North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  My mind grinds to a halt, and a dry laugh escapes me. My gaze snaps to my mother, whose smile wanes. “Now I understand, Ma.”

  “Can I get a minute?” Bryn’s voice signals the end of a round. She lifts me up by the shoulders, off my chair. “C’mon, pogi.”

  We make our way around the three-person tables in the dining room, through the kitchen, to the one-car parking spot behind the restaurant. Beyond the small lot is Ocean Beach. Whitecapped waves slam against the shore while seagulls dive for their meal. The surf is dotted with fully clothed visitors, some attempting to dip their toes in the water.

  I shake my head. It’s May—are those people crazy? Ocean Beach, by default, is frigid every day of the year, but the average water temp in May is fifty degrees.

  Bryn digs out a cigarette from her pocket and lights it. The tattoo on her neck contorts as if it’s being swayed by the wind. Although at twenty-seven she’s a couple of years older than me, with her baby face—sans cigarette and her scowl—she could pass for twelve.

  She takes a drag. “You okay?”

  “No.” I don’t want to talk about the thing she witnessed inside. That would mean it really happened. “I hate it when you call me that.”

  “What?”

  “Pogi.”

  “But you are adorable.” Her tone is sincere, and it assuages the tension in my body. She leans back against the door of her Mini Cooper. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about today. I swear I didn’t know. I mean, I knew about the renovation, but not that you would be working all month.”

  “I left to get away from this.”

  “I know.” She holds a breath, then exhales slowly. Smoke billows around us. “You look like crap. What happened last night?”

  The thought flips me 180 degrees. The memory of Camille’s body tackles me, and instead of Bryn’s cigarette, I smell Camille’s hair and skin.

  She snickers. “You’re smiling. I’m guessing you had some fun?”

  I will my face to pucker into itself. When Bryn barks out a laugh, I know I’m failing. Miserably. “It was a blast from the past,” I say.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, as in high school.”

  “Damn. I don’t even remember half my classmates.” Three drags in and the stick is half gone. She drops the cigarette onto the cement and smashes it with her kitchen clogs. “I hated high school.”

  “I loved high school.” Looking away, I train my eyes on the seagulls congregating on the beach’s rock wall. “She made me muffins. Left a note and an email address, and that was it. I emailed her this morning, but who knows if it’s fake.”

  Bryn coughs. “She baked?”

  “I know.” I pull out the crumpled paper towel.

  Bryn skims the short note. “Look at that, you were pwned by a one-night stand. No wonder you’re being a shit.”

  “Okay, let’s get this straight. One, she and I didn’t sleep together, so technically it wasn’t a one-night stand. Two, you’re not gonna guilt me about what happened in there. My mother gave me all this grief that Pop needed me. That he was ready to make amends. Come to find out what he really wants is for me to lift pallets and hang pictures. And for what? To be nagged every day?”

  Bryn braces my shoulders. At five feet tall, her arms stretch to gap the eleven-inch disparity. “Chill, think a second. If it was as simple as that, they would have hired someone. You’ve also got to ask yourself why you came running home so fast, and why you took the assignment closer to home. It’s because you knew it was the right thing to do. You are their freaking only child. Besides, as much as I love this business, I hate everyone thinking I’m their kid. Your mom loves to wear those muumuus I can’t hang with.” She grins. “They miss and love you. You miss and love them. They need you to help them. And you can’t get all soft before you head off to Iraq, right? Lifting those pallets could help that cause.”

  I shake my head, though too tired to fight back. “I can’t believe I’ve been volun-told.”

  She plants her hands on her hips. “ ‘Volun-told’? What the hell is that?”

  “You know. Make it seem like you volunteered but you were actually told?” Exasperation crackles through my words. “Army speak.”

  “So do something about it. Give him your ideas. Help him spend his money wisely. You know the man. He can’t make sense of anything practical, and that’s your thing.” She pulls me by the elbow.

  I let Bryn drag me, resigned. Not like I have another choice. I’m still my father’s son, whether or not I agree with his decisions. I can’t say no to something as simple as “directing traffic” if it will fix our relationship.

  Bryn holds the back door open. “Anyway, you can’t not look for that girl now. You won’t be able to get your head on straight until you do.”

  “If she wants to be found.” I look back at the car. “Wait. How did you get the prime spot back here?”

  “Oh, cousin, you’ve forgotten I’m the eldest. Enough said.”

  7

  CAMILLE

  “You left him your email?” Jasmine opens the rig door and surveys the outside, while I tie on my green polka-dot apron. I’ve parked Lucianna at our usual lunch spot, and we tackle the opening procedures as easily as we would plating our signature dish. The stainless steel flooring underneath our clogs rumbles from the generator. Pans are pulled out and placed on the narrow six-burner stove that lines the right side of the truck. Lucianna’s babies—two industrial panini presses that can toast six panini at once—are plugged in and warming on the counter atop the floor refrigerator, freezer, and storage.

  My face heats up, remembering Drew’s warmth around me with his chest flush against my back. “It was kind of a last-minute decision. Halfway in between, you know? Something he can reach me with, but not enough for a commitment.”

  Jaz turns on the cash register and fingers through the change and bills in the drawer. She presses the on button of the tablet that acts as our credit card terminal, and the screen sings away, signaling the start of the new day. “So let’s get this straight . . . he doesn’t know you own Lucianna?”

  I press my lips together and shake my head.

  “It’s not like he wants to marry you or anything. Geez, Camille. You pined for this guy through high school, right?”

  “Not all through high school.”

  “Whatever. So why not see where it could go?”

  “First of all, he’s not sticking around. Ready?” I signal at the awning.

  She nods, exiting the vehicle.

  It’s ten minutes to go time, and instead of focusing on the specials and reviewing the strategy for the day, Jaz and I have only had one theme to our conversation: Drew. From when we met up this morning, as I caught up on last-minute prep at the commissary—our rented commercial kitchen—to while I drove to our usual lunch spot on Eighth and Market streets.

  “Him not sticking around might be a good thing.” Jaz grunts, lifting the awning from the outside.

  “Okay . . . got it,” I say after I inch the pole up to keep the awning in place. Light pours into the truck, and the cold air rushes in, equalizing the heat from the burners warming inside. “What we had last night was perfect. But more than that? A perfect recipe for a hot mess.”

  “News flash, sweetie. Making a mess is fun. It’s thrilling. Had you not made that mistake one day, when you added bean sprouts to your grilled scallops, then your By the Bay panini wouldn’t have been born.”

  The line at Eighth and Market greets us with yay, ooh, and finally. I love this spot, and scored it by making a deal with Club 415, the bar adjacent to the truck. The usual parking regulations are a laundry list of dos and don’ts, but Club 415 has its own parking and driveway, which are privately owned. For a small fee paid under the table, it’s mine during the lunch hours.

  We wave at our customers, who are sporting th
eir usual patient smiles. Some already have their wallets out, and others their phones for their daily food pic or selfie. Street food aficionados are the types who look for comfort food. They are professionals, urban crawlers, suit and tie wearers, bloggers, and freelancers. Our food is their fuel to tackle that next decision. Lucianna brings some happiness to their day.

  “Well, he’s emailed,” I admit. “And I don’t know what to write back. Or even if I should.”

  “You don’t want to keep in touch? Then why leave your email in the first place?” She clucks her tongue disapprovingly, though there’s mischief in her eyes.

  I’m exasperated, and it’s all I can do to not bury my face in my hands, but Nonna’s lecture—No touching your face in the kitchen—stops me short.

  “It’s because part of you wants to, Cam. You like him.”

  No doubt, last night with Drew wasn’t all lust. We laughed over old sitcom reruns, talked about high school, about his work. And when I didn’t want to take our intimacy further, he respected it.

  The night was perfect. I bite my lip. “He did have those oblique muscles that run right down to . . . you know . . .”

  “Cam! Don’t tease me like that right before opening. We won’t be able to talk about it for hours.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.” I check my watch. Two minutes. “Last night was an escape, fantasy. This—them?” I nod toward our window. “Reality.”

  Jaz rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. She leans a hip up against the counter. “Reality is no good without an escape. My advice? See what he’s all about. I mean, you deserve a little fun. You’ll be an empty nester soon, and then what?”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” Suddenly it feels like someone scooped out my insides. Because at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I will be sending Ally—my charge according to the law—off to college. Pride in her accomplishments fills me, sure, but trepidation does, too. Will I be ready for it? Will she?

  “Too soon?” She frowns.

  “Too early,” I say.

  My thirty-second warning timer rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. Jaz inhales deeply. “Ready?” she asks.

  “Always.” I take my place in the back and glance at my workspace with my tools and ingredients. Jasmine is right. There’s no decision to be made now. Drew could very well lose interest by the end of the week. I press my hair back into the bun, making sure that not a tendril is out of place, then wash my hands. Though I might not be the one up front taking orders, I am still the captain of this ship.

  “Got my game face on. Let’s kick some ass, shall we?” Jaz transforms into the extroverted people magnet that she is. Though she’s got a heavier dose of foundation this morning, there’s no other sign of a drunken night on her face.

  Then again, at first glance, I don’t look like I stayed up half the night either, or that I got two blisters on my heels from my trek up to Coit Tower. Or that my lips are still swollen from kissing. A food truck is still a restaurant—a mobile one—and customers are the key to its livelihood. They have to love what they see, smell, hear, and taste. And customers are fickle. Social media can quickly turn from friend to foe.

  Professionalism is a nonnegotiable. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t prefer the back. My face need not be posted on Facebook or every foodie blog or photo site.

  A honk from somewhere down the street snaps me out of my thoughts, and it brings a grin to my lips. “Yes, there is much ass to kick. Bring it on. Oh, but wait. Smile.” I snap a quick pic of Jaz and the chalkboard menu behind her. With one post, this pic, the tag of our location, and her infectious smile will infiltrate the screens of foodies all through the city. I hope so, anyway.

  It warms into an afternoon like any other in my business—a dream. I press meats and cheeses into breads as fast as I can, and Jasmine sells the life out of them. Customers hang next to the window and pretend-peek, and I pretend not to notice how entranced they are. People love to watch. They love to experience their food. The simple act of slathering mayo onto a slice of focaccia is a production, and I become the Food Network incarnate. It’s as if seeing the process fills their soul as much as the food fills their bellies, and I’m willing to give it to them. Their expressions, their awe, and their gratitude when they eat what I’ve made are what fills my cup.

  “Hey, that chick looks familiar.” A guy’s voice snags my Zen, and shards of calm scatter all over my workspace. His familiar tone settles into my bones, so I take a peek over my shoulder. The shadow of his broad and large body shields most of the truck’s opening. Colors jump out at me: green and white. “Dude, what are you talking about?” another guy’s voice answers back.

  The volume of the first guy’s voice rises to a bullhorn’s level. “Hey, you back there. Drew’s girl. ’Member me from last night?”

  I see him in my head before I even need to fully turn around. Blake.

  I wince. Of course I remember him. How could one forget the most obnoxious Single-A player I’ve ever met? The one who inadvertently led me back to my high school crush? The said high school crush who I left asleep this morning?

  Which makes this situation slightly awkward.

  “Damn, girl. What do I have to do to get some service around here?” Blake bellows.

  My hands are still on the cast-iron press that’s turning a plain sandwich into a sizzling meatball pesto panini. As the bread toasts, the vibe changes. The guy is relentless, despite Jaz’s polite request for his order. His voice escalates, and as soon as I hear Blake say the word fuck, I’m done.

  I turn, Blake the middle of my visual target. The stadium is a few blocks away, but apparently not far enough because I’ve run into him twice in two days. His cologne makes my eyes water, but I paste on a smile anyway, since he looks to have brought a half dozen friends.

  “What can I get you today?” I ask, sugaring my question.

  “Finally. That wasn’t too hard, was it? Sure hope my man Drew doesn’t have to beg like that or I feel sorry for the fucker.” He smells like he crunched on a bag of mints. Underneath it, though, is the stench of beer. While he’s in what looks like a fresh set of clothes, his eyes shimmer. “What’s good to eat from this shoebox?”

  I practice one of Ally’s yogic breaths and imagine patience filling my lungs. I play along in hopes of encouraging Blake to order quickly and get his drunken butt out of here. “I recommend any of the panini on our menu,” I say, glancing at the other customers who are in hearing distance. Jaz moves to the back and picks up where I left off. I hear the spatula scrape the panini off the grill.

  “Yeah, yeah. We wanted to check your truck out—people were talking about it at the gym today. But they didn’t say there would be such fucking fine ladies here.” He nudges his friend next to him who, in his baseball cap, is also sporting a sheepish expression on his face. “I want one of you and one of her”—Blake points at Jaz—“and a beer, to go.”

  “I’ll have the Super Spinach panini,” his friend interrupts, pulling out his money. The guy’s eyeballs are screaming apologies.

  “Naw, naw. I’m not done.” Blake leans half his body into the truck.

  “Step back, please.” Jaz’s voice takes an authoritative tone, and she appears next to me, with a finger under the counter. Our wireless panic button. Our security plans are laid down pat, though we’ve never had to go all the way and call the police before. The lines are usually efficient at diffusing problem customers.

  “Next,” I say.

  Blake isn’t deterred. He puts both hands on our high windowsill. “You’re not gonna serve me? I’m a customer, and I want what I want.” His words, too soft for anyone to hear but me, turn my temperature to high.

  “He’s joking,” his friend intervenes, now wearing a weak smile. “Forget the panini. We’ll take two Cokes, please.”

  As a business owner, I have the right to refuse service. As
a human, I have the right to choose who should be in my bubble. And Blake has lost the right to both. “Next.”

  “What?” The friend looks confused, one eyebrow up.

  “I don’t appreciate how your friend”—my gaze travels to Blake, who appears amused—“is treating us. So I suggest you sober him up and find another place to eat before I call for security. Better yet, before I jump out of here myself and show him how good he has it being on that side of the counter. Next!” I reel my body back and head to the burners, while Jaz wiggles her fingers and says, “Buh-bye.”

  The two stalk away, first speaking briefly to their friends, who also exit the line. My heart sinks as other potential customers leave with them. A headache starts as I mentally count the sales we could have made. Twelve dollars, twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight, one hundred and twenty-two . . .

  “Don’t worry,” Jaz says, sensing my rise in panic. “We did the right thing. They’re not the only customers around here.”

  While the rest of the shift is without incident, my head still hurts after the awning’s lowered for the afternoon. What I did was bad. I stood up to a loudmouth jerk, true, but by doing so I brought public attention that might undo Lucianna’s squeaky-clean reputation.

  Jaz reads my thoughts despite my best efforts. While counting our sales for the day, she says, “Being on this side of the counter doesn’t mean we have to take their shit.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the money. Every dollar, nickel, and penny is precisely counted and categorized, exchanged for higher bills. Every bit of it is used for food, gas, essentials. “I would have done more than yell. Thirty-two ounces of Orange Crush to the face, maybe.” Jaz shrugs, then gives me a sidelong glance. “But, man, did those phones come out.”

  I shrug back, hoping that with this response I have downplayed what we both know are the potential consequences. “It’ll blow over. With how fast the Internet goes, it’ll all be over by tomorrow.”