for his handsome skin, ultimate pleasure, and then got rid of the man
by morning; game over.

  “Just be careful, Jay. Don’t do anything unsafe. Do you hear me?”

  “Everything about my life is unsafe. We both know that.”

  Right again. Damn. Even I couldn’t get him to settle down, grow up, and become serious about life. Once he nailed the Boulder guys, he’d move onto his next sexual feat, new drugs, and dangerous whatnots.

  If Florence, Jay’s mother, called me and said, “Jay’s in trouble, Hatch. Can you help me?” I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least. And I would have helped Jay, as best I could.

  Jay chuckled, paused, and added, “Some dude’s giving me the fuck-eye, and I have to go.”

  The “fuck-eye” was his way of saying someone was attracted to him. It meant that the dude solidly stared at him, started to visually eat him up and down, and probably wanted to sleep with him, unwilling to learn his name.

  “Have fun, Jay. Like I said, just be careful.”

  “Will do, man. Call you later.”

  Of course, he would, with scathing details about his sexual adventures, his fun, binge drinking, drugging, and whatnots of his active world with the Boulder guys. Jesus, we really were different, weren’t we? Of course, we were.

  * * * *

  I gave the rose water tea cookies recipe an approval and high rating, turned in my positive report to my boss, Regina Bliss, at Ravenous, boxed the two dozen cookies in an aluminum tin, and set the box aside.

  I took the call when Michael Risk, another friend, phoned. He was in tears, heaving.

  “Calm down…calm down. What’s the problem?”

  “Everything’s ruined, Hatch. Everything. I can’t make things better.”

  “Are you okay? What are you talking about? Michael, tell me what’s going on.”

  He sounded rushed, panting, and beaten. “Just come over. Please, be a friend and just please come over.”

  My heart dropped, and panic came over me at the possibilities of his emergency: his husband could have had a heart attack, or Mitzy, his yappy little dog of one hundred and fourteen years, could have taken a stroke on the kitchen floor. Maybe his mother, Melinda, found out she had breast cancer? Or maybe Michael had learned that his hubby had lost his job and they were shit broke.

  “I’ll be right over,” I hurriedly answered and ended the call.

  * * * *

  Michael lived six doors down from me on Heshner Street in Channing. His Tudor seemed larger than it was from a street view. It looked haunting due to its grey shutters and black brick walls. A wrought-iron gate decorated the front yard, and dark limestone created a walkway to the abode’s tiny front porch and door.

  I let myself in and discovered Michael kneeling on his kitchen floor, crying. Surrounded in flour, chocolate batter, aluminum circular tins, and sugar, he looked up at me with his baby blues and sniffled.

  “It’s over, Hatch. The five-tier wedding cake will never be done on time. I’ve ruined everything. As you can see, it’s a disaster. Everything has crashed around me.”

  A chuckle lifted at the back of my throat because of his emotional breakdown over a baking incident, but I kept it there. At his side, practically on my knees, I chose to console the drama queen who could have passed as Justin Hartley’s twin because of his light brown hair, matching scruff on his chin and cheeks, and caramel-colored eyes. I helped him off the floor, hugged him, and rubbed his back.

  “Stop sobbing for a few seconds and tell me everything that happened. As your friend, I’m here to help you.”

  Long story short, the amateur baker had agreed to make his brother and future sister-in-law’s wedding cake: a five-tiered, triple chocolate tower with chocolate buttercream icing. He had his wedding cake batter prepared for the floured tins. And just as he was about to fill the first tin, his left foot slipped on a square of butter that had somehow ended up on the kitchen floor. As Michael fell, chocolate batter went flying with tins, a plastic tub of sugar, and a bag of opened flour. Michael ended up wearing the ingredients, splayed on the floor like a beginning ice skater.

  I attempted to calm him down. “Listen to me, Michael. You start a new batter, and I’ll clean up this mess. Before you know it, you’ll be back on your schedule. I can promise you that Tony and his bride won’t even know about this disaster. You can have this cake done by dawn with a little extra work. If I have to stay up all night and help you, I will.”

  Honestly, I couldn’t wait to be Michael’s date for the occasion. I loved attending weddings, gay or straight. Although Michael had a husband, Richard Van Meer, for the last six years, Richard wasn’t going to be in town the weekend of Tony and Theresa’s wedding. Therefore, Michael obtained special permission from his beloved that I replace him as Michael’s date. Richard accepted, realizing that Michael and I were just friends.

  “Thank you…thank you…thank you,” he repeated, squeezing me against him.

  Suffering from lack of air, I grunted. “I suggest you keep selling insurance instead of baking. What do you say?”

  “I can’t promise that. I love to bake. I’ve been baking since I was ten.” He pulled away from me, looked up at the ceiling, and crossed himself. “God rest her soul in heaven.”

  “I hear you.” I got to work cleaning up his mess and helping him in his fraught stage of dire straits.

  * * * *

  Later that night, while driving to a convenience store for Michael to fetch him a pack of Camels, of all things, I saw Kevin on Lincoln Street again. I stopped again and asked him if he was hungry.

  “Starving,” he said. Dirty-faced. Smelled of soot for some strange reason.

  I gave him a twenty.

  He smiled at me. Nodded. October wind blew through his tangle of netted hair. “You’re a good man, Hatch.”

  “You remember my name?”

  “The good guys are always easy to remember.”

  “What’s your full name?” I inquired, prying.

  “Kevin Balk. No middle name.”

  He could have been lying to me. I didn’t care really. Why would I since we were strangers to each other?

  I thought about crossing a line in our conversation and wanted to tell him that he had the most beautiful aquamarine eyes I had ever seen on a man. Being respectful, I didn’t do that, though. Rather, I kept my manners in check. Good for me.

  “I’ll eat tonight,” he told me, grinning. “Tomorrow, too. Thanks again.”

  Dirty and stinky or not, I wanted to climb out of my Jeep and hug him. Something uncanny drew me towards him. A thick wave of positive emotion came over me. It pulled at me and made me feel as if it were right to somehow, someway care for him as another human being, and supply him with a comforting hug, perhaps just to prove we were both of the same fabric on the planet.

  I didn’t climb out of the Jeep, though. Nor did I hug him. Instead, I told him, “Goodnight, Kevin. Be safe.”

  He waved goodbye as I drove away.

  Strange how men from different worlds could connect, and with such misunderstood ease.

  * * * *

  Close to midnight, with all five tiers of chocolate cake baked and cooled, Michael finally looked composed. He stood over his kitchen’s expansive quartz island and admitted, “I can decorate it in the morning. Although it will take four or five hours, I feel comfortable in getting it finished and ready for the wedding on Sunday. Thanks for all your help, Hatch. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Of course, you could.”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t. You have magnum skills in the cheerleading department. And thanks again for going to get me cigarettes.” I was just getting ready to leave when he said, “Stay for a nightcap. Something very strong. What do you say?”

  Why not? I didn’t have to drive. A shot of whiskey, tequila, or Grey Goose was well-deserved after assisting him in his almost-tragic moment of bakery need; something strong to hit my soul and cause it to burn a little with some pleasure was maybe needed.

  “One shot and then I have t
o go. I have four to six recipes to test tomorrow for Ravenous. I’m already behind regarding this book of recipes, and the deadline is sneaking up on me.”

  “No problem. I understand.” He found two shot glasses, filled them with whiskey, and handed me one. “Down the hatch.”

  “Funny.” I rolled my eyes. “Your toast never gets old.”

  Unintentionally, over two more shots of the Kentucky whiskey, we talked about Richard being away in Europe on business for almost two weeks. At forty-five, ten years older than Michael, Richard worked in international banking for a company called Triton Incorporated. In essence, he handled billions of invested dollars for super-rich clients who lived in such places like Monte Carlo, Brussels, Dubai, and the French Riviera. Because of his career, most of his time was spent away from Channing and Michael, creating a barrier of sorts in their relationship that some might have called rocky and dispassionate.

  To my surprise, Michael Risk wasn’t anything like his last name. Never had he made eye contact with another man behind Richard’s back, always faithful, which made him sexy and attractive. Not once had he strayed from his marriage in the last dozen years, even though he was left behind by Richard and living a single-like life, basically fending for himself and eating meals alone when his friends—like me—weren’t available. Kudos to Michael for staying faithful and devoted to his hubby, claiming the man his one and only partner in life and loving him more than any other man on the planet.

  Would I ever fall in love with a man just as Michael had? I doubted it. Singlehood seemed to work just fine for me. Rarely, if ever, did I feel loneliness. Other important things occupied my life: work, reading, thrift shopping, Michael, and Jay. Plus, there was my family (three sisters, mom, and dad) in Hawaii, who I regularly used Facetime to visit. Who needed a lover, boyfriend, or a husband when I already had enough going on to keep me busy?

  Five shots down and a sixth one being poured by Michael, somehow, someway, the homeless man, Kevin, was brought up. Perhaps it was the alcohol inside my system, a breakdown of my organized thoughts and sloppy behavior.