The once-proud Mr. and Mr. on Wheels was now charred and lifeless, resting alone in the rented space of the commissary yard in Queens. The fire marshal had forwarded copies of his final report to Steve and Bick. The report cleared them of any suspicion of arson.
As to the fate of the truck, tough decisions loomed ahead.Bick seemed to think it would take him and Steve about a month—”two months, tops”—to clean and refurbish the truck and be open for business again. Bick had mostly recovered from his injuries and wanted to get going with the cleanup. September was half over already.
Steve had serious doubts about Bick’s aggressive timeline. One morning, he and Jessica met for coffee at The Red Flame diner near Times Square.
“I feel conflicted about everything,” he told her, while sliding into the last available booth.
“Everything?” Jessica asked. “Like what everything?”
“Well, let’s take today for example. I woke up feeling one hundred percent un-motivated to own a business. Especially one with Bick. Sometimes, I feel depressed in the morning, but by afternoon I feel hopeful. Then there are days when I actually feel a huge relief.”
Jessica fixed eyes on her brother. “You mean relieved about the fire?”
“Actually, yeah. Relieved to have a chance to do something different. To change course.”
“Wow. I need coffee and food before taking a ride on your emotional roller coaster,” she said.
They ordered from the menu and she turned back to Steve.
“So. Tell me. What’s going on?”
A minute passed while Steve stared out the window at the West 44th Street traffic. “I’m thinking of leaving Bick.”
Jessica raised her eyebrows, surprised. She said nothing.
“I don’t feel good about us as a couple anymore.” Steve’s voice caught in his throat for a second. “My head has not been in a good place for a while. Emotionally, I feel emptied out.”
The server brought the coffees, two toasted bagels and four packets of cream cheese.
“Bick has never been one of my favorite people,” Jessica said. “That’s no surprise.”
“Yeah, I know.” Steve closed his eyes and continued. “We’ve been together for six years.”
He blinked back tears and breathed long and heavy through pursed lips. “Bick can be a total pain in the ass. But I have to be honest. He has helped me stay grounded. Mostly.”
“Have you talked with him?” Jessica asked.
“No. He’s too busy making detailed to-do lists for refurbishing the truck.” Steve sighed. “He is all in on bringing Mr. and Mr. on Wheels back to life. And I keep asking myself, do I honestly want to continue with this enterprise?”
Steve said enterprise as if saying the name of a disease. He sipped his coffee and continued. “I keep thinking about Nestor.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Stevie,” Jessica said. “Bick is difficult. His obsession with hygiene is kind of out of control. But he is driven. He’s ambitious. Nestor is also ambitious. And yes, very easy on the eyes. But face it. He’s a playboy. Is that what you want?”
Steve turned his head to watch a dog owner out on the street loudly applauding his Yorkipoo for going to the curb to poop.
“Since the fire, I’ve taken about a thousand pictures,” Steve said at last. “At least I have that to show for these past couple of weeks.”
“Maybe it’s time to think of a different life for yourself,” Jessica said. “Give in to your passion, as they say.”
“I’m not happy.” Steve sounded far away. “I don’t see how I can stay with him and be happy.”
Jessica took her time to spread cream cheese on her bagel, then cleared her throat. “I’m actually thinking about a different life for me.”
“What? Really?” Steve said, surprised.
“Yeah. Remember Jimmy the firefighter?” Jessica smiled broadly. “I haven’t mentioned him until now because I wanted to get to know him better.”
“Given your track record with men, that was probably wise.”
“Yeah, well, Jimmy and I have been seeing each other. A lot!”
“I remember. He came to put out the fire. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“Jimmy is a really great guy. The only problem is he’s moving out to Idaho.”
“He’s leaving New York? Why?”
“He’s from there and his best friend Corey lives out there. He’s moving back to become a smokejumper. He invited me to come, too.”
“Wow. Sounds impressive,” Steve said. He drained his coffee cup and motioned to the server for another. “What does a smokejumper do, exactly?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Jessica chuckled. “Jimmy told me all about it. They fight fires in the wilderness. These guys parachute into wildfires out in the middle of nowhere. The training they have to do sounds unbelievable.”
“Sounds extremely dangerous,” Steve said with a worried look. “And you would actually move to Iowa?”
“Idaho. I said Idaho. I’m seriously thinking about it. I’ll probably do it.”
The morning hubbub of the diner continued while they ate.
Jessica put down her bagel and pressed her hands together as if in prayer. She locked eyes with Steve. “Getting back to Bick, if you have these serious doubts about staying with him, you have to tell him.”
“Yeah, well. Come to find out, he hasn’t exactly been honest with me.” Steve handed his phone to Jessica.
“Take a look at the fire marshal’s report. Scroll down to the section called Detailed Information. Read Bick’s sworn statement about how the fire started. It was his damn fault!! He dropped a frickin’ bottle of alcohol into the fryer and the oil exploded!”
Jessica read Bick’s statement and shook her head in disbelief.
“He has never once admitted that important little detail to me!” Steve said.
“I mean, wow.” Jessica handed back the phone. “All along, I assumed the cause of the fire was electrical.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t.” Steve gulped the last of his coffee. “I guess Bick and I are equal now. We both lie by omission.”
He looked past Jessica for a second, then directly at her. “I’m not sure I like the idea of you leaving me, Jess.” He stood up to leave.
“Right now, I have to go scrub a truck. I wish I knew what the hell I was doing.”
* * *
Bick was suited up and scouring the inside of the truck by the time Steve arrived. He pointed at a cardboard box on the floor that contained paper coveralls and booties, goggles, face masks, and rubber gloves.
“Take it from me. You’ll want to strip off your clothes before putting on this gear or you’ll be sweating like a pig in no time.”
Steve stashed his clothes in a large trash bag and put on the protective gear.
“I wish my uncle Beto could see me in this getup,” Steve mused, pulling the paper hood over his head. “He used to get called to clean up toxic spills in the Bronx. He wore all this stuff. He was quite the character.”
“I’m sure he was,” Bick said. “Right now, we have a truck to clean.” He stabbed at a disfigured blob of plastic stuck to the wall—a spray bottle, barely recognizable.
Cleaning the soot was a nightmare. Every square inch of the inside of the truck was coated with black carbon that smeared when wiped.
They took turns panting and cursing.
“Dammit!” Steve yanked off his mask and took a deep breath. He crumpled a wad of filthy paper towels and tossed them at the floor.
“Here. Instead of paper towels, use this sponge,” Bick said, handing him a bucket of soapy water. “I noticed Jessica didn’t offer to help us today,” he added casually.
“Why should she? Unless you want to pay her to clean.”
“Well, … let’s see how we do today,” Bick said.
Steve turned back to the soot. “By the way, Bick, I read the fire marshal’s report.” He paused for emphasis. “I read it carefully. All the details.”
“Uh-huh.” Bick did not look up from his wiping.
“Yeah. It was quite interesting to find out that you caused the fire.”
For a second, the only sound was of muffled traffic nearby on Queens Boulevard.
“It was an accident,” Bick finally stated calmly. “Accidents happen.”
“Well, you’ve been clammed up about it. You hid the truth from me,” Steve said.
“I wasn’t hiding anything,” Bick claimed. “Let’s drop it, shall we?”
“No! This time, no! I’m not dropping anything just so you can save face, Bick. Because of your obsession with cleaning, I am now stuck here with you, breathing soot into my lungs!” He chucked the sooty sponge into the bucket, causing dirty water to splash onto the floor. Soap bubbles slithered away, no longer useful.
* * *
For the next three days, Bick and Steve barely spoke to each other. After their twelve-hour days of scrubbing, sweating, and swearing, they returned home grimy, dehydrated, and physically and mentally depleted.
One night Steve told Jessica, “I have never felt this level of exhaustion. It really sucks.”
And still the truck was not clean enough.
Bick was sullen. He was unhappy with their progress.
“The truck has to be pristine,” he told Steve, breaking his silence on the third night.
“Well, I cannot keep doing this,” Steve declared.
“Can’t? Or won’t?” Bick asked.
They traded accusations about commitment and loyalty.
“You hate me and you hate the truck.”
“I do not hate you. I am losing interest in running this business, that’s all.”
“Now is a fine time to tell me!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”
They managed to agree on one thing. They would use some of the insurance money to hire a professional cleaner.
Steve wanted out from doing further restoration of the truck. He would have to think of an excuse, maybe involving his lower back.
Bick saved him the trouble.
“Once the truck is cleaned, I can manage the rest of the work myself,” Bick said. “I don’t want you hanging around here feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Fine by me,” Steve said.
Bick believed his high standards for cleanliness—and almost everything else—were to be admired. He devoted every ounce of his energy to the final phase.
“Maybe Bick thinks he’s performing some kind of penance because he caused the fire,” Steve mused to Jessica. “He’s atoning for his sin by doing more work than me.”
“I had no idea that Bick had found religion,” Jessica chuckled.
“Me either. Anyway, ask me if I’m upset about being told to leave him alone with his rubber gloves.”
It was a good time to start the podcast Steve had been mulling over. He even had a name for it. The Second Coming: Mr. and Mr. Rise From the Ashes.
* * *
With professional cleaners on site, the truck came back to life. Although cleaning soot from the ceiling took them longer than expected, the pungent smell of smoke had finally faded. The cleaning crew agreed to be interviewed on Steve’s podcast on the topic of ‘How to Satisfy Difficult Clients.’ Many customers were unbelievably hard to please, they told Steve.
“Well, I hope you can keep Bick happy,” Steve told them off the record. “When he’s happy, it makes my life a lot easier.”
Steve was getting good material for the podcast and recording live from inside the truck.
Bick, however, was not loving Steve’s podcast project.
“The Second Coming?” Bick grimaced. “You’re really calling it The Second Coming? It sounds slightly sacrilegious. Or pompous. Like you’re comparing yourself to God.”
“Oh, for chrissake. What’s your problem?” Steve asked. Bick’s objection seemed a bit overblown. “Our truck has literally risen from the dead.”
“Yeah, well, why aren’t you spending your time coming up with new empanada recipes?”
“I told you before. My nana’s recipes are authentic and I’m not going to mess with them,” Steve said.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I have an idea. I can use the photos and videos I’ve taken after the fire, plus my podcast interviews to produce a documentary. Lots of New Yorkers have setbacks like ours and can relate to our persistence and determination. We’re bringing an incinerated truck back to life. To feed the people!” Steve smiled at the thought.
“I can narrate the documentary like Ken Burns. Make it a heroic story,” he added.
“Seriously?” Bick shook his head and guffawed. “Sorry, Steve. You’re no Ken Burns.”
Bick, insulting—but not bothering to look at—Steve, was busy installing the two refurbished fire extinguishers next to the stove. The wall was clean and freshly painted. The extinguisher labels were easy to read, the instructions for use posted next to them.
“Now we’ll officially pass inspection,” Bick said.
But Steve was reading and not listening. Loyal customers were posting messages online, wondering when their favorite food truck would be coming back to lower Manhattan. Some of them offered to send donations.
Steve had been scrolling through his blog multiple times a day hoping to see one message, in particular.
Nestor, however, had disappeared.
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