The WNYC weather report called for a high of 90 degrees with 91 per cent relative humidity. New Yorkers readied themselves for a sultry Labor Day. Outside, the pungent smell of uncollected bags of trash assaulted the noses of pedestrians. Dogs strained at their leashes to relish the stink up close.
All 12,000 miles of city sidewalks had already started sucking in the solar radiation. Soon the cement would feel like scalding treadmills, its sole purpose to punish feet.
The WNYC weatherman reminded his listeners, “Just in case you were planning to go barefoot today, don’t!”
Jessica took her time getting to the truck. The regular lunch customers from the neighborhood hospitals and clinics would be working on the Monday holiday, but she didn’t feel ready to open the serving window and engage.
When she finally arrived at the truck, she stepped into a sweltering kitchen. “Morning, cowboys.” The heavy aroma of sizzling dough blasted her nostrils. “Sorry I’m late. The 6 train was running slow, as usual.”
The ceiling fan in the truck whirled noisily, giving no evidence of cooling. Jessica went immediately to the sink and tore off a paper towel to wipe her face.
“Fyi, I’m not feeling awesome today,” Jessica announced.
“What’s goin’ on?” Steve called out half-heartedly from the fryer station. His early-morning root canal had put him behind schedule and in a bad mood.
“No surprise that the subway was an oven and now I’m sweaty and gross,” Jessica said. “You don’t look so awesome yourself, Stevie.”
“A root canal does not bring out my best qualities. I’m hopped up on pain killers, but my jaw feels like I got sucker-punched by Manny Pacquiao.”
“Oh, Stevie. Sorry,” Jessica frowned, then stretched open the neck of her shirt for a quick inhale of her armpits. “Ewww.” She pretended to gag. She noticed a dark stain on the front of her shirt. Note to self, do not get dressed in the dark.
Bick was staying quiet by the cooler. For him, the sight of soiled clothing was like seeing a mouse in the kitchen. It should never be there.
Jessica quickly threw on her apron. She combed a couple of fingers through her damply matted hair, managing to disentangle a few clumps. She quickly pulled a black bandana from her pocket and tied it over her head.
Jessica didn’t care for the bandana, but Bick had made it clear that wearing a hair-covering scarf was mandatory. From the corner of her eye, she saw him step away from the tub of ground meat he had pulled from the cooler. He was scanning her from head-to-toe.
“To be brutally honest, Jessica, you don’t look awesome either. You remind me of your slovenly, cheating brother over there.” Bick shot a glance toward Steve who was staying laser-focused on his empanadas.
“Gee, thanks, Bick,” Jessica said.
“You’re so very welcome, Jessica,” Bick scoffed.
Jessica imagined how good it might feel to squirt ketchup at the back of Bick’s head.
“If only we could all look as perfect as you do every day, Bick. What with your dazzling personality …”
Steve turned around and gave his sister the stink eye. “Knock it off, you guys.”
Bick pulled a cold, wet towel from the cooler and draped it around his neck. Jessica sensed that he was keeping an eye on her even while he prepared pans of meatloaf for the oven. She washed her hands, put on rubber gloves, and collected the condiment bottles.
“I shouldn’t have to say it. But I will. Screw those caps on good and tight,” Bick ordered. “So, that reminds me. Ketchup lady sent me a photo and an invoice. The dry cleaners couldn’t get the red stains out of her fancy blouse, after all. So, we’ll be buying her a new one for three hundred dollars.”
Jessica did not want to hear any more about the damn blouse.
“So, other than my general grubbiness how’s everything else this morning?” she cut in.
Steve turned his head to give Jessica a look that said do not escalate!
But Bick didn’t answer Jessica, and she was feeling mischievous.
“So Bick, I haven’t heard much about Nestor lately. How is Nestor?” she asked, pretending to be unaware of Steve and Nestor’s one-night stand.
Bick took the bait, raising his voice above the whir of the fan.
“Nestor the freeloading home wrecker has vacated our premises!” Bick sputtered. “He squatted in our extra bedroom like he owned the place and then seduced Steve! So, good riddance!”
Steve, dropping a basket of empanadas into the hot oil, called out “Can we move on? We’ve got thirty minutes until showtime.”
“Okay,” Jessica agreed. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
She enjoyed getting a rise out of Bick and now had napkin dispensers to refill.
* * *
At eleven o’clock, Bick raised the serving window. Although Labor Day was a federal holiday, plenty of lunch customers had already queued.
“It’s not supposed to be this hot the first week of September.” Bick unwrapped the towel—now dank and warm—from around his neck and wiped at his forehead.
“Steve, how many more times do I have to see you in that offensive t-shirt? Why aren’t you wearing the chef jacket I bought for you?” he sniped.
“My shirt is clean,” Steve said defensively. “Why do you care?”
Trying to keep up with empanada orders, he nestled three spicy-cheese empanadas and a paper cup of carrot salsa into a take-out carton and handed it to Jessica.
“I’ve got half a dozen of these shirts,” Steve shot back over his shoulder to Bick. “Plus my Get Fried Up shirts. I’m good for the whole year!”
Bick pulled a large pan of meatloaf from the oven which exhaled a warm, beefy aroma.
“Ah, yes. My specialty is meatloaf. Your specialty happens to be typos. Do me a favor and stop designing t-shirts using words you can’t spell. I’m sick of staring at Irisistable on your chest. And by the way, you’re not irresistible.” Bick set the pan of meatloaf aside to cool.
Steve ignored the put-down and continued frying more empanadas.
Bick was on a roll. “Why can’t you be more like your Colombian friends? Those guys always look impeccable. Right from Madison Avenue. You, on the other hand, look like Bart Simpson.”
“I like my friends,” Steve shot back. “But I’m not like my friends.”
“Well, you used to pay more attention to your appearance. What happened?”
“I’m sorry I’m not perfect, okay?” Steve snapped.
Jessica called out from her station at the front window. “Guys! Where is my combo? And I need more salsa.”
“I’m on it,” Steve said. He grabbed a bagged mixture of diced onions, jalapeños, and shredded carrots from the cooler. Portioning the salsa into smaller batches for a fresher flavor, he sprinkled apple cider vinegar, salt, and cumin into the carrot mixture.
“Anyway,” he said turning to Bick, “it makes no sense to wear nice clothes in this sauna.”
“It doesn’t mean you have to look like a slob,” Bick snapped.
As the heat in the truck surged—and despite his earlier warning to Jessica to tone it down—Steve erupted.
“Nestor found my imperfections endearing!”
Hearing Nestor’s name mentioned yet again was like tinder igniting the few hairs left on Bick’s head.
“Oh, Nestor did, did he?” Bick hollered. “Your game boy found you endearing?” His voice croaked with rage. “I am so pissed at you I can hardly stand to look at you!”
Bick flung a towel at the sink, where it landed on the floor. “You disgust me.”
Jessica turned from the window and threw up her arms. “Guys! Stop it! Now! We have customers waiting for their orders!”
* * *
Jessica closed the serving window at two-thirty, stowed her apron, and stepped outside hoping to catch a breeze. She yanked up her shirt to wipe her sweaty forehead. Steve joined her a minute later.
“I think I’ll go be a Desnuda in Times Square,” Jessica said. “Wearing nothing but body paint has to be cooler than this.”
“Yeah,” Steve snickered. “I’ll go with you and give Naked Cowboy some competition.”
“Hah! Naked Cowboy Steve! Go for it! You’ll need some tighty-whities, though.”
“I have some already,” Steve said, smiling.
“Or better yet, how about Naked Cowboy Bick!” Jessica scrunched up her face imagining Bick playing guitar in Times Square in his underwear. “Except that would be more like Bick the naked bull! I’d pay money to see that!”
“Shhh. He can hear you.” Steve grinned as he motioned her to pipe down. “You know he’s sensitive about his weight.”
“Yeah, so what. He’s been a turd all day,” Jessica snorted. “I’m tired of trying to walk on eggshells around him.”
A puff of hot air brushed against her face, blowing away strands of hair that were stuck to her sweaty cheeks.
“He’s not worth it,” she added. “Man, this heat is unbearable.”
“Fire!! Help!! Fire!!” Bick, screaming at the top of his lungs, catapulted from the open door of the truck. His knees buckled when he hit the pavement, landing hard like a tub of wet sand. A plume of thick black smoke followed him out through the open door.
“What the hell!” Jessica shrieked. Orange-yellow flames danced and roared inside the kitchen where the three of them had stood minutes earlier.
Bick lay spread-eagled on the sidewalk, hacking and gasping for air. “Shit, my ankle. I think it’s broken!”
“What happened?” Steve yelled over the commotion. His eyes darted from one end of the burning truck to the other. “It’s an inferno!”
Pulsing with adrenaline, Jessica and Steve each grabbed an arm and dragged Bick to a grassy spot away from the fire. They watched as sinister-smelling smoke enveloped the truck.
“I’m calling 911!” Jessica tried not to hyperventilate as she shouted their location to the dispatcher.
She and Steve locked arms and stared at the destruction taking place in front of them. “A fire truck is on the way.” She felt small and vulnerable.
“This is surreal,” she whispered to her brother. She felt her chest muscles tighten, squeezing her breaths like an accordion. “Do you hear that popping and crashing?”
“Yeah. There’s going to be nothing left.”
Bick lay groaning on the ground. Snot-trails of soot pooled along his upper lip. The sound of sirens grew louder. The NYPD officers who were routinely stationed near City Hall were already directing traffic away from the scene.
Jessica grabbed Steve’s arm. “We need to keep rubberneckers away.” She pointed at some pedestrians who had stopped to stare. “I’ll go tell them.”
Bick, teary and wheezing, glared at Steve. “Where the hell are the fire extinguishers? I couldn’t find either one.”
Steve’s face froze. “Oh, shit,” he said quietly.
Engine 6 pulled up with sirens blaring; the crew jumped out and got to work. Running a hose line toward the fire, they blasted the flames with a powerful stream of fire-fighting foam. Within a minute, the blaze was under control.
Jessica, Steve, and Bick watched as the crew chief used a thermal imaging camera to check for hot spots in what was left of the inside of the truck. Steve wanted to take photographs of the devastation but was told to keep clear.
“It’s too risky to go inside right now. In case there’s structural damage,” the crew chief said. “Anyway, you’re damn lucky the propane tank didn’t explode.”
Jessica and Steve stood back from the wreck and coughed from the acrid odors that off-gassed and merged with the autumn heat.
“I feel numb,” Jessica said after a minute.
“I feel sick,” Steve said. “What the hell just happened?”
While the fire crew was stowing the gear, one of them approached to introduce himself.
“Hi. I’m Jimmy,” he said, removing his gloves.
Jessica held out her hand. “Hey Jimmy. I’m Jessica. This is my brother, Steve.”
Steve grabbed Jimmy’s hand. “You guys are awesome. Thank you so much.”
“Well, it’s how we’re trained,” Jimmy said. He removed his helmet and hood and ran a hand through his short, blond hair. “I’m just the pipeman. I stretch the line.”
Jessica wondered what stretch the line meant. She wanted to hear more from Jimmy the pipeman.
“Are you hurt?” Jimmy looked at her, concerned. “You have blood on your clothes.”
“I’m fine,” She blurted. “No, really, I’m fine. It’s just a big ketchup stain.”
When the ambulance pulled up, Jessica and Steve directed the EMS team to the heavyset man sprawled on the grass, hyperventilating. They quickly lifted Bick onto a gurney and rolled him into the waiting ambulance.
“You guys can ride along if you want,” the driver said. “There’s room.”
“Yes, I’ll go.” Steve raised himself into the back of the ambulance.
“I’ll stay here until the tow truck comes,” Jessica said. She noticed a charred red object laying nearby on the concrete and recognized it as Bick’s phone. It had escaped the worst of the devastation and was now a scorched memento.
What started that morning as a thriving labor of love was now a stinking burned mess with blown tires.
Recent Comments