A Spanish restaurant called La Fonda del Sol near Grand Central Terminal was one of Steve and Jessica’s favorite spots for drinks and tapas. Jessica showed up late. Steve gasped when he saw her.
“Jeez! What the hell happened to you? Your eye looks like chicken liver.”
“I know. I look awful,” Jessica said. Before she could say more, the server came to take their drink orders.
“A Mahou for me,” Steve said.
“I’ll have an Abeja Fumada,” Jessica said. She turned to Steve. “A crazy chick in my yoga class accused me of invading her personal space. I said I wasn’t. I never cared for this woman from the start. I told her to go complain to the manager. She started hurling f-bombs. And then she hit me!”
“That’s outta control.” Steve shook his head in disbelief. “She needs to take an anger management class.”
“I reported her to the staff. Like I said, I never liked her.”
The server returned with their drinks.
“I love this drink but the mezcal does go to my head,” Jessica said.
“We’d like to order some tapas,” Steve said. “Tuna tacos, patatas bravas, garlic shrimp, and crispy eggplant. To share.”
The server glanced at Jessica’s eye and grimaced.
“It looks worse than it feels,” Jessica told her.
“Anyway,” Jessica took a deep breath after the server left. “I’ve decided. I’m going to move to Idaho.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I’m leaving in ten days. Jimmy already has a place to stay out there.”
“You are really, truly leaving New York?” Steve asked with a concerned look.
“Yup. I am truly leaving. This city feels more and more crazy. Like, I’m tired of getting punched in the face at yoga.”
“I can’t believe it.” Steve didn’t take his eyes off his sister in case in the next second she might say it was all a joke.
“Anyway, my lease is up so it’s perfect timing.” Jessica relaxed into her seat. Her body language revealed contentment with her decision.
“Are you sure about this? You’ve lived your whole life in New York.”
“Yeah, thirty-two years.”
“What do you know about Idaho, anyway?”
“Not much,” Jessica said laughing, rolling her eyes. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
“Idaho.” Steve repeated it slowly, as if thinking about it for the first time. “Well, mom and dad always said you would be the one to go places.”
Tapas were brought to the table and Steve ordered another round of drinks.
“Make it doubles,” Jessica said, her eyes lighting up. “I’m moving out West!”
“My sister is taking up with a daredevil firefighter,” Steve told the server.
They helped themselves to the platter of tapas and drank.
“These patatas bravas are the best,” Jessica said. “I love paprika.”
Steve nodded. “The best Spanish stuff, no doubt.”
“I do know that Idaho has twice as many cows as people and lots of potatoes.” Jessica stabbed her fork into a piece of crispy eggplant. “Jimmy likes me. He even likes my tattoos. This one especially.” She held up her right wrist to display Go out and kick ass.
“Jimmy has a lot of ink. I haven’t seen all of it. Yet.” She winked at her brother. “Jimmy’s friend Corey lives in Boise. He has a house there.”
“This is a lot to unpack.” Steve took a bite of shrimp and licked garlicky broth from his lips. “Do you mind if I eat this last potato? Since you’ll have plenty of them where you’re going.”
They split the last of the tacos and shrimp.
“Fritters for dessert?” Jessica suggested. “Their cinnamon fritters are always good.” She drained the last few drops of her second Abeja Fumada. “I really like Jimmy. And honestly, I need a change from New Yorkers.”
“Why is that?”
“People are so aggressive, lately.” Jessica pointed at her eye.
Steve guffawed. “Seriously? My take-no-prisoners sister thinks New Yorkers are too aggressive? That’s a good one!”
“I know. I should talk. It’s just that all the adrenaline in this city is getting to me. I don’t want to deal with it, anymore.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” Steve said, biting into a fritter.
“Like I’m on my way here, right? And some guy on Forty-second Street shoves his clipboard in my face to sign his petition. He goes ‘Can I have a moment of your time?’ and doesn’t wait for me to answer but launches into his spiel.”
“That actually sounds more polite than usual for clipboard people,” Steve interrupted.
“I snapped at the guy ‘Not a chance, bucko’ and waved him out of my way.”
“Right now, I’m having a hard time picturing you out in Idaho.” Steve helped himself to another fritter.
“Who knows, Stevie. Maybe I can become a smokejumper.”
“You’re afraid of heights, remember? It may be a tiny problem when they make you parachute.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Jessica chuckled. “You should think about moving out there, too. Before the snow comes.”
“Nah,” Steve said. “I’ll never leave New York.” He motioned to the server to bring the check.
* * *
Steve held onto Jessica while she hailed a taxi on Forty-second Street. After the three mescal drinks, she wobbled badly. Steve helped her into a cab.
Some minutes later, Steve was heading uptown on the subway when the news-flash alarm rang in his pocket.
“Hey Jess. I’m on the 1 train, so we might get cut off,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“I’m sorry for blabbing on about Idaho. What’s goin’ on with you and Bick these days?” The slurring of her words made Jessica sound melancholy.
“Same old, same old. He’s still trying to micromanage everything, including me. I feel like I’m being punished for something. Not sure what, though.”
“He’s a control freak,” Jessica whimpered.
“Bick doesn’t like my podcasts,” he told Jessica. “And he actually guffawed when I said I was thinking about making a documentary. Apparently, I’m no Ken Burns.”
“Bick is mean. Work on your documentary anyway. What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t know … Let’s face it, Jess. I’m about as exciting as celery.”
“Well, I love celery.” Jessica, tired and drunk, tried to sound earnest.
Steve continued. “Do you ever feel like you’re just going along for a ride in your own life?”
“Maybe.”
“The other day I read about primal screaming. It’s supposed to release suppressed emotions. I think I’ll try it.” Steve laughed softly.
“Bick is lucky to have you.” Jessica was trying hard to enunciate clearly. Her voice was low and relaxed. Steve imagined her sprawled across the back seat of the taxi.
“His nagging is wearing thin,” Steve said. “I know he and Eunice talk about me behind my back.”
“Like I said. A page. From my book.” Jessica’s words dripped out between yawns. “Leave town.”
“When we met, we were so great together,” Steve said. “But a lot has happened in six years. How do you see me and Bick?”
There was no answer.
“Jess?”
Steve listened to heavy sleep breathing and stuck his phone back in his pocket.
* * *
The next day started calmly enough. Steve and Bick dropped off the three dogs at the sitter. Bick headed to Queens, to the truck. An installer was scheduled to deliver the new rubber flooring that morning.
“I’ll come by later,” Steve said. “I have something to show you.”
Bick had made good progress restoring the truck, cleaning and polishing his dream back to life. He wanted to reopen for business in early October—two weeks left to go—although tackling the final punch list was taking longer than he had planned. Working solo was mostly working out fine, he kept telling himself.
Despite the fire, much of the kitchen equipment was able to be salvaged. The stove, now professionally cleaned, was in good shape. The cooler and freezer had somehow escaped significant fire damage and just needed superficial cleaning.
Sadly, the gas fryer unit was a goner—the temperature controls and oil filter system destroyed. The fryer baskets looked especially gruesome, yet strangely fascinating. Like tortured modern art. When the full bottle of alcohol fell into the sizzling hot oil, the alcohol had ignited instantly. Melting plastic flowed like lava in and around the baskets leaving deformed globs impaled on the wire mesh.
Later, Steve spent an hour photographing the whole sorry mess.
When Bick saw Steve’s artistic series of photos of the deformed fryer baskets, he was not amused.
“Thanks for making me the butt of a joke.”
“Why? What’s the problem?” Steve asked.
“Your artsy-fartsy compositions frankly make me feel bad. Melted sprayer bottles labeled ALCOHOL next to charred empanadas. I get it. It’s satire. But it’s satire at my expense and I don’t appreciate it.”
“Oh, come on …”
“And then you photoshop in Gracie and Jerard as firefighters? Give me a break.”
“It’s creative expression,” Steve said, defensively.
“You’re just copying William Wegman.” Bick returned his attention to sanitizing the ice machine.
“You never say one encouraging thing about my work!” Steve shouted. “You don’t need me here. And you certainly don’t want me here!”
“Your work? Your work is supposed to be with me! In this truck!”
Steve packed up his gear to leave. “You told me to leave it to you! Remember?”
Suddenly, Bick was tailing Steve towards the door.
“Yeah. Well, maybe you should think about not coming back!” Bick yelled.
“Don’t tempt me!” Steve shouted back.
The van from Franklin Flooring pulled up. Their motto “Frankly, we’re the best!” covered the side of the van in large letters. The driver rolled down the window and called out to Steve who was making a hasty exit.
“I got a order for a Bickford Armstrong,” the driver read halfheartedly from the piece of paper in his hand.
Steve pointed over his shoulder. “You need to talk to the guy in the doorway who’s flipping me off.”
On the number 7 train back to Manhattan, Steve called Nestor’s number. There was no answer. He called Jessica.
“Bick is such a dick,” Steve blurted without saying hello. “A thin-skinned narcissist.” Steve didn’t care whether others on the train heard him.
“You’re just realizing that now?” Jessica said. “That’s a good one, Stevie. Give me a minute to process that. So, what’s going on?”
“First, Nestor leaves me. Then, you move away. And Bick is being impossible. Look up morose in the dictionary. You’ll find my picture.”
Jessica had moved to Boise the previous week, and Steve already missed her.
“Bick and I should never have tried to run a business together. What were we thinking? I honestly don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” His voice trailed off to a whisper.
“Well brother, guess what I’m doing right now. Hiking!” Jessica shouted into the whistling Idaho wind. “You think I’m following some grand life plan? You need a change, that’s all. What would make you happy?”
“I don’t have a clue what would make me happy,” Steve sighed. “Not being around Bick would help.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. From where I sit, I’m not seeing a lot of love there,” Jessica panted. “Wait. I need to catch my breath.”
Steve could hear her gulping water.
She continued. “You would like it here. So would Gracie and Jerard. There’s a ton of hiking trails for dogs.”
“Hmm … sounds good,” Steve said without enthusiasm. “Right now, I feel so low. Did I actually think he and I would last forever?”
Steve waited for the screeching to stop as the subway pulled into Grand Central.
“Maybe Nestor and I can still get together.”
Jessica burst out laughing.
“Oh, c’mon Stevie. Get a grip. You and Nestor? He won’t even acknowledge your existence. Nestor is gone! Get over him!”
Steve swallowed the tightness in his throat. “I gotta go, Jess. Enjoy your hike.”
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