Coming Apart – Chapter 2

“Eunice, just hear me out! Starting this business is the most important thing I’ve ever done! And Steve is the most important person in my life. After you, of course.”

Bick was perched on a stool in his mother’s kitchen.

“The two of you in business together?” Eunice said. “No. I don’t see a happy ending there. You will be miserable and Steve will become even more mediocre than he is now.”

Bick’s cheeks flushed crimson.

“Steve? Mediocre? That’s pretty harsh.”

“Well, it’s true, Bickford. You might as well hear it from me.” Eunice stubbed out her cigarette with a look of derision. “Steve does not have your energy or your ambition. I cannot in good conscience give money to you—and your indifferent partner—to buy a food truck that is doomed to fail. Steve will eventually lose interest in you and in the truck, and leave you high and dry.”

Eunice tapped another cigarette from an open package on the kitchen counter.

Bick slid off the stool to pace the floor. He glared at his mother.

“Well, Eunice, you would know all about a man losing interest and leaving. Right?”

Eunice locked eyes with her son, lit a fresh smoke, and inhaled sharply.

“Need I remind you that your father left us thanks to you? He and I were working things out.”

“Oh, come on!” Bick sputtered. “You’re smoking crack! One way or another, dad was going to run off with that money-grubbing bitch. Tiffany? Was that her name? The 25-year-old grifter.”

He summoned Oliver to his side.

“Steve knows that he needs me in his life. He’s not going anywhere. And if you’re not going to give me the money, then I guess there’s nothing more to say. Let’s go, Ollie.”

* * *

Steve was hanging out in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the lookout for photo ops when Jessica called—for the third time that day—to complain about her job. Steve was getting tired of listening to her moaning.

“What have you got to whine about? You’ve been the anointed one your whole life!”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, please. You must remember mom and dad saying like a thousand times, ‘Oh, Jessie’s the clever one. She’s going to go places.’”

“Well …”

“So, be clever! Go someplace and do something that you love!”

Museum goers sat down on the steps while others got up and left, assembling and disassembling like sandpipers on a beach. In the past, when Steve asked to photograph someone, they usually said yes.

He noticed a young Japanese tourist sitting nearby.

“Jess, I gotta go. I’ll call you back.”

Steve watched the young woman take a handful of warm chestnuts from a small paper sack and carefully arrange them on her lap. Then she pulled her phone from her purse.

He couldn’t resist. “Excuse me, miss. Are you taking pictures of your nuts?”

She nodded yes and smiled.

Steve asked if he could take pictures of her taking pictures of the chestnuts arranged on her skirt. She nodded yes again.

Satisfied with his photos, Steve called Jessica on his way home.

“Bick is being a bully right now. Get this. He’s decided we’re going into business together. He’s a gnat’s ass away from forking over tens of thousands for a food truck.”

“That’s hilarious,” Jessica snorted. “The two of you in a food truck? You can’t even cook!”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Steve said. “I make empanadas.”

“Okay, that’s true,” Jessica said. “And that smoothie recipe you make. That’s good. I forget the name.”

“You forgot The Bickford Shooter?” Steve asked in a pretend-hurt voice. “How could you?”

“You know I have a mental block regarding all things Bick. I try not to let him in my head if I can help it.”

It was no secret that Bick and Jessica were not fond of each other.

She continued. “So, Bick is being obnoxious. What else is new?”

Jessica’s afternoon break was over and Steve needed to get home to Gracie and Jerard.

“I’ll give you the lowdown later,” Steve said.

* * *

Steve was happy that his afternoon had been productive. He compiled an interesting sequence of his black-and-white shots of the young tourist arranging, rearranging, and photographing the chestnuts on her lap. He would submit the pictures to a couple of magazine editors who liked his work. It wasn’t easy trying to make a living as a freelancer. Now he needed to hurry home.

As a dog parent, Steve was careful not to show favoritism—the mistake his parents made for years by lavishing special attention on his twin sister. Jessica always received the more expensive Christmas and birthday gifts. Not to mention the excessive praise for her achievements, however small. The way Steve remembered it, whenever Jess got an A on a test or book report, somehow it was always cake-worthy. But he couldn’t recall his mother or father ever giving him much praise, let alone a cake.

It had taken Steve years to squelch the resentment. Finally, he and his sister trusted each other.

When Steve got home, his two papillons were waiting for him by the front door.

“Hello, my cuties!”

* * *

Bick pushed aside a stack of cookbooks to make space on the dining table. He wanted the evening to be tranquil. Non-confrontational. Steve would set the table while he cooked dinner. Steve would make Bickford Shooters because Bick would request one.

Bick’s goal was to get Steve on board with The Plan.

Steve returned from walking Gracie and Jerard and turned on the satellite radio that sat on the kitchen counter. He enjoyed the ‘80s channel which played tunes that reminded him of his youth, a carefree time. In a corner of the kitchen, he lounged in the faded easy chair—a comfortable cast-off from his parents—and watched Bick prepare a sheet pan of chicken for the oven.

Bick was in the mood for storytelling. He thought about his grandmother, for whom cooking had been an endless challenge. Year after year she cooked every meal for her family. But when it came to multi-tasking in the kitchen, she failed badly.

“My gran was a linear thinker. And unfortunately forgetful,” Bick said. “She’d have the main course finished and sitting out on the counter getting cold, when she’d remember to make the soup, and then suddenly the gravy!”

He imitated his grandmother’s high voice. “‘This will just take a minute to whisk together,’ she’d call out from the kitchen.

“The food would make it to the table in whatever order she cooked it. One time her biscuits came out of the oven after we ate our pie! Gran just laughed it off. She would always say ‘Better late than never!’”

Steve was enjoying the stories. He loved how Bick closed his eyes when he laughed.

“I could really go for a Bickford Shooter right now,” Bick said, tossing fresh oregano and sprigs of thyme over the chicken breasts.

“I’ll make us two,” Steve said, springing up from the chair.

Steve invented the shooter recipe soon after he had met Bick. He named it The Bickford Shooter. Bick loved it. For going on six years now, a glassful before dinner was their evening tradition.

Bick slid the sheet pan of chicken into the oven while Steve tossed frozen blueberries, a handful of kale, a banana, a stalk of celery, and some cilantro into the blender. He doused the mixture with organic apple juice.

Bick continued telling his story. “When it came to cooking, my granddad was no help at all. He stayed in the parlor and drank bourbon. Gran didn’t allow him in the kitchen, anyway.”

“I remember you told me once about her famous salads,” Steve said.

“Absolute disaster! My gran, may she rest in peace, was known for her wilted lettuce salad.” Bick chuckled. “Imagine a bowl of crisp green leaves that sits neglected on the kitchen counter, swimming in green goddess dressing. An hour later, it’s a clump of swamp in a bowl. Yes, my gran’s signature dish was her lettuce salad. It was uniquely awful.”

Bick shook his head in dismay at the memory.

“I bet you loved her,” Steve said, sounding wistful.

“I miss her,” Bick said. “I hope she would have been proud of my cooking skills. Thank god I didn’t inherit her culinary shortcomings.”

Steve laughed. “Oh, me, too!” He handed over a Bickford Shooter.

“A toast to your gran,” Steve said.

“To my gran.” Bick savored a gulp. “Good shooter.”

“Thanks. I wish I had known your gran. She was a force of nature, by the sound of it.”

“Yeah, she was. She definitely marched to her own drummer. Still gushing ‘far out’ and ‘groovy’ well into her seventies. Granddad was always a little suspicious of her. He told me once he thought she might secretly be a communist.”

Steve laughed. “Was it because of her swamp salad?”

“No, not that,” Bick laughed. “I’m not sure why granddad said that. One of the stories he used to tell was about the day he came home and found my gran sunning herself in the back yard in a topless swim suit.”

“Oh, do tell!” Steve cackled.

“I guess gran read a story in the newspaper about a topless bathing suit designed by some guy named Rudi and she immediately went out and bought one. It was the 1960s.”

“Oh well, the 60s, what d’ya expect? I take it your gran was a free spirit.”

“She was. I wish I was more like her,” Bick mused. “My grandparents passed away within a month of each other. By the end, it seemed they had squelched any remaining joy from their lives. But actually, I think they were still quite devoted to each other. They just didn’t show it.”

Steve loved hanging out at mealtime, laughing, eating, and sharing stories while the dogs dozed nearby. Inhaling the warmth of the kitchen brought back sweet memories of when he and Bick first met.

The sizzling buttery aroma of roasted chicken meant it was time to eat.

With the food plated and on the table, Bick suddenly locked eyes with Steve.

“So! Let’s talk about our food truck. Going into business together is going to be the best thing for us,” Bick said.

“Can’t we just eat?” Steve asked.

Bick ignored the question. “It’ll be more together time. More time to reignite the spark between us. I really miss that spark. I think you do, too.”

Steve ate his chicken in silence while Bick carried on with his sales pitch between bites.

“I’ve done a ton of market research,” Bick declared. “We’ll need to focus on a 4P strategy. Product, place, price, and promotion. So? What d’ya say?”

“Huh?” Steve yawned.

“I said, what do you think about us going into business together?”

“Well, I guess we can give it a try,” Steve said.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” Bick jumped up from the table and gave Steve a bear hug from behind. He would have liked his partner to show some enthusiasm, but Bick was confident that Steve would come around once they had the truck.

“I wrote a to-do list.” Bick was now quite animated. “Let’s get this kitchen cleaned up and we can go over it.”

“Sure,” Steve said, his voice flat. He pulled a dishtowel from the folded stack in the drawer. It was from a towel set given to Bick by his grandmother, this one embroidered in colorful letters with the word Wednesday.

“You’re using the wrong towel. Today is Tuesday.”

Steve stared at Bick. “You’re joking, right?”