If anyone could effectively demonstrate the listlessness and frustration of today’s youth, it was Devon Cassidy. But he never consciously made such a statement, rather some days he exuded apathy as an inborn trait. Today started out as one of those days for him. He hadn’t run at all the weekend leading up to this Monday morning and here he was in the midst of all the makings of a pleasant, productive day: The sunshine was warm and the breeze was gentle. The sounds of the busy street were consistent, but in a reassuring way, not an overwhelming one. A group of middle school girls smiled at him as they passed and Devon, sprawled out on a bus stop bench, barely took notice of them he was busy gasping for air and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3qmXZ1936G
He failed to promptly pull himself out of bed after turning off his alarm clock in his sleep, and after throwing on his uniform and sprinting/tripping down the street to the bus stop, he could only watch as the back end of the bus whizzed around the corner. He thought briefly about running to the next stop to catch the bus there, but he knew that the white fabric of his chef’s uniform stained with sweat would not be a good look to sport today- plus, he just didn’t feel like making the effort. So he dejectedly sat back on the bench and hoped to himself that the next bus would arrive uncharacteristically early.
After about 50 seconds of concentrating on his breathing and the sidewalk between his feet, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the lit screen stinging his eyes. Checking his email would distract him from his predicament and give the outward appearance that he was doing something. In his inbox there was an email from his mother that was sent 2 days ago, several spam emails, and a message from a sender he had never heard of with the subject line: “You have a new friend on datehookup.com”. It took him a few moments to put this line into context, but then he remembered that he did actually create a profile for this site. It was something relatively easy that he crossed off his to-do list a while back. When Devon moved to St. Helena, California 10 months ago he told himself that he needed to do 3 things: get a girlfriend, finish his chef training, and run a marathon. These weren’t the most ambitious goals, but they would help him to lay down roots in his new place and become a person that he could be satisfied with. This email surprised him out of his sleepy stupor and he started to envision his new self with his new girlfriend. A sweet girl that would laugh at all of his jokes, miss him when he was gone, and spend every weekend in his cramped apartment eating all the gourmet dishes that he prepared. He had no idea it would be so simple to get in contact with a girl willing to give him and all his ego a try. He daydreamed about it some more as he strolled down the street in the direction of his cooking school.
…
During his lunch break, Devon sat in the break room to read his email on his laptop. Since that morning he had received several new spam messages. He quickly scrolled past those to get to that earlier message. “Someone wants to get to know you….” He had time. Quicker than the flash of an iPhone 5 camera, he was surveying her profile, evaluating it with a critical eye. His first impression was a markedly good one. The picture was of a young, smiling woman with a peaches and cream complexion. She had blond hair in a styled bun and bright hazel eyes. The picture effortlessly drew the fine line between casual playfulness and concerted elegance. Wearing a pretty, slightly revealing sundress, she was sitting on a boulder in a park beaming up at the camera. Her eyes were shining and her smile was sweet. Devon couldn’t believe how lucky he was, but then he remembered that he needed to find out more about her before he got too attached. Then he scrolled down to her brief bio and was relieved to see that her writing indicated a person who was mindful of her spelling and grammar. She described herself as a “fun-loving person who enjoys meeting new people and going to new places.” Devon figured that such qualities were good ones to have. And then he saw that her major in college was theater. She had graduated four years ago from some school in California that he had never heard of. This gave him pause. “What do I know about theater?” he asked himself. “What on earth would we talk about?” At this point, so impressed with this profile, Devon was already mentally dating this cute girl. Maybe they would go to a street fair or a film festival-some artsy thing- and she would hold his hand and tell him about her artistic influences and ask him all about his opinion on a documentary they had just watched together. He looked back at the profile and reprocessed all of the material. It was even better the second time around. His co-chef came into the break room at this point.
Smiling to himself, Anthony asked, “How far are you on the poaching tutorial?” He had one hand on a steaming fresh pot of Columbian roast coffee and the other hand on his smart phone checking the latest stocks. Day trading was one of Anthony Riker’s pastimes or maybe it could be considered his second job. Either way, it funded his fetish for techie toys and the upkeep of his Benz.
“I should be finished by tomorrow,” Devon answered. And then as a second thought he asked, “Why? Do you need help with yours?” He wanted to make a good impression on his older, more-experienced classmate and was willing to go that extra mile. Anthony glanced down at his coffee, stirred it, and shook his head absent-mindedly. Feeling a little out of his element at this point, Devon directed his attention back to his laptop. He was mentally crafting the perfect response to his newest paramour when he heard Anthony approach his back.
“hm.” With that one subtle syllable, Anthony inserted himself into…whatever matter Devon was handling on his computer, he hadn’t figured it out yet. Devon tried to ignore Anthony’s presence but he could feel the man’s weighty observation from behind. It was obviously too late to hide what he was looking at, so with an embarrassed grin, he turned to look back at Anthony.
“What do you think?” he asked. Anthony chuckled, “That depends. Is she your girlfriend or something else?”
Devon wasn’t going to cower at this impertinent implication. He shot back, “Well, she’s not my sister.” But he immediately softened his tone and followed with “I joined a dating website and she just got in contact with me.” He shrugged his shoulders.
After a pause Anthony asked, “What is her name and where is she from?” Huh, these details never occurred to Devon.
“Uh,” he scrolled to the top of her profile. “It says her name is Willa Savrone. She’s from...here, actually. Over in San Francisco. This was pleasant news to him.
Ever practical, Anthony then asked, “She’s over age, right?”
“She’s 27.” 4 years older than me, he thought.
“Well I am sure you two will be very happy. She will make quite the trophy wife.” Anthony walked over and slumped down in the chair opposite Devon. He was already gazing at his phone, his finger swiping the screen. Devon, then and there, put Anthony Riker on his shit list.
After about 2 minutes, Devon packed up his bag and slipped it into his locker. Hands in the pocket of his white apron, he left the break room without another word.
…
The Culinary Institute of America was not an old, venerable institution compared to some other long-standing havens for the culinary arts in France or Italy. But what it lacked in years was hardly reflected in the quality of chefs it produced. In the couple of decades since the CIA had been established, it had managed to build up a considerable reputation on a national scale. At least, Devon could reassure his parents of this much. During the Christmas break of his junior year in college, he told his anxious parents that after 3 years of studying undergraduate chemistry he wanted to become a chef and they were, simply put, taken aback. Many questions followed: “What made you choose this? What do you mean you don’t want to go to pharmacy school? How can you make a career out of this?” And then, he told them that he was going to move to St. Helena, California to attend the CIA there to become a classically-trained chef. More questions followed: “How long will this last? Why California?”
His mother asked his least favorite question and it was tinged with her characteristic anxiety: “You couldn’t find any place closer to home? We can only help you so much if you get into trouble out there.”
To that, Devon replied, “Brian is moving to Uganda next spring.” Bringing up his older brother was not the most mature response, but he was desperate.
His father pounced, “Brian also went to school to become a doctor like he said he would, which is what you were going to do until now. At least, that was our understanding.”
He was not about to get into it with his dad about comparing him to his physician-brother. Very curtly, he ended the conversation, “Well I changed my mind.”
He waited, spending his senior year making preparations. He started worked as a short order chef at Waffle House to save up money for the move. He practiced in the shared kitchen in his apartment. His roommates were his unfortunate taste testers. He started with casseroles and soups and then moved on to soufflés and stir-fry. He went as far as his amateur skills would take him. To be fair to his parents, their concern was warranted. His prior experience with cooking was basically watching the food channel. Truthfully told, he was blessed with a natural-born cook in his mother and he never had any reason to learn how to cook. But all of that was going to change now.
Devon knew this much: fundamentally speaking, cooking is essential to life and humanity. Sure, it is a skill that most average people, to some extent, can wield, but to be honest, Devon considered that to be one of cooking’s appealing points. Its barrier to entry is relatively low and opportunities for advancement are plentiful. He saw himself young and unknowing entering culinary school only to leave it 2-4 even 5 years later a veritable master of the culinary arts. That was one other strong point of cooking: in its elevated form, cooking is an art. To truly master cooking requires technical skill, creativity, and an intimate connection to culture. Because, if you think about it, on the surface there are few things that separate humans from animals- aside from eating cooked food and wearing sewn clothes, that is. In Devon’s mind, cooking was the perfect avenue for his undiscovered talents. No, it didn’t matter that the only thing he was capable of making up until that point was patty melts and scrambled eggs; didn’t his betters always tell him he could be anything he wanted to be?
In the four months between turning in his application and learning his fate, he was alternatively paralyzed by anxiety and preoccupied with the dream of getting out. He hadn’t thought of any other alternatives. He knew by now that pharmacy school (and all the things that it entailed) was not an option. A rejection from CIA would force him to obtain his chef credentials in other, perhaps less conventional, methods. No matter what, he was going to get out of Peachtree City.
Luckily for him, the acceptance letter did come by email and by the time he graduated, he had enough money saved up to make the journey from Georgia to the west coast. He spent the remainder of his free time in the kitchen practicing, always practicing.
10 months since, Devon was doing well- much better than he had been when he first came to California. Truth is, cooking is hard. Even harder was knowing that he was in the minority of a group of students, most of whom had been cooking in some form for most of their lives. But he had his youth, his passion, his eagerness to learn, and a background in chemistry to help him get by. He had a lot of steady progress to show for his efforts and it lifted his spirits to new heights. Add to that the possibility of dating Willa Savrone and you had the makings of a great start to a new life for Devon Cassidy.
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