Over the summer, word-of-mouth spread about the Mr. and Mr. on Wheels truck in lower Manhattan. Positive comments and thumbs up accumulated on Steve’s blog. And the number of customers waiting in line at lunch time continued to grow. By 2:30 pm, Bick and Steve were physically and emotionally drained after three-and-a-half hours of trying to keep up with the orders.
Behind the serving window, bouts of friction continued between them. Occasionally, there was a flare-up with a customer and that’s when Bick’s hygiene anxiety went into overdrive.
“One of these days, a customer is going to complain about getting sick from our food,” Bick said. “Even if it’s not true, we have to be prepared to defend ourselves.”
“As usual, you’re over-reacting,” Steve said. “Stop pestering me and calm down. Let’s take care of our customers.”
After the lunch rush was over, Steve stepped outside just as Jessica called. She wanted to share some gossip that ridiculed one of her co-workers.
“Get this, Stevie. Today, a guy in marketing posted an announcement that he is giving away free books for nothing. Isn’t that hilarious? I mean, what? As opposed to free books for a dollar?”
It had been a stressful day in the truck and Steve didn’t feel like laughing.
“That’s funny,” Steve said in a monotone. “I have one for you. Ever since I quit the posture class, Bick wants me to wear a brace that vibrates on my back if I slouch.”
That morning Bick had presented Steve with a posture-improving device to wear.
“He sure has a bug up his butt about your posture,” Jessica said.
“Well, I’m not wearing some ridiculous contraption he found on Amazon.” Steve changed the subject.
“Hey, Jess, how would you like to help us out in the truck on weekends? We’re really slammed right now. And we’re getting on each other’s nerves. Big time.”
“I don’t know, Stevie. Listening to you two bicker all day doesn’t sound like fun.”
“You could bag the orders and entertain us with stories,” Steve said. “You’d be a big help. Obviously, we’ll pay you.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jessica said. “I can’t promise anything right now. I have decision fatigue.”
“Decision fatigue?”
“Yeah,” Jessica said. “I can’t decide if I just put up with, or actually intensely dislike, my job at Little Angels Furniture. I’m sick and tired of staring at a computer screen all day. That’s for sure. But I can’t bring myself to quit.”
“Well, think about my offer, okay? I have to go.”
From the corner of his eye he saw Bick, frowning, planted in the open doorway of the truck. He seemed to be muttering to himself.
Steve turned away with his back to the truck.
“I’m probably in hot water again. I better get back to work.”
“You know what, Steve?” Jessica said. “I guess I could work a weekend shift and see how it goes.”
“All right!” Steve said. “That’s great. Come on Saturday. What’s the worst that could happen? You might even like it.”
Steve returned to the truck where Bick was furiously attacking the stainless steel sink with a scrubber and disinfectant.
“Jessica would love to come and work part-time in the truck,” Steve said, ignoring Bick’s huffing. “We could use the extra help, don’t you think? I told her to come on Saturday for a tryout. You okay with that?”
Caught off guard, Bick couldn’t argue about needing the extra help. “Yeah, sure. Why not. I suppose we can use another pair of hands. As long as hers are clean.”
“Of course, they’re clean,” Steve said defensively. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she reads your hygiene manifesto.” He suppressed the urge to say it with sarcasm.
* * *
On Saturday, Jessica showed up as usual at the crack of dawn to babysit the truck while Bick and Steve delivered Gracie, Jerard, and Oliver to the dog sitter. She returned at 10:30 am for her trial shift.
When she appeared in the truck, Steve grinned, said hi, and handed her an apron.
“Those white capris you’re wearing are going to get stained,” Steve warned.
Bick stepped aside from a tray of raw ground meat to study Jessica’s apparel. He cocked one eyebrow, a sign that he was about to say something catty.
“Your pants. Are they from this year, last year, or the year before? I’m guessing the year before.” Bick never missed an opportunity to criticize the outdated wardrobes of Steve and Jessica.
“Who cares?” Jessica snarled. “I had no idea you were a professional fashion stylist, Bickie.” She curled her lips and scrunched up her nose to say his name.
“My name is not Bickie. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that.”
Bick was one of Jessica’s least favorite people. She tolerated him for her brother’s sake.
“And good morning to you, too.” She locked eyes with Bick. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to stare?”
Bick had switched his attention to Jessica’s fingernails, which he found to be especially nasty. Her chipped red nail polish looked like daubs of blood drying on her fingertips. Those hands would be handling food orders and taking payments from customers. Very unappetizing, he thought.
He summoned Jessica to join him by the posted hygiene manifesto. He asked her to read it aloud. Then he handed her a pair of gloves.
“Here. Wear these.” He made a mental note to talk to Steve later.
Bick and Steve took turns showing Jessica the procedure they had in place for incoming and outgoing orders, and how the payment system worked. She picked it up quickly.
“Okay. Let’s get this show on the road,” she said.
Bick raised the serving window promptly at 11:00 am.
* * *
The word was out. Mr. and Mr. on Wheels was the hot new food truck in New York City! Every day, new faces joined the queue. Steve was relieved that Jessica had decided to quit her office job after her trial weekend in the truck. She signed on to work full-time with Steve and Bick. The extra pair of hands made a big difference and Jessica, while chatty, added a different kind of energy to the space.
If Bick was grateful for her presence, he didn’t show it outwardly.
Meanwhile, Steve was irritated about the chef’s jacket that Bick insisted he wear in the truck.
“I feel like a pretentious faker,” Steve told his sister in private. “Wait until you see the design I came up with for a new t-shirt. I ordered two dozen. We can wear them in the truck. We might even sell some to customers.”
“Cool,” Jessica said. “I suppose Bick will throw a hissy fit if we don’t wear the white jackets, but whatever.”
“We’ll cross that bridge later,” Steve said.
Now that Jessica was part of the crew, Steve found more time to indulge his passion for photography.
“What are you doing?” Bick shouted one morning. “The window goes up in twenty minutes and you’re farting around taking pictures!
“And is that a new camera?”
“Yes. It is new, as a matter of fact.” Steve ignored Bick’s outburst as he focused on composing a photograph of raw carrots placed next to a cup of his carrot salsa.
“That camera looks really expensive. Where did you get the money for that?” Bick demanded.
“I treated myself. I used some inheritance money from my abuela,” Steve said calmly.
“I thought we agreed that you would save that money for an emergency. This does not make me happy.”
Steve shrugged off Bick’s eruptions. He continued to carve out time during the workday to shoot photos of their life in the truck. He also managed to get natural, sometimes hilarious, photos of their customers. For some reason, many people enjoyed being photographed while laughing and stuffing food into their mouths.
“I love taking pictures,” Steve told Jessica. “I love the psychological intensity of Diane Arbus’s photos. I’m trying to capture that same kind of intensity.”
One afternoon at 2:45, when there were no more customers to serve, Steve made the mistake of showing some recent blog posts to Bick.
“Why do you have so many pictures of your carrot salsa?” Bick asked.
Steve’s carrot salsa had just the right amount of picante and customers were hooked.
“People are guzzling the stuff like it’s Bud Light,” Bick said, sounding annoyed.
Steve suspected that Bick had condiment envy.
“I know,” Steve said. “My salsa goes fast. Jessica thinks we should sell bottles of it. Right, Jess?”
“Yeah, it’s good stuff!” She gave two thumbs up.
Bick tightened his grip on Steve’s phone to expand one of his blog posts for a more careful review.
“Once again, Steve, it’s the typos. Somebuddy? Peeper, instead of pepper? Come on! Proofread!”
“I do proofread. I use a spell-check app,” Steve said defensively. He grabbed his phone away from Bick. “I’m going outside. I need a break.”
“I’ll come with you, Stevie,” Jessica said. She bounded down the steps after her brother.
Once outside and away from the truck, Steve started pacing.
“It’s unbelievable,” he told Jessica. “He can’t be bothered to look at my photos and give me constructive feedback. Even if he thinks my pictures are shit, he could say something innocuous like ‘Not bad.’ At least it would be something besides griping about a few typos.”
“I think you need to lower your expectations,” Jessica said.
Steve sighed and walked off. “I have to make a phone call.”
He found the number in his contacts list, then had second thoughts. When he finally called, a man’s voice answered.
“Hi,” Steve said, nervously. “May I speak with Nestor?”
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