Bick was busy experimenting with meat loaf recipes, while Steve tinkered with different versions of his carrot salsa. Tensions between them ran high at times. Although he tried to hide his indifference, Steve chafed at Bick’s assumption that in the food truck he was going to be head chef and Steve his assistant.
“The kitchen is my zone of influence,” Bick stated flatly one morning during a tiff. “I think we can agree on that.”
“No! What do you mean? Where did you get that idea?”
Bick pretended not to hear as he scooped a mound of meatloaf back into a tub and returned it to the cooler.
“Not enough allspice,” he muttered.
“How many pounds of experimental meatloaf have you thrown out so far?” Steve asked. “My clothes reek of ground chuck.”
“Since when do you care about your clothes and how they smell?” Bick said. “Anyway, I’m not wasting any food. I’ve been donating my experiments to the community center on Fulton Street. They love my meat loaf.”
Steve glanced at Eunice’s worn copy of The Joy of Cooking which lay open on the counter.
“Why did your mother write all over her cookbook?” Steve asked.
Eunice’s scrawly handwritten notes filled the margins. Over the years, she had written recipe comments and suggestions to herself with an assortment of different-colored pens.
“This is her bible,” Bick said. “I’m on a mission to test all her variations for meatloaf until she asks for it back.”
“Hmm. Well, I’m going outside to get some fresh air,” Steve said. “By the way, I noticed today that your elbows are the color of smoked salmon. Why is that?”
“Never mind,” Bick said.
“I bet you scrubbed them raw with a scouring pad, didn’t you?”
“I said never mind,” Bick said. “We have exactly one month before we open for business. At this rate, it’ll be a miracle if we’re ready. Why aren’t you perfecting your empanada recipe?”
“My nana’s recipe is already perfect,” Steve called over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”
* * *
The news-flash ringtone from Steve’s phone signaled that Jessica was calling.
“Hey. What’s goin’ on?”
“I’ve signed up for a new yoga class,” Jessica said.
“Uh-huh. I’m out for a walk. Taking a break from the truck. Is yet another new yoga class what you called to tell me about?” Steve asked.
“Well that, and the fact that my co-worker Kelly is driving me nuts. She is seriously getting on my nerves. On our break today, she wasted five minutes bending my ear about how her mom was attacked by a cat.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And now she wants my input on dental floss. Seriously? Like I’m supposed to know what dental floss she should buy? Give me a break!” Jessica took a deep breath and continued. “Stevie, what do you think is worse? Being the only person not invited to a party? Or throwing a party and no one comes?”
“I don’t know, Jess. I’ve never thought about it. Do you want to meet up for a drink later?” Steve asked. “I need to escape for a while. You can tell me all about yoga class, cats, dental floss, all of your crises du jour.”
“You can cool it with the sarcasm, brother,” Jessica said. “Anyway, yeah. How about Gordy’s on Tenth Avenue? I can come at 7:30, after yoga.”
“See you then.” Steve shoved his phone back in his pocket.
* * *
Steve was slouched in a booth at Gordy’s Bar, waiting for Jessica. She was late. Four beer glasses and four shot glasses were on the table. Steve had emptied them all by the time Jessica sashayed through the front door and slid into the booth opposite her brother.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
“Jeez! What the hell happened to you?” Steve asked, trying not to slur his words. “Your eye looks like raw chicken liver.”
“I know it looks terrible,” Jessica said. “What are you drinking?”
“I’m switching to ginger ale. So, what about your eye? Does it hurt?” Steve moved in for a closer look.
“I was punched!” Jessica comforted the bruise with her hand. “By a super annoying chick in my yoga class! She accused me of standing too close and invading her personal space. When I told her she was loony tunes, she started hurling f-bombs at me. We locked eyes for a second and before I knew it, she hit me! Namaste.”
“Jesus!” Steve exclaimed. “That’s outta control. Instead of yoga, sign her up for anger management.”
“Right?! I reported her to the manager.” Jessica summoned the server and ordered a Dark ‘n Stormy.
“So what’s going on, my tipsy brother?”
“I’ve been sitting here stewing about Bick.”
“What the hell is going on with you two, now?” Jessica asked.
“He’s such a control freak. Without even bothering to ask, he signed me up for an improve your posture class. He says I don’t realize how badly I slouch.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Jessica said, “except for right now.”
“Well, I’ll read you his email,” Steve said, enunciating slowly. “This is a direct coat … quote. ‘Since you refl …’ Here you read it.” He handed his phone to Jessica.
“Since you refuse to upgrade your wardrobe, you need to at least stop slouching. It will be a bad look in front of our customers.” She read the rest of the message silently and handed the phone back to Steve.
“Bick has some nerve.”
The server appeared with Jessica’s Dark ‘N Stormy.
Steve sighed and shook his head. “To humor him, I’ll go to one posture class. One class and that’s it. No más!” In the booth, Steve had gradually slid from vertical to semi-horizontal. “The things I do to please that man.”
“You need to have it out with him,” Jessica said. “Why do you keep doing things you don’t want to do? It’s time to clear the air.” She picked up a menu from the table.
“I know how Bick can clear the air.” Steve faked a laugh. “He can do something about his farty bulldog.” Steve’s phone vibrated on the tabletop.
“Yeah, Oliver’s gas is pretty disgusting,” Jessica said. “Is that Bick calling you?”
“Of course,” Steve said. “Who else?”
“Do not answer! I swear I will get up and walk out of here if you pick up your phone,” Jessica said.
Steve slid his phone off the table and placed it beside him on the bench. “Last night, I got a lecture from him about my spelling. I misspelled schedule and he goes ‘How do you not know how to spell schedule?’”
He mimicked Bick’s haughtiness before taking a drink of ginger ale.
“What’s his problem, anyway?” Jessica stacked the two menus neatly at the edge of the table to get the attention of the server.
“I’m starved,” she said. “And you need something besides alcohol in your stomach. Let’s order.”
* * *
Opening day was now one week away. Bick and Steve had punished themselves to get Mr. and Mr. on Wheels ready for their first customers.
The 40-minute subway ride to the commissary yard in Queens was a chance for Bick and Steve to talk about next steps. The looming deadline put Bick on edge. When he felt anxious, he criticized whoever was in his crosshairs. Lately, it was Steve.
“Why are you wearing that hideous torn shirt? You look homeless.”
“I like this shirt,” Steve said.
“Well, at least tuck in the label that’s sticking out at the back of your neck. Or cut it off.” Bick sounded exasperated. “I make a point to cut off all the hangtags in my shirts.”
“I thought that was illegal,” Steve said.
“That’s only for mattresses.” Bick rolled his eyes. “And what’s up with the goofy hairband?”
“It keeps my hair off my face,” Steve said, annoyed.
“Just get a haircut, for chrissake.”
“No,” Steve said. “Calm down, will ya. I’m letting my hair grow long. Really long.”
“Why?” Bick looked startled. “You’ve never had long hair.”
“For a man-bun,” Steve said matter-of-factly.
“You’re joking,” Bick said. “That will not be a good look for you.” He could see that Steve was not joking. “You’ll have to wear a hairnet in the truck. That’s for damn sure.”
Steve shrugged as the south-bound A train rumbled past Central Park and abruptly screeched to a stop. With a final jolt, the cars went dark.
The train was stalled on the tracks for some minutes when Bick finally blurted out, “C’mon MTA! Get this crate moving! We have work to do.” He tapped his feet nervously, straining to see if there were any signs of stealthy movements in the dark car.
Sometimes when Bick became overwrought in public, Steve tried to use distraction to calm him down.
“Hey, I forgot to tell you,” Steve said in a hushed voice in the dark. “Yesterday, I got yelled at by an angry Elmo.”
“Oh?” Bick asked loudly. “Where was that?”
“In Times Square. Where else? I was people watching, looking for photo ops. A sorry-ass Elmo in red matted fur saw me taking his picture. As I walked away, he lunged towards me screaming, “‘Tip! I need a tip, asshole!’”
“That’s pretty aggressive even for New York,” Bick said.
“Yeah,” Steve laughed. “I gave him the finger and kept walking.”
The lights flickered back on inside the car and the train jerked to a start.
* * *
Bick was pumped up when they arrived at the commissary. The kitchen gleamed with polished stainless-steel counters and appliances, any residual donut odors long banished. New shelving had been delivered, waiting to be installed.
“Everything is going according to plan!” Bick proclaimed. “The new cooler is hooked up and the inspector is coming this afternoon.”
The city inspector arrived, completed his checks and left. The truck was found to be in compliance with the electrical and fire codes. Bick decided to move the new shelving to a different location. He told Steve to take down the fire extinguishers mounted on the wall.
“Put them someplace for the time being, until I figure out exactly where to put the new shelves.”
* * *
Finding a parking spot in lower Manhattan for the food truck would require strict discipline. Bick and Steve would have to leave home by 5:00 every morning to secure a space. Bick wanted to park close to City Hall where the city allotted only a few spots for mobile food vendors.
Steve, not an habitually early riser, would have to step up his game.
New York City regulations required that someone be present at all times inside a parked food truck. Jessica had agreed to help. While Bick and Steve took the three dogs to the sitter, Jessica would babysit the parked truck first thing in the morning before going to her job at Little Angels Furniture. Unlike her brother, she enjoyed getting an early start to the day.
“Thank you, Jessica,” Bick said when he gave her a key to the truck. “This will help us out a lot.”
Later Bick said to Steve, tongue in cheek, “Maybe your sister isn’t so bad after all.”
“My sister is a trooper,” Steve said. “She always has been.”
Steve wondered where could they relieve themselves during their long hours in the truck. Bick had an idea. He found a gift shop close to where the truck would be parked. Bick and Mr. Chan the shop owner agreed that in exchange for allowing Bick and Steve to use the store’s employee restroom every day, Mr. Chan would get a free lunch.
“I like you two misters,” Mr. Chan told them.
Bick knew his way around a kitchen, but in his and Steve’s six years together they had never been confined every day for ten hours, prepping and cooking in such a small, hot space. Some friends said they were brave—others said foolhardy—to embark on a business venture together.
Very soon, Bick and Steve would find out if they were up to the challenge.
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