The Music of What Happens, page 6
“What? No. Why would I have incense?”
I hoist myself up. “Get me like a match, then. We’re doing a food truck exorcism. We gotta get rid of whatever fucked-up demon is dooming this thing.”
He stares at me. I smile a bit. He doesn’t. He takes a deep breath. I watch him. He goes inside.
I sit there for a while, unsure if he’ll ever come out. It’s not like we have this killer connection, me and Cute Emo Dude. We’ve been on a food truck alone together for four days and our conversations have been entirely limited to food-related stuff and the fact that it is hot. That is about it. It’s sucked so far, a lot. When he gets bored, he opens a journal and writes whatever in it. When I get bored, I crush candy or play Madden on my phone.
Then, after about two minutes, Jordan comes back out with the stump of a lit red candle in his right hand. He walks over to the truck and I follow him.
“Oh Gods of the food truck,” he says. “Get the fuck out.”
I crack up, and he does too. I say, “Get thee behind me, Food Truck Satan.”
He waves the candle around and then runs up and down the aisle. “You have no business here,” he says. “Git.”
“Git,” I repeat.
He pulls up a crate and sits on it. Then, as if he has a new idea, he pulls up a second crate, right next to the first one, and he taps it for me to sit down there. I do.
He says, “This food truck has impacted me in the following ways …”
I laugh at the unexpected shift. This guy is so … something, and I’m not used to it. “This is now a food truck intervention?” I ask.
He nods. “You have made me lose five pounds in pure water weight,” he says. “These are pounds I cannot afford to lose.”
I have to really push my brain to come up with something good. “Because of you, I have begun to think I might not be the great chef I thought I was,” I say.
Him: “I have had to deal with the public, and the public sucks.”
Me: “I have had to spend time with a guy who hates me.”
Him: “I have had to spend time with a guy who thinks I’m a big loser.”
We look at each other. He cracks a smile, so I do too.
Him: “Food truck, are you willing to accept the help we’re offering you today?”
We sit for a while, as if waiting for the freakin’ truck to say something.
“Did you hear that?” he asks. “I think he said yes.”
Then I stand. “I think so too. And not just because I need this to get better, because you can’t pay me the money I’m owed if we don’t. Though that is a factor.”
“Sorry,” he says. “Really.”
I shrug as if it doesn’t matter, but it does. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. You ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“You trust me?”
“Not sure. What’s the plan?”
“You gotta trust me, dude,” I say, and Jordan looks me up and down, up and down. Deep, dramatic breath.
“Fine. I trust you.”
I blow out the candle and start carrying back the stuff Jordan took from the fridge, and he helps me. When we’re done, I get in the driver’s seat and he sits on his crate in the middle again, and with the door open, I drive us the mile north to my house.
Max opens his front door and the first thing I notice as we walk in is a blue spandex–clad ass, staring at me.
“Company,” Max says, and the blue spandex–clad ass doesn’t move.
“Well company is going to have to put up with my butt as a welcome because I’m in Downward-Facing Dog for another five breaths,” the voice says, and I surmise that this is Max’s mom. She has a slight Mexican accent, which Max doesn’t have.
I want to say that Downward-Facing Dog should be called Upward-Facing Ass, but Max and his mom probably wouldn’t find that half as funny as Kayla and Pam would.
As we walk in, the second thing I notice is that Max basically lives in my house, only reversed. Their sunken living room is to the right when we walk in instead of the left, there’s a dining room straight ahead, and while our open family room and kitchen combination is straight ahead and to the right, theirs is to the left. The biggest difference is that where we have a dining table, his mom has a little yoga area, with one mat she is currently hovering over and several comfy-looking pillows next to her, two rolled-up mats against the wall. And whereas our kitchen is stuffed to the hilt with boxed treats — on every counter, stacked on the refrigerator — their counters are neat and clean.
“You should be at work, Maximo,” his mom calls from the other room as Max opens the fridge. It is stacked. Vegetables, fruit. Dairy. I almost take a picture to send to my mom, so she can see what a real refrigerator looks like.
“That’s my mom,” he says to me, and then he yells out, “Raiding the fridge for the truck.”
“The hell you are,” his mom yells, and I hear her footsteps approaching. “Oh … hi.”
Max’s mom is wearing a red Diamondbacks T-shirt. She’s short — like half Max’s height — and her black hair hangs long down her neck, a bit frizzy. Sweat has beaded on her forehead and she wears a cream-colored clip on top of her head to keep the hair out of her eyes. She smiles, and I see where Guy Smiley got it from. Same exact smile, which almost cracks me up because on her, it looks gigantic.
“Is this your coworker?” she asks, and she sticks her hand out at me.
“Hi,” I say, and I shake her hand. “Jordan.”
“Ms. Gutierrez,” she says. “Now what’s this mistaken idea you have about you two raiding my refrigerator for food truck ingredients?”
Max points into the fridge. “We have no money and just about nothing to cook.”
She winces. “No money and nothing to cook?” She looks me over like she’s sizing me up and I cross my arms in front of my chest. Then she walks over to the couch, which faces the fireplace we never use in our house. Instead of a fireplace, they have an entertainment center, with a huge TV hanging in the middle of the wall. Ours is against the far wall instead. They have a love seat in that spot.
“Sit,” she says. “Gotta get ready for work but first let’s have a chat.”
I tentatively sit on the love seat, and Max sits next to his mom. I’m not so sure I’m ready to be reprimanded by my coworker’s mom.
“So talk to me,” she says. “Sounds like your truck is not going so good.”
I look down at my skinny knees. “No, ma’am. It was my dad’s. He died a few years ago. My mom got the idea to take it out finally and we did on Saturday for the first time. My mom freaked, she hired Max to take her place, and we’re just … doing our best, I guess. I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.”
She studies me for a bit. Finally, she says, “Ah. And is this legal? You guys being out on a food truck together with no experience?”
I say, “Um. Well, the truck is legal.”
“Do you need a food handler’s permit?”
I study the Native American rug under my feet. It’s turquoise and tan.
“Do you?” she asks again.
I shrug.
“Did your mother have one?”
I shrug again.
Ms. Gutierrez frowns. It’s a powerful frown too. Like it makes me want to get up, walk out of this house, and never turn around again.
“Jesus,” she says. “This is illegal, Maximo. I won’t let you do this. I can’t.”
“Mom,” he says. “Stop.”
“Stop what? I know I told you to stick with it, but from what I hear, you’re not legally working on that truck. You could get fined or arrested. This isn’t right.”
“Mom!” Max stands and walks into the yoga area, and he motions for her to come. “Please.”
She follows him, looking back at me like I’m a piece of dirt, which is basically what I feel like. I sit there wondering what the hell I’m going to do when she forbids Max from working with me. I can’t blame her; it’s what I’d do if I were a mom. But the truth is I don’t have any Plan B at all. This icy feeling spreads down my arms and legs. Doomed. Not good.
They finally come back. Ms. Gutierrez’s face has changed a bit. She looks like she just saw a sad movie.
They both sit down and face me again. I lower my eyes to the rug again and study the patterned design. Lots of triangles inside triangles.
“Okay,” Ms. Gutierrez says. “First off, the truck is off duty today. And I’m not fixing this; you are. But I will help. And if you want me to take the day off work to help, you just tell me.”
I blush. I hate this feeling. Like I’m a waste case. Which I’m so not. It just seems that way from the data, and I get that. I’m the boss on a rogue, illegal food truck, and that’s all she knows about me. I wonder what changed her mind. I’m afraid to know what Max said about me and my mom to make this change happen.
“Okay?” she says again, waiting for me. I look up, and her eyes are searching for mine. I hold her look as long as I can. It’s a kind look, I must say. Strong but kind.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
“First up, you need to get online and figure out how to make this legal. You must need some sort of license. And you’re sure you have a permit for the truck?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve seen that. I know my mom got it in the mail. Renewed it. The rest of it, I don’t know.”
“Well let’s get going,” she says, “Second up —”
“I got it, Mom,” Max says. “I can do this. We can.”
She looks over at him. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. We’re gonna make this food truck our bitch.”
She laughs. “Okay,” she says. “And you call me before you do something that gets you thrown in the slammer, hear?”
Max says, “I’m pretty sure they aren’t throwing food truck people in the slammer.”
“Don’t be too sure. Just be smart, okay?”
“Okay, Mom,” he says.
“And you,” she says, looking over at me. “I’m sorry for what’s going on in your house. That sounds not too good. Are you okay?”
“Sure,” I say, thinking, I have no idea.
She regards me for an uncomfortable five or so seconds. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Now I’m off to work. Good luck, you two.”
The much-needed food truck intervention that Jordan started hits a snag when Mom starts asking questions, and suddenly, instead of getting ready to go out, we’re studying an online manual about food safety.
Who knew all these rules? I feel bad for all the people I served the last few days, because while I always wash my hands, and I know that raw chicken is probably contaminated with salmonella, I had basically no idea about a lot of other stuff.
Like, did you know that bacteria grows on many foods when they are kept between 41 and 135 degrees? I did not, actually.
Did you know that you’re supposed to discard gloves before touching ready-to-eat food? I did not.
Did you know that Coq Au Vinny almost definitely gave somebody the shits on its first few days out and about, because I, the cook, was unaware of at least ten rules? I know that now.
Oops.
“How long until a bunch of former customers come after us with pitchforks?” I say.
Jordan laughs. “Pitchforks that should probably be sterilized, but we haven’t been sterilizing,” he says. I glance over and he has this goofy, adorable smile on his face. In the light of my living room, his eyes have a little bit of emerald in them. And yeah, he has acne, but in this light, I can see underneath the slight redness around his nose and on his cheeks. Kid has beautiful skin under there, waiting to come out. I can tell. I have to look away, because he’s the kind of adorable that doesn’t know it’s adorable. That’s the best kind.
“Word, dude. Word.”
“Well, going forward we will kill no people,” he says, and I laugh.
I say, “It’s funny because my mom would shit if she knew this shit.”
“It’s funny because we are dangerously stupid.”
“Sorry, people we may have harmed,” I say.
“Yup,” says Jordan. “Sorry.”
While I read up on things I should have known five days ago, I think about what my mom said when I told her about Jordan’s mom and the meltdown, and how he and his mom are gonna be out on the street if this doesn’t work.
“Dios mío,” she says, and I have to agree. Dios mío.
It turns out we aren’t completely scofflaws; we have thirty days from when we start working in the food service industry to get a card. Jordan is in violation, though, because someone on the truck needs to be able to show they know this information, and he hasn’t known it. Well, now we do. And we both pass the online test, print out cards, and suddenly we are permitted.
“So let me ask you,” I say. “What would you want to buy on a food truck if you were out today?”
Jordan reclines on my couch. “Cold stuff.”
I nod. “But like what?”
“Could we do like a frozen lemonade?”
“Hmm,” I say. “But is there lots of money in that?” I pull up YouTube on my laptop and we start watching videos. I search food trucks, and we watch whatever clips we find, and soon we are down the YouTube rabbit hole. I show him the video the Amigos love of the dog chasing the bear, and he shows me this video about all the things we don’t say when we text. It’s funny because it’s true, and also it’s the kind of humor that makes you think. Before Jordan, I didn’t know I liked that kind of humor, but I guess I do. Then he shows me this Randy Rainbow guy. It’s the gayest thing I’ve ever seen and it’s kinda hilarious in a very non-Amigos way.
I guess the truth is I assumed Jordan was gay, but since he never seemed to notice my existence, he was off my radar. I figured he probably had some adorable, lanky boyfriend somewhere and would have no time for an unrefined guy who plays Madden with his buds on Friday nights. And then, when we started to get to know each other last week, we had a task, and I was focused on the whole terrible boss angle. But now, for the first time, we’re kinda getting along, and it’s okay. I rack my brain for some sort of video I can show him that will nonchalantly show him that I’m gay too, because I don’t know if he knows. Or cares.
I settle on this clip of rugby players in Australia, where guys keep getting pantsed and don’t stop running down the field.
“Whoa,” he says.
“I know, right?”
“Do you play sports?”
“Baseball,” I say.
“Does a lot of naked stuff happen on the baseball field?”
I laugh. “Baseball diamond,” I say.
“That sounds kinda gay.”
“I guess.”
“So are you?”
“Yep.”
“Oh. Okay. Didn’t know that.”
I have to look away, because something about the cutest of skinny white boys acknowledging my gayness for the first time is … a lot.
I stare at the floor, swallow, and say, “Well, now you do.”
And we sit there and kinda soak that in. That we are two gay dudes who before this didn’t know that about each other or like each other much, and suddenly Jordan isn’t totally the worst in my book, even if he’s nothing like me and my buddies. And I wonder if I’m okay to him.
I hope so.
Dorcas’s tongue has range and accuracy.
She’s the kind of dog who makes Q-tips totally unnecessary. If I just lie there in my waterbed and let her put her head on my chest, once in a while she’ll lift up her face, zone in on her target, and zap my ear with her sandpaper tongue. I’d say she’s gotten a good two inches up into my ear canal, which I’m sure is totally sanitary given the fact that her favorite hobby is sniffing other dog’s buttholes, but oh well.
We are luxuriating and undulating in my (water)bed on a Friday afternoon. We’re here because Max and I took another day off from the truck and made an awesome, amazing, epic plan, starting tomorrow, to achieve food truck world domination. I am not 100 percent sure it will work — not even 30 percent, really — but we definitely have a better shot than we did a couple days ago, when we were plan-free.
Dorcas laps my nose with her seemingly endless tongue. It’s amazing that she can rest her chin on my stomach and still reach my face.
I’m thinking about Max. Who is, apparently, gay. This is new information. I had him stereotyped as a basic dude bro. He is a dude bro, I think, but not a basic one. Nope. He showed me a very nonbasic dude bro video of football players losing their shorts, and I was like, Oh. Okay. Wow.
The tragic thing about this is that it was easier when I had nothing in common with him. Now that we did a truck exorcism together and I figured out he’s actually kinda cool, and now that I know he’s also gay, I have to contend with the mean practical joke of the universe. Which is to say: Now I have if not a gay friend at least a gay acquaintance. There are LGBTQ kids at school, but I am not exactly the most social person. So now I have a gay … something, and he is so far out of my league that we may as well live on different planets.
Yep. I’m pretty sure that’s worse. I focus on the Andy Gibb poster on my wall and ask: Andy, is this worse?
Yes, he says. Clearly worse, darling.
Dorcas turns her snout until she is facing me head-on, and she gets a little too up into my nostrils. I push her snout away, prop my head up on a satin pillow, and text Pam and Kayla.
Me: Whatcha up to
Kayla: Pretty Little Liars
Me: There are other shows out there. U should try watching one sometime
Pam: Nope
Me: Are u together?
Kayla: Yup
Me: Without me. Nice
Pam: Figured you were working?
Me: Not today long story. Dorcas wants to see you. Come over?
Kayla: Only if Lydia is there
Me: Nah no idea where shes been all day
Kayla: Fine well come anyway
Me: Yay
Thank God for Pam and Kayla. My life was so boring before them. We became friends spring semester of freshman year, when we were in the musical Birds of Paradise together. I played Homer, the talented, nerdy actor hopelessly in love with Julia, played by Kayla. Pam played Hope, who was in love with Homer. The love triangle was awkward as fuck for a while. I thought they were mean girls who hated me. Then they came over one day, ostensibly to practice lines, and they did a gay intervention.
