Crack, Crack, Crackity Ron

It's been a while since I've thought about my old co-worker Ron and his beguiling ways (The name has NOT been changed to protect the innocent.), but seemingly he is a topic that is worth revisiting. When I first met Ron, he was very friendly, gregarious, and actually had an absolutely grand sense of humor, and really had a way of pulling people in. He always seemed to be laughing about something or another, sometimes at others' expense, (as it so often occurs in the kitchen) but sometimes just about life in general. One such levity inducing topic was a wild turkey by the name of Henry that had decided that the bushes of the camp office was where he would make his home. On a daily basis, some poor, geriatric camper would inevitably be chased down the path if they were to approach the office. Often, said geriatric camper would become the victim of Henry's welt producing peck, which, as even I've experienced is incredibly painful. Painful, yes, but to see a turkey chasing somebody down a pathway is somewhat comical, I'll have to admit. This brought great amusement to go ol' Ronny, to say the least. His carrying on about it in the way that he did, always pushed all of us to laughter in the end. Not only was it his material, but it was the way that he laughed; infectious to say the least. Sadly, because of this comic facade, I, as well as many others, fell prey to his ruse.

The retreat center that I worked at had a very interesting employee community. It was comprised of people of all walks of life, and from all over the world, but especially from Eastern European countries such as Hungary and the Czech Republic. I can't remember for the life of me the majority of these people's names, but I guess in the end that wasn't really important. Perhaps it should have been, though, considering the close proximity that we all lived to one another. We all lived in cabins that were scattered throughout the property. The cabins were similar in structure to the cabins that the guests stayed in, the only difference being that our cabins were dank, drab, and in completely dilapidated. The majority of the employees had roommates, but for some reason, and at some point in history, it had been decided that the Chef and the Sous Chef would have their own cabins. Our cabins were all adjoining in a four-unit building beside a lake, and tucked away in the woods of the Berkshires. Serene and idyllic.

My neighbor to the right of me was an over the top sassy, remarkably large, recovering alcoholic by the name of...um, we'll call her Nancy (although I know that's way off the mark - my memory is failing me once again). I had difficulty with her brazen ways, at first, but as time went on she sort of grew on me. We even went to Poughkeepsie to see Lynard Skynard and .38 Special together. Yes, you read correctly -- Lynard Skynard and .38 Special. I believe I actually witnessed the South rising again at this concert, but this time it took place in Poughkeepsie! Frightening on so many different levels. That was the thing about the camp. We were all so isolated up there, that in the end there really was no choice but to get along and commit desperate acts such as paying $40.00 to see Lynard Skynard. All this, just to escape the monotony of our everyday work life. The so called camaraderie at the camp was all very shallow, and there was an immense amount of backstabbing that was duly noted from the start. It was the sort of backstabbing that soap operas are based upon. In other words, Erica Caine had nothing on this group. In addition to "Nancy", in the front part of the building there was a Hungarian couple with whom I became friends. And then there was little old Ron, left to his own nebulous devices. I suppose all the better for him to hit the pipe in absolute privacy. There's no doubt in my mind (time to state the obvious) that such things would be frowned upon if he were to have a roommate that possibly could divulge his little secret. Lucky for Ron, indeed, that no such roommate existed. His crazy habits could carry on, all of us none the wiser.

The day at the camp usually started at 5:00 a.m., and often ended at 8:30, 9:00, and even sometimes as late as midnight. To say that the days were long and arduous is definitely an understatement. At the end of the day, Ron, "Nancy", the Hungarian couple, and I would make our way back to our compound, sometimes together, and sometimes separately, more often the latter. I would make my way past the lake, down the dark wooded road, (still in my chef's uniform) to my abode, and would often find Ron perched on his front porch with a cocktail in hand. Often, he would invite me up for a beer or other libation, and we would hang out for a couple of hours, laughing and carrying on as if our horrendous day had never even happened -- typical food service industry modus operandi, I guess. Sometimes Nancy would join us, and sometimes even our Hungarian friends would make an appearance as well. This was a fine arrangement in the beginning, but as time went on, and the Summer came closer to expiring, Ron began showing his crackhead personality little by little. At first it wasn't completely apparent, but instead came out in very subtle ways. First it was the lies, and then it emerged as manipulation of individuals, and then of course there was the pitting of the kitchen staff against one another. Not necessarily grounds for an intervention, but in retrospect, the signs were definitely all there. As time progressed, life at Isabella Freedman definitely became more interesting.

Ron loved women, and it was a well known fact. There was always some gal that he was chasing after for one reason or another, be it for sex, money or drugs. On several occasions he attempted to put the moves on me, but without any success. I dismissed it as Ron just being Ron, and carried on the way that we always had been. I had worked in enough kitchens and have enough male friends to know the score, thank you very much. Then the crack incident came about.

We were through with our day, and as usual, there was Ron, sitting on his front porch. Our Hungarian neighbors came over, and Ron invited us in to watch a movie. Seeing as it was either that or go possum hunting, I accepted the invite. We all went in, had a couple of drinks, then our Hungarian neighbors decided they were going to go home. I decided to stay to watch "the movie" with Ron and have a couple more drinks with him. There we were, shooting the shit when suddenly Ron asks me if I minded if he smoked. Here I was, thinking that he was going to bust out his weed and start puffing away. What did I care? Well, I didn't. Next thing you know, here Ron is with his little glass pipe, which he began methodically filling with his drug of choice. He ignited his utensil, and then everything became that much clearer to me as to why Ron was "Ron".

He offered me some, I declined, but for some reason I felt compelled to sit there and watch as he continued to get high - and continue to get high, he did. At one point, he turns to me and says, "Okay, let's watch that movie." He jumps out of his chair, turns on the TV, stuffs the VCR with one of his many, many VHS tapes, and then next thing you know, there I am, somewhat intoxicated from the several drinks that I had earlier, watching Ron's "movie of choice". That's when I stood up and calmly told Ron that I would see him tomorrow in the morning at work. Watching him smoke crack was one thing, but watching him smoke crack while watching porn was a completely different thing. Call me a prude. At this point, he became very edgy and neurotic, as he was probably really, really high at this point. He said, "No! You can't leave right now! If you leave now, Adam will suspect something is up!" I started thinking, my God, is he going to let me leave his cabin? Is he going to freak out on me? What's going to happen? I then went into crisis mode. For some reason, I've noticed that over the years whenever situations get out of hand or there's some sort of imminent crisis, that's when I become very calm - almost serene. I'm not sure where this stems from, but if I figure it out, I'll let you know - or not. It was suddenly my job to be the "voice of reason" for Ron, only for the sole purpose of me getting away from him. He was overwhelmed with paranoia at this point, and it was up to me to get him to a point where he trusted that Adam, or anybody else for that matter, would be none the wiser about his state.

I suggested that we have another drink, and stood up to pour yet another cocktail for myself, and grab a beer for my paranoid "friend". As I was pulling our drinks together, I suddenly turned around to find Ron kneeling on his bed, peeking through the Venetian blinds. He was completely and utterly convinced that somebody was outside of the window spying on him. He kept on peering through the cracks of the blinds, all the while puffing on the last bits of crack in his possession. I thought, my God, will he ever run out? And run out, he finally did. Within ten minutes, he smoked the last of his rocks, all the while assessing the situation outside through his window shade.

Ron finally reached a state (I'm not even sure how long it took) where he had calmed down and no longer believed that Adam and the entire camp management were spying on him. I finally was able to excuse myself, and went back to my cabin to attempt to get some sleep. 5:30 a.m. was a mere three hours away. I went around the corner to my cabin entrance, and closed and locked the door behind me.

5:30 a.m. came about way too quickly. I was exhausted, slightly hungover, and somewhat worried about seeing Ron in the kitchen. I mean, what do you say after something like that? No, really...What do you say? Well, I said nothing to him, or to anyone else for that matter, and our working relationship continued for a couple of months after Ron's little crack and porn escapade.

Things went into the decline for Ron. I was asked to be the main Chef for a Two-hundred person wedding on-site. At first I declined the offer, then later found out that Ron had declined the offer as well. I decided to take it, based on this. Our roles would be reversed, but only for this one event. Our "friendship" had obviously been strained at this point, but Ron said that he would help with the wedding, and I believed him. Gullible is definitely a word in the dictionary, by the way. One of the people that I had hired to help with the event called me at about 4:30 in the morning, two hours before she was supposed to be on site to tell me that she couldn't work after all. It was a mess from the start, but to make matters worse, Ron disappeared during the middle of the day for not one, not two, not even three hours! He disappeared for four hours! Clearly it was sabotage. Where did he go? Your guess is as good as mine, but what I do know is that Ron was soon relieved of his position of Executive Chef. He wasn't fired, per se, he was merely demoted.

I gave my notice shortly after the wedding, and within a month I was back in Astoria in the apartment building that smelled of cat urine, with the crazy, pill-popping caretaker, and her wild and woolly brood. A step in the right direction? Absolutely. In my eyes, a completely welcome respite from the calamitous Summer of 2004. The nightmare was over.