by Rob Hart
Daley smiles. “I remember you reaching for your phone. I should have put that together. But I think it’s been twenty minutes or so. So where are the reinforcements?” He looks up at the stairs and hears nothing but silence beyond them. “I think you are bluffing.”
“Honey, I don’t bluff.”
Daley looks at Jacqueline. “Did you know about this?”
She’s breathing hard. “No, I didn’t.”
Daley looks less sure but then shakes his head. “You are bluffing.”
“I’ll tell you what.” Ginny smiles. “You untie me, no one dies. That is the most mercy I’ve shown anyone in a very long time. I’ll give you until the count of five to start.”
Jacqueline and Daley stay frozen. Ginny shakes her head.
Daley says, “You are lying to us.”
Ginny says, “Maybe I am. Five.”
“What?”
“Four.”
“What are you doing?”
“Counting. Three.”
“You are lying.”
“Two.”
“Stop it.”
“One.”
Everyone freezes. They look up toward the stairs. And nothing, not a sound. Daley laughs. “You really thought you would scare me into untying you. You are ballsy for a man without balls, I will give you that.”
Ginny presses her lips together. “Christfuckingdammit.”
From upstairs there’s the sound of a wooden ruler smacking against a desk. It happens three more times in rapid succession. Something topples to the floor and there’s a scream.
Jacqueline looks at Ginny, her eyes rippling with fear. “How did you know they were here?”
“I didn’t. It was a guess. But how amazing would that countdown have been if my timing was better?”
Daley reaches inside his jacket. “A shame they weren’t faster to respond.”
Ginny looks up at Jacqueline. “Restrain him and you won’t die down here.”
Jacqueline doesn’t hesitate. She tackles Daley into pile of kegs and they crash to the floor, outside of Ginny’s field of vision.
Ginny listens to them struggle and smiles, waiting for someone to untie her.
JACQUELINE WAKES TO find herself in the same chair in which she and Ginny tortured a man earlier than night. Bound with the same roll of duct tape. Something thick and wet soaks the bottom of her dress.
Ginny leans against the wall, just outside the circle of light. A thin cigarette dangles from her lips, smoke billowing from her lungs.
Jacqueline says, “You said you wouldn’t kill me.”
“I said I wouldn’t kill you down there. Did you really think I’d give you a pass on this? It was a fairly large transgression.”
“Please, Ginny.”
“Don’t beg. It’s not becoming of a lady. Now, we have some things to discuss. I need to know everything you told Daley, and if there’s anything else I need to be concerned about.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ah, this old dance. Don’t worry. You will talk. And in case you’re not feeling inclined…”
Ginny plugs in her iPod, setting it to Bemsha Swing. Then she turns, the rotary tool in her hand.
“I believe you remember the pumpkin carving attachment, darling.”
MONDAY
When I went to close up today, the back tire closest to the sidewalk looked like it had melted. Upon closer inspection, I found the handle of a paring knife sticking out of the side.
Assuming a forward thrust, the angle of the knife indicates the assailant was walking east to west. That narrows down the list of suspects considerably.
It couldn’t be those whale-hugging hippies from the vegan cupcake truck. They don’t eat enough protein. No way they’ve got the upper body strength to get a knife through the thick wall of a tire.
It couldn’t be the soft-serve ice cream guy. If he was intent on sending me a message, that knife would be sticking out of my chest.
A week in the world of New York City’s food trucks, and this is what I’ve learned: you do not fuck with the soft-serve guys. I’ve heard they drain the blood of their enemies to artificially color the strawberry ice cream. Which I’m sure is hyperbole. What’s not hyperbole is the fact that the vast majority of ice cream trucks are actually drug fronts.
So, who does that leave?
The hot dog vendor around the corner isn’t a fan of mine. You’d think tacos and hot dogs would not be adversaries, but both can be served up quickly, and my carnitas tastes way better than his ground-up circus animals.
The kids in the Korean barbecue truck, maybe. They certainly seem like the type.
That’s not racist. I’m not saying Koreans are knife-wielding tire slashers. It’s just that one kid, the one in charge, is always wearing a Scarface t-shirt. And anyone wearing a Scarface t-shirt is probably an asshole.
The only other food truck in that direction within a few blocks is the waffle truck. But the guy on the waffle truck has been nice to me so far. He came over on my first day, gave me a free waffle, I gave him a free taco, I figured we were best friends now.
Unless it was a ruse.
A keep-your-enemies-closer kind of thing.
TUESDAY
Someone might be trying to kill me.
The thing I didn’t write about yesterday, because I was real angry about the knife in the tire, is that I had a good run of business. I was working so hard and so fast that I ended the day with a sprig of cilantro in my sock. And I was wearing long pants. How does that even happen?
There was a conference at the college across the street. That’s why it was so busy. I don’t know what the conference was for. But the line was full of pasty introverts with crippling egos and no fashion sense. I’m guessing they were writers.
So for once, it seemed like I’d be in the black for the day. And then I got to the storage yard in Queens this morning, ready to spend a little extra time on cleaning and prep. The guy who gives my truck the once-over in the mornings says there’s a problem with the brake line.
Says it looked like someone tried to cut it.
Not all the way, but enough that it would snap if I stopped short.
The guy allows it could be the chewed-up roads shot something up into the chassis. I don’t know. After the tire, I’m a little antsy.
So the money I made yesterday is going to fix this. Which means it’s not going into my rent. Handing that wad of cash over was like a fillet knife twisting around my guts. Wear and tear is one thing. Attempted murder is another.
Makes me miss Portland. Everyone there is either too polite or too high to pull shit like this.
WEDNESDAY
The health inspector came by today.
He comes up to my truck wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt and a bad attitude. Like I kicked his dog into a coma and then forced him to do a surprise inspection.
I don’t fuck around. My Mobile Food Vending Permit is in order. Since I handle raw meat on the truck, I have a sink for hand washing. And soap dispensers. And paper towel dispensers. The hot food is held at 140 degrees, and the cold food at 40. My prep surfaces are sterile as an operating room.
This guy, though, he was looking around like it was a fresh crime scene.
Like everything was something I should be guilty about.
He stuck the needle of his thermometer through the plastic wrap covering the guacamole, and told me I had a problem. He said: hot food needs to be held at 140 degrees.
Very politely, and without using words like “fuck-brain” and “douche-rocket,” I explained to him that it’s guacamole, which is served cold, and therefore needs to be held at 40 degrees.
He shook his head. Said: hot food needs to be held at 140 degrees. Like he was reciting it directly from a rulebook.
This is the point in our conversation where I did use the words “fuck-brain” and “douche-rocket.”
You might be surprised to hear this, but I failed the inspection.
THURSDAY
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Now I see how business is done in this town.
I was up until four in the morning going over paperwork, trying to figure out how to appeal. Then I spent another hour going over my truck, just to make sure it wasn’t booby-trapped.
So I drove into Manhattan and found a spot in Gramercy, set up the generator, tweeted my location, and finished the last of the prep. I was so tired I nearly took the tip of my finger off dicing jalapeños.
Just before I was ready to open, there was a knock at the back of the truck, and standing there is this young guy wearing a suit. A bad suit, like it belonged to his taller, skinnier brother.
Without me inviting him in, he just climbed up to join me. Without offering me his hand or his name, he told me he could help me with the inspection problem.
I hadn’t told anyone I failed, and I asked him how he knew.
He said he works for a company that helps food vendors sort through inspection issues. When I asked him the name of the company, he didn’t answer. I asked him how much his help would cost. The number he quoted me was about what I was hoping to make in the next three months.
That asshole may look at me and see a country mouse, but I know a shakedown when I see it. So I told him to get the fuck off my truck.
He said the permitting process is convoluted. Said that without friends—he pressed a finger into his chest when he said the word “friends”—that new food vendors can have an exceedingly hard time.
The way he said it made it sound like a threat.
FRIDAY
Three hours and not one damn customer. People looked at the truck and then they walked faster. I figured, it’s New York City. Everyone’s always in a rush.
I should have been smart enough to get out and look around. But it was three hours before I left the truck to go over to Starbucks for a piss break, and that’s when I found the fliers.
There were five of them, applied with clear packing tape. Must have gone up after I parked, while I was prepping to open. At the top they said, in big, bold letters you couldn’t possibly miss: REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER.
To be clear, I am not a registered sex offender.
I tore them down, and spent the next two hours fuming, and it made me careless, snapping at customers and fucking up orders. Which made me even angrier.
I know this is a tough town. I know we’re all fighting to make it. But is this really the standard of New York City’s business community? I just want to sell some tacos.
It’s bad enough that the brick-and-mortar restaurants are lobbying the City Council to restrict our permits, and it’s worse that the City Council is listening. You’d think the food truck guys would band together and go at this like a team.
Just as I was about give up for the day and head home, the waffle guy stopped over. Said I looked stressed out and asked how I was holding up. I told him about the past few days. He assured me the fixer probably wouldn’t be necessary, and that his waffle batter had more reasoning ability than most of this city’s health inspectors.
He told me we could grab a beer if I ever needed to vent, which I might take him up on. I don’t have any friends in this town yet.
It calmed me down, him stopping by, so I got through the day. As I was gearing up to close, I noticed the bodega across the street had a camera. I went in and told the kid working the counter what happened with the fliers, and asked if I could see the tape from that morning.
I did not expect what happened next: he nodded, went in the back, returned with a DVD, said I could have it. Wished me luck, too.
I guess not everyone in this town is an asshole.
SATURDAY
There’s something I think needs to be clear right now.
I drove across the country with a wad of cash and three changes of clothes and my favorite chef’s knife. I’m living in a closet in Bushwick, which I’m renting from some asshole who glues pieces of wood together and calls it art.
I had a plan. Bust some ass, make enough money to hire some people, maybe graduate to a storefront. I’m not going to pretend like I wasn’t afraid. Those late nights, driving across the northern tier of the country, nothing but darkness beyond the yellow arc of my headlights, there were times I almost turned back.
But I didn’t. Because this is it. This is my one true love.
I watched the tape. And who was it that put up the sex offender fliers?
Waffle truck guy.
Soon as I saw it, I thought, I need to strike back. Let this motherfucker know I’m not weak. Problem was, I wasn’t sure what to do. I could glue his tires to the roadway using two-ton epoxy—which is a thing a friend of mine did to someone in college—and the tires will shred before the truck moves.
But that would take time, and planning, and effort, so instead, this morning, I parked my truck in Gramercy, didn’t bother tweeting my location. But I did take that paring knife I found sticking out of my tire, and slid it into the pocket on the front of my apron. Figured I would stab the shit out of his tires.
It wasn’t creative, but it would make me feel better.
So I went looking for him, and as I turned the corner of the street where he’s usually parked, I saw him talking to the guy in the bad suit. They shook hands like they were buddies. Another layer of subterfuge. It made me wonder if he sicced the health inspector on me, too.
And as soon as he saw me, he knew I knew he did what he did.
But he didn’t see the knife. It was still in the pocket on the front of my apron.
He came at me with a big smile on his face, like it was a joke, or no big deal that he lost me thousands of dollars over the course of a week. I snapped. Called him a coward. Called him a dumb fuck. Said I was going to kick his ass.
He got close to me and his right shoulder dropped, broadcasting the punch he was about to throw.
And here’s where things get hazy. How the fight-or-flight response can smear time like grease on a countertop. Because I can’t, for the life of me, tell you how the paring knife that started in my tire and then I put in the pocket on the front of my apron ended up in his chest.
It just did.
When the world came back into focus, his eyes were frosted over, blood blooming on his white t-shirt, growing wet and thick and tugging on the fabric.
He began to fall backward.
Someone screamed.
I ran.
And here I am. Sitting in my little closet of a bedroom.
The shock of it hasn’t settled into me yet. There’s a hot, terrifying thing rumbling on the horizon like a thunderstorm, and I’m afraid of what’ll happen when it crashes into me. Until then, I’m just numb.
At this moment, someone is banging at the door, and my artist landlord is passed out on the couch, high as fuck, and nothing’s going to get him up. Of course it’s the cops. Because I don’t fuck around, and my Mobile Food Vending Permit is in order. Complete with my current address.
So now I just have to decide what to do with this. My journal. I could burn it or shove it in the toilet, but is it even worth the effort? There had to be a dozen witnesses. I’m fucked no matter what angle you take this from.
Since this will probably be presented as a courtroom exhibit, I would like to point out that I did not intend for any of this to happen. Even though that guy was a dick, and tried to ruin my business, I’m sorry I killed him. I shouldn’t have taken the knife.
Though, I guess that’s the folly of these things. Am I apologizing because I’m sorry, or because I’m about to be caught?
This is not the time to be philosophical. Because at this moment, there’s a crash and a crack from the front of apartment. Cops breaking down the door, probably.
I had another plan for the future, too. After I built my taco empire, I was going to take this thing and turn it into a book. Even had a title planned out.
Confessions of a Taco Truck Owner.
I figured, in ten or twenty years, I would have mined enough material that I could have told a pretty good s
tory. How to make it selling tacos in New York City.
Instead, it really did turn into a confession.
Cynthia Marks had dreamt her entire life of seeing New York City.
She wasn’t worried about the sharp edges that made out-of-towners afraid to wear jewelry on the subway. The bad old days were long since gone and she knew that.
Her New York was Audrey Hepburn staring into the gem-filled window at Tiffany’s, still wearing her dress from the night before. It was Ross and Rachel, playing out their will-they-or-won’t-they romance around the comfortably worn couch at Central Perk. It was Billy Crystal’s rambling profession of love to Meg Ryan at a New Year’s Eve party, surrounded by the buzz of perfectly oblivious revelers.
It was a place where magical things happened, and there always seemed to be lights strung up somewhere in the background, twinkling like the stars you couldn’t actually see in the night sky.
That’s what it was supposed to be.
Instead, Cynthia found herself dodging greasy paper plates blown about by the wind, inching forward on a filthy Brooklyn sidewalk toward a pizza take-out window carved into the side of a brick building. She gazed at the red metal picnic tables, packed with people tearing into thick, square slices of pizza.
She didn’t know pizza came in squares slices.
She wished she were sitting. With the way the sun was hammering down, her stiff gray uniform clung to her skin, sweat acting like glue.
Cynthia could have packed a change of clothes, a pair of shorts and a blouse to wriggle into after the plane touched down. But even if she could have gotten the clothes out of the house without Doug noticing, what would have been the point?
This entire trip, beginning to end, should last no more than nine hours.
Get off a plane, catch a cab, get the pizza, catch a cab, get on a plane.
Who was there to impress?
Not that a little part of her didn’t hold onto a wistful fantasy that she’d meet a handsome man along the way.
Maybe waiting for a cab outside the airport. A man in a suit with windswept hair would make a clever comment, and she’d come back with a witty retort, and by some mystical turn of events they’d wind up in a place where “maybe” wasn’t just a wish. But no, there was just a line of harried travelers, screaming into phones, choking on exhaust fumes that hung heavy in the humid air.
