Felicia's Food Truck

by Celia Kinsey

  Antonio’s Mobile Pizza Kitchen was certainly ideally situated to cater to the senior residents of the retirement complex.

  According to several of our regulars from Whispering Palms, the on-site dining room typically served up gray meat, soggy green beans, gluey mashed potatoes, and tasteless low-sodium gravy followed by tiny portions of sugar-free gelatin intended to pass as dessert.

  Despite the promotional literature touting “carefully crafted cuisine tailored to the nutritional needs of the active senior,” I’d yet to hear one inmate of Whispering Palms with a positive word to say about the menu. I suspected that the promotional literature was more to reassure the nervous children of the retirees than to appeal to potential residents.

  The old folks themselves seemed to subscribe more to the philosophy that they didn’t have a lot of time left, and eating was one of the few remaining pleasures they still possessed the full capacity to enjoy. A sensible stance to take, in my opinion, but not likely to be soothing to the fretful adult child worried about Dad’s high cholesterol or Mom’s erratic blood sugar readings.

  I paused in front of Antonio’s Mobile Pizza Kitchen and watched the queue of our regulars, waiting for a chance to “make their own” pizza. It was a clever concept, I had to admit.

  On a low table, next to the food truck, was an array of toppings. The procedure was: you gave your order at the window of the food truck, and Antonio handed you out a raw, sauce-covered crust on a peel, then you took your pizza over to the toppings table and piled it high with whatever you wanted. When you’d finished loading up your crust, Antonio took your pizza and baked it in the little mobile oven mounted on a tiny trailer he pulled behind his truck.

  It was an ingenious idea. I wished I’d thought of it. The only drawback was that the whole process took forever. Still, when you are dealing with diners who have little to do but play cards until their pickleball court comes available, waiting isn’t such a big deal.

  Antonio saw me loitering on the outskirts of the small crowd of seniors and called out to me.

  “What can I do for you, beautiful?”

  I don’t like flirts. When you grow up tall, gangly, and redhaired—I didn’t stop growing until I was closing in on six feet—you tend to suspect mockery when a random stranger calls you beautiful.

  Besides, I felt Antonio’s assessment of my personal appearance was wholly irrelevant to whether I wanted a pizza or not.

  “I want to order a pizza,” I said stiffly.

  “You know it wouldn’t hurt you to smile a little,” said Antonio, sealing his fate as an A-1 louse in my book. I hate when people order me to smile. Smiles should never be compulsory unless one is acting in a toothpaste commercial.

  I deliberately turned down the corners of my mouth and waited while Antonio smeared a pizza crust with marinara sauce. After he handed it out to me, I took it over to the table and put on toppings: black olives, bell peppers, and onions on half (for Arnie) and mushrooms and pepperoni on the other half (for me).

  The menu board proclaimed that my medium pizza would set me back $14.99, so I whispered to Fitz, a Whispering Palms resident who was loading up his pizza next to me, “How much is the senior discount?”

  “A medium is $7.99.”

  I couldn’t be sure without pricing out Antonio’s ingredients, but it seemed to me that the pizzas were going to seniors at a substantial loss.

  “How often do you eat here?” I asked.

  I think Fitz took it as a rebuke because he got a little defensive.

  “You know we’re all on a fixed income,” he said. “Besides, the pizza is delicious. Plus, Antonio gives out great stock tips. He’s an investing genius.”

  I couldn’t help wondering why an investing genius was slaving away baking pizzas, but I couldn’t deny that the pizza was delicious. Even I had to admit that.

  Back at the food truck, Arnie and I sat down at a table normally reserved for customers—of whom there were none—and ate the whole thing.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked Arnie when we’d finished our three enormous slices each.

  “We’ll just have to wait it out,” he said. “Antonio can’t go on operating at a loss indefinitely.”

  That was true. Antonio couldn’t keep his business open if it was hemorrhaging cash, but neither could we. What we’d taken in today didn’t even cover the pittance I paid to Hank, who owned the carwash next door, for the privilege of parking on his land.

  “What did you think of Antonio?” Arnie asked after a long silence.

  Chapter Two

  “Antonio firmly believes he is charming. I firmly disagree,” I told Arnie, as we sat surveying the empty pizza box.

  Arnie broke out in a broad grin, unaccountably cheerful after we’d been sitting there brooding for the last half hour on how our business was going down the drain.

  “I’m glad you take a sensible view,” said Arnie. “Some women of my acquaintance have been taken in by Antonio.”

  “Oh, what women are you referring to?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “So you know Antonio?” I persisted.

  “Antonio Scarpello and I went to high school together.”

  “He’s a local?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why haven’t I seen him around?”

  “He’s been in prison.”

  “For what?”

  “Running some sort of scam. I never looked into it. I was just happy to have him gone.”

  “Why?”

  Arnie fell silent. He clearly didn’t want to talk about whatever history he had with Antonio. My money was on an ex-girlfriend being involved, but I could count Arnie’s girlfriends on one hand. He was the sort to stay friends with his exes, and I knew them all. Not one of the women seemed the type to be taken in by the likes of Antonio Scarpello, even as a high school student.

  I was trying to decide whether to persist in my interrogation when a couple of our regulars showed up.

  Marge and Bobby aren’t regulars in the sense that they regularly buy from us, they are more regulars in the sense of always being around.

  Marge used to sleep on the porch of the old house in downtown Bray Bay that serves as the town’s public library, but ever since she and Bobby became an item, I don’t see her there anymore. Maybe they spend nights down in the grove of trees by the beach.

  There’s also a mountain bike park down there. There’s nothing remotely resembling a mountain for hundreds of miles, but a few years back, a group of local bikers got together and created a labyrinth of hillocks, jumps, and obstacles. A lot of homeless people camp out in the grove surrounding the bike park.

  Last year there was a holdup at the food truck, and for a while, Bobby was implicated. I didn’t buy that theory from the start, and ever since I helped track down the real robber, Marge and Bobby have gone out of their way to show their appreciation by keeping me informed of all the happenings around Bray Bay, at least of the sort that never makes it into the Bay Bray Crier.

  I have a sneaking suspicion Marge and Bobby have also altered their daily rounds so that they stop by the food truck in the evenings after we close, and again in the early morning before we open just to make sure nobody’s messing with anything.

  During the day, Bobby and Marge often stop by for water and a chat. Sometimes Marge will insist on buying our cheapest burger and a small fry which she splits down the middle with Bobby. “Because we’re always drinking your water,” she’ll say.

  I like having Marge and Bobby around. It makes me feel secure somehow to know that no matter where I am in Bray Bay, a friend may pop around the corner or out of the bushes. It’s like having your own 24-hour shadow security.

  “How would you guys like to have all-you-can-eat hot dogs on the house?” I asked Marge.

  I looked over at Arnie, and for once, he wasn’t making faces at me for giving away food.

  The hot dog vat was on the verge of having to be tossed, we’d sold so f
ew, and Arnie hates waste.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” said Marge. “Let me pay.”

  “Not necessary. By the end of the day tomorrow, we’ll have to throw them all away anyway,” I told her. “I’d much rather someone ate them. Arnie and I would join you in a hot dog feast, except we just ate a whole pizza.”

  “Pizza?” Marge had a funny look on her face.

  “I went and tried out that new pizza truck down by Whispering Palms,” I said, trying to look cheerful. “Have to keep an eye on the competition, you know.”

  “I don’t like that guy,” said Marge. “He threatened to call the police on Bobby.”

  “Why?”

  “Bobby refilled his water bottle at the cooler without buying anything. That pizza guy came out and yelled at him and said if he caught Bobby anywhere near his truck, he’d have him arrested.”

  “What did Antonio plan to have Bobby arrested for?” I asked. “I don’t think reporting someone for ‘stealing’ water would impress the police much.”

  Bobby had been hanging around in the background, looking like he wished Marge would just shut up about the whole thing.

  “He didn’t say why he’d have me arrested,” Bobby said.

  “He did too say,” Marge insisted. Marge isn’t one to get angry, but her face was red, and her hands were shaking. “Antonio said he’d have Bobby arrested for vagrancy and trespassing, and if necessary, he’d make something up.” She turned to Bobby. “Tell them what that guy called you.”

  “I’d rather not repeat it,” Bobby said. “It’s better just to ignore people like that. As long as you stay out of their way—”

  It was quiet for the rest of the day. We closed early and went home before seven.

  The next morning I came early to open. That’s usually Arnie’s department, but he had his sister Hannah’s twelve-year-old daughter Sammy and nine-year-old son Porter staying over so Hannah could take a much-needed girls’ night out. Arnie has this tradition where he feeds his nieces and nephews an elaborate waffle breakfast whenever they stay over. You can’t rush waffles or a chatterbox twelve-year-old.

  When I arrived, Marge was sitting at one of the tables waiting for me.

  “It happened again,” she said without even saying ‘hello.’ “Yesterday evening Bobby was just walking by the pizza truck. He was all the way on the other side of the street and everything, but Antonio started yelling at him.”

  “Oh? What was Antonio yelling?”

  “You know that homeless man who got beaten up by that gang of teenagers over in Eagle’s Rest a couple of months ago?” Marge asked. “Well, Antonio threatened Bobby with that ‘and worse;’ those were his exact words.”

  I would have asked Marge more questions, but Arnie arrived with Frank.

  Frank is Arnie’s grumpy geriatric dachshund who slumbers away the day under the truck. Frank went straight to his favorite spot between the front wheels, turned around a couple of times, and lay down again, only to suddenly stand up, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. At first, I thought it was Arnie’s agitated manner after hearing a repeat of Marge’s tale about Antonio that had gotten Frank riled, but then I realized we had customers, paying ones this time.

  Emmaline and her dog Buddy are two of our faithful regulars. I’m always happy to see Emmaline, but Frank does not like Buddy, and the feeling is mutual.

  Usually, it’s just Emmaline and Buddy who stop by to eat, but today they brought a friend.

  “This is Tanisha,” Emmaline said. “She’s just moved back to town, and I told her she had to try your burgers.”

  Tanisha was the smiley sort, but I mean that in a good way. While she waited for Arnie to grill the burgers, she went on and on about how cute our food truck was and how nice it was to be back in Bray Bay and how nice the weather was and how much she was looking forward to going down to the beach after work.

  “Where do you work?” I asked when she finally took a breath.

  Chapter Three

  “I work in the Whispering Palms enhanced care wing,” Tanisha told me. “I’m a CNA. I love it.”

  The enhanced care wing is where the powers that be at Whispering Palms send residents when they can’t safely live on their own in an apartment anymore.

  It came as no surprise that Tanisha loved her job. She seemed to take a universally sunny view of everything. I imagined she regularly attempted to make flossing her teeth and sorting junk mail exercises in positivity.

  “So you came back for a job?” I asked.

  “I came back to be near my dad. He moved into an apartment at Whispering Palms about six months ago. It was LaShawn, my fiancé, who got a job here first. He’s a CNA, too.”

  “That must be convenient for you and LaShawn to both work in the same place,” Emmaline said. “It’s just a shame about your ex, though.”

  For the first time since I’d met her, Tanisha’s smile slipped a little.

  Arnie had set to work grilling the burgers and begun, unasked, to assemble a chili dog for Marge.

  “Does your ex work at Whispering Palms too?” I asked Tanisha.

  “No. He’s parked his food truck across the street.”

  “Ouch!” Arnie had dropped a full ladle of hot chili on his foot, but he wasn’t even bothering to pick it up. He was all ears.

  “Antonio?” I asked.

  Tanisha nodded.

  Arnie was over the counter now, making every effort not to miss whatever Tanisha might say next.

  “You used to date Antonio?” I asked.

  “We used to be married.”

  I wanted to express my deepest sympathies, but since I’d just met the woman that seemed a little over the top, so I just said, “That must be awkward.”

  “Oh, we get along OK,” Tanisha said.

  “As long as your dad doesn’t come around,” Emmaline chimed in.

  I made a mental note not to confide in Emmaline about any deeply personal matters. I could see that Tanisha didn’t much like her family conflicts being aired to strangers, and I couldn’t say I blamed her.

  “Oh, I don’t think Dad means Antonio any harm,” Tanisha said. “He’s just protective of me. To him, I’ll always be a little girl.”

  Tanisha had completely deflated, like a beach ball that had sprung a leak. I went over to the counter and picked up Emmaline and Tanisha’s burgers, directed them to a table, and changed the subject by asking if they were planning on making it to the Bray Bay municipal fireworks on the 4th. Apparently, the city had gotten a grant for a new and improved display this year, and rumor had it that some of the pyrotechnics would be spectacular.

  I never got my answer about Tanisha and Emmaline’s Independence Day plans because we were suddenly descended upon by a small crowd of ravenous Whispering Palms residents clamoring for burgers and fries.

  “What happened?” I asked as I took orders so Arnie could concentrate his efforts on filling them.

  “The pizza truck didn’t open today,” Fitz (a staunch bratwurst and hot mustard man) informed me. “Antonio just pulled down the shutters on the truck and told us to go home.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Did he have a personal emergency or something?”

  There must have been at least a dozen retirees who’d descended en masse.

  “Don’t know why he didn’t open,” said Fitz.

  “I know,” Patsy (extra pickles and an aversion to lettuce) chimed in from the back of the line. “Somebody dumped out all the toppings onto the ground. I saw it myself.”

  “You mean somebody just walked up to the table and started tipping over containers?” Fitz asked. “Was it Marcella Edwards?”

  Marcella (sweet relish and extra onions) had a reputation of being unhinged and seemed to be getting more unhinged all the time. My money was on an undiagnosed brain tumor or something, but when I’d floated that theory to Prue, she’d insisted Marcella’s behavior was nothing more than mild senility combined with a lifelong disregard for the comfort and safety of othe
rs, although Prue’s explanation of the situation was considerably less concise than that. Prue suffers from mild cognitive impairment herself, so I guess she’s qualified to recognize the signs.

  “It wasn’t Marcella,” Patsy insisted. “When Antonio went to put the containers out, they weren’t there. He found all the toppings dumped out in that row of bushes between Whispering Palms and where he parks his truck.”

  There was a steady stream of retirees right up through the supper hour. Our regulars were back, without a hint of embarrassment for having up and taken their business elsewhere for the last week.

  It was after eight when the last customers departed, and I sent Arnie home for the evening. It wasn’t until I was pulling down the shutters over the window that I realized what a relief it was to have our regulars back.

  I was just inserting the padlocks in the shutters when a man rode up on a mountain bike that looked like it cost more than your average hatchback. He was dressed head to toe in the most complete suit of protective body armor I’d ever seen. He skidded to a stop in front of me. I forgot all about my closing-up routine when the biker took off his full-face helmet.

  It was Antonio Scarpello of Antonio’s Mobile Pizza Kitchen.

  Chapter Four

  Antonio started yelling before he even got his helmet off, which made him hard to understand. I won’t actually relate what he yelled, but the upshot—omitting all the obscenities and the hard-to-understand bits while he still had the helmet on his head—was that Antonio believed Arnie and I were responsible for dumping out his toppings into the bushes.

  “I’ve filed a police report,” he said when he finally wound down.

  “What makes you think we had anything to do with it?” I demanded.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “All your customers have switched over to me,” Antonio pointed out.

  “But for how long?” I said. “I’ll admit your pizza is delicious, but you can’t possibly even be breaking even.”

  “Just because your business is failing due to mismanagement, that doesn’t mean mine is. You’re just sabotaging me out of spite.”