After a long day working in the truck, Bick came home to a dark apartment. After turning on the kitchen light, the first thing he noticed was the note in Steve’s handwriting. He read it quickly. Then he read it a second time, slowly. He stood at the counter for several minutes, stunned, trying to grasp the message. The note said that Steve didn’t want to hurt him. But the words stung. Like lemon juice in a paper cut.
Ollie sensed that something was wrong. He nudged Bick to get a hug.
“I guess now it’s just you and me, Ollie,” Bick said, wiping away tears. As he heard himself say the words, he didn’t want to believe them. Stay calm. Think of a plan. He folded the note into a small square and slid it into his shirt pocket.
His phone rang. The siren ringtone belonged to Eunice.
“Your father is here, Bick. You need to come over so we can talk,” she said. Bick hadn’t heard her use that no-nonsense tone with him since he was in high school and got caught shoplifting.
“Now is not a good time.” Bick spit the words at an imaginary vision of his dad. A man he hadn’t seen for years and did not wish to see now.
“What’s there to talk about?” he asked.
Eunice ignored his question. “So, come over first thing in the morning, okay?”
Bick grunted a barely audible “sure” and hung up.
* * *
Bick had heard gossip among other food truck owners at the commissary lot about a hole-in-the-wall dive café on the Lower East Side where chefs hung out after hours. The food was apparently exceptional.
It was almost midnight, so why not check out the place. After getting gut-punched twice that day—first by Steve and then Eunice—Bick wanted to drink alcohol in the company of other men.
The place was a dive packed with chefs eating and talking loudly after a long night on their feet. Bick found an empty stool at the counter and ordered from the wiry guy standing behind it.
“I’ll have a plate of whatever you’re cooking. And a double shot of bourbon.” He stared at the symbols on the front of the guy’s apron.
“Is that Korean writing?” Bick asked.
“Yup.”
“What does it say?”
“The rough translation is Noodle Buzz, the name of this place. I’m the owner.” He never stopped moving and spoke in a hurry.
“Oh, nice to meet you.” Bick extended his hand. He was starting to feel a little better. “I’m in the food world, myself. I own a food truck.”
The Noodle Buzz owner rattled off a quick version of his origin story before disappearing into the back. The smell of roasted meats and garlic wafted from the kitchen.
While he waited, Bick studied the unpretentious space. The rustic-looking wall panels in the café were decorated with faded prints of Korean baseball players, the curled edges of the posters stuck in place with different-colored thumbtacks.
Bick knocked back the double shot of bourbon. He had just pulled Steve’s note from his pocket to re-read when a plate of food appeared in front of him. He ordered a beer and slid the folded note back into hiding.
Into the wee hours, the food and beer kept coming. Spicy pork sausages. Broccoli with crispy shallots. Oysters with kimchi. Roasted cauliflower with fish sauce. Bibimbap. And heated bowls of buckwheat noodles. Bick devoured all of it.
He learned that the owner’s name was Dave. Dave was heavily tattooed, as were the other chefs there.
“No ink?” Dave asked.
“Nah. Not my thing,” Bick said, finishing the last few bites. “I gotta tell you, man. Outstanding flavors. Truly inspired cooking.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate that,” Dave said. “Come by again. I’d like to hear more about your food truck. And maybe think about throwing some kimchi into your meatloaf.”
“Hey, take care,” Bick said, shaking Dave’s hand. “I’ll think about the kimchi.”
He stepped into the subdued hours of early morning and plodded along Canal Street to Varick to catch the late night 1 train. When he got home, he called Steve.
Steve’s voicemail was full. He called Jessica and left a message.
“It’s Bick. Tell Steve to call me. Asap. Thanks.”
* * *
Bick dragged himself over to see Eunice around 10:00 the next morning. His father, Grayson, was sitting on Eunice’s white leather sofa—in Bick’s usual spot.
“Hello, son,” he said, without moving to get up. “It’s been a while.”
“Hey,” Bick said, barely able to stifle a scowl. He stayed standing. His father had put on weight and was tan from the Florida sun. To head off any small talk, Bick quickly redirected his gaze to Eunice.
“So, what’s so important that you needed to talk about?” Bick asked her.
Eunice finished lighting her cigarette, coughed, and said, “Sit down. Stay awhile. Let’s talk.”
Bick refused to sit. “I have a splitting headache and work to do on the truck. So, what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you,” Grayson said. “Your mother and I want to open a bar. We’ve given it a lot of thought. We even have a name for it. The Pour Lounge.”
Eunice chimed in. “Yes, that’s right. So, I’m going to need to call in that loan I gave you for the truck. I know you got some insurance money after the fire …”
“And I’ve spent all that on fixing up the truck again!” Bick felt his neck get red and prickly. “And poor is exactly what I’ll be if I have to repay you now!”
“You told me you’d be back in operation by now,” Eunice said. “What’s the holdup?”
“For one thing, I’m doing all the work myself.”
“Why isn’t Steve helping you?” Eunice demanded. “He’s supposed to be helping you.”
Bick looked uneasy. “Steve left for Idaho. His sister is out there.”
Having stayed silent while fixated on his son, Grayson stood up and started circling the room slowly. “Well then I’d say your partner, or ex-partner whatever he is, owes you something for screwing you over. Abandoning the business.”
“It’s really none of your business!” Bick exploded in anger. “How dare you show up here and lecture me about being abandoned! You abandoned us—remind me, how many years ago was that? And now here you are trying to hustle money from Eunice for some half-baked plan to open a bar.”
Bick flared his nostrils to fill his lungs before continuing.
“Haven’t you heard?” he bellowed, waving his arms in exasperation. “This is a terrible time to start a business! Tons of stores have closed. Some big New York bank just went belly up for chrissake!”
On full display was the contempt for his father that Bick had suppressed for years.
“So, Steve up and left you,” Eunice said, haughtily stubbing out her cigarette in the silver ashtray she held. “I warned you about him. He was never worthy of you.”
“Leave Steve out of this!” Bick headed for the door. “I don’t have any money right now! Talk to me in a month when I’ve got the truck up and running again.”
He slammed the door on his way out.
It was close to midnight when Bick went back for a second time to Noodle Buzz. He had mentally rehearsed his pitch and now he needed to talk with Dave.
“Hey, man, good to see you again.” Dave emerged from the kitchen and saw Bick seated at the counter. “Back for more, eh?”
“I couldn’t stay away,” Bick said, fist-bumping with the chef. “In fact, I was thinking about our conversation last night. I have an idea and was hoping we could talk.” Don’t sound desperate.
“Sure,” Dave said. “The kitchen’s closing in an hour. Stick around.”
Bick nursed a couple of beers through a bowl of ramen and a plate of fried chicken. At 1:00 am, Dave came and sat next to him at the counter.
“So, what’s goin’ on,” he asked Bick.
“Well, in a nutshell, do you ever think about expanding?”
“This restaurant?” Dave chuckled at the thought. “No. At least not anytime soon.”
Bick turned to face Dave directly. Just launch into your pitch. “Well, I’ve been thinking. As I told you I have a food truck, right? Food trucks are a hot ticket right now, I’m sure you know. Your menu, your style of cooking, would be ideal for a truck. Maybe we could join forces.”
“Hmm. Yeah. Maybe down the road,” Dave said looking away. “I have to give this place more time to see how things shake out.”
“Dude, really I don’t know why you’d wait.” Don’t oversell. It seems suspect. “I’m a low-risk opportunity sitting right here. I can tell we’d make good business partners.”
Dave shook his head. “I wish the time was right, man. Unfortunately, I’ve got a couple things to sort out. Some debt. And, well, a missus problem.”
Dave slid off the stool to end the conversation and shook hands with Bick.
“Hey man, keep in touch, okay?”
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