Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

by Don Bruns

  CHAPTER THREE

  The truck was James’s. He’d bought it with a twelve-thousand-dollar inheritance from an aunt he didn’t even know. In the last month I’d made a few more security system sales than usual so I chipped in to help buy the kitchen appliances. The stove and two small grills worked off propane gas, the refrigerator off of a generator. As I said, James cut out a window in the side of the truck, hinging the cut-out metal so we could breathe fresh air and see daylight. Then he’d cut a hole in the top of the vehicle, and we ran stove pipe to vent the grills. The aluminum step-up folded down when we parked, and our hungry patrons could step up to the makeshift counter, where I would hand them their plates. It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional. Everything was used and cheap, including my cast iron skillet, and I figured the worst that could happen would be that everything would break down and we’d be out $500. It turns out worse things can happen.

  James shopped for supplies and we loaded up the truck. The meeting started Thursday afternoon, and when we pulled into the fairgrounds about six o’clock that night, I did a double take. It wasn’t the hundreds of cars, campers, and trailers that crowded the sprawling acreage, and it wasn’t the size of the massive yellow canvas tent. It wasn’t the throngs of people or the rows of portable toilets that threw me. It was the row of food vendors lined up on one side of a gravel drive. There were fifteen trucks, carts, vans, and booths offering pizza, donuts, chicken tenderloins and wings, burgers, onion rings, hot dogs, and barbecue.

  “James?”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Reverend Cashdollar gets seventy-five hundred a night and we do all the work?”

  “Ah, Skip, there’s still going to be plenty for everyone. Let’s not go crazy. You saw all those cars as we drove in.”

  Our place was clearly marked with a wooden sign: #15 MORE OR LESS CATERING. It was James’s idea, not mine. His name is Lessor, mine is Moore, so he thought it would be clever to — well, it was his idea. We pulled in, leaving the rear of the truck facing the drive. James had a table to set up in the back end of the truck and I’d serve from there.

  “Honest to God, James. You should have checked to see how many vendors were going to be here.”

  “Yeah, but look at our position, dude. We are number one when you come out of the tent. Right next to God’s door, amigo.”

  I stepped out of the cab and almost knocked down the older balding guy with the pink apron standing right outside the truck door.

  “Hey. You’re the new guys, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s our first time here. So you’ve been doing this for a while?”

  “Bruce. Bruce Crayer. I’m the donut guy in the next trailor. Just wanted to introduce myself. Yeah, been coming to Cash’s revivals for about three years now. Every year they grow. We do real well, yes we do. Four years ago, there was maybe five or six vendors, and now just look. Enough for everybody though.” It was as if Bruce Crayer and James had set this up ahead of time.

  “I’m Skip Moore and —” I motioned to the cab as James came around the truck, “this is my partner James Lessor.”

  Crayer seemed to notice the lot sign for the first time and chuckled. “Sure. MORE OR LESS. Well, we’ll be neighbors here for the next four days and three nights. These nights are something. Lots of things going on at night let me tell you.” Crayer rubbed his hands on his colorful apron. “Water hookup is right in front of your cab. You can just hook up your hose.” He pursed his lips and let his gaze roam up and down the two of us as if he was measuring us for a suit.

  After an awkward silence, I finally grabbed his hand, shook it heartily, and looked him in the eye. “Thanks for coming over and saying ‘Hi,’ Bruce. I assume we can ask you if we have a question about anything.”

  “Sure. You just ask for me. A little later some of the full-time vendors play a little poker down at Stan’s place. He’s got the pizza booth where you first drove in. You’re welcome to join us.”

  He walked back to his trailer and James shook his head. “We just got here and already we’ve got a game.”

  “Bruce said he’s been coming here for three years, and the nights get pretty interesting.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” James squinted, leveling his gaze at me. “Pard, where I come from, this is either a revival meeting or a craps game.”

  “Poker, James.”

  “Titanic, Skip. Nineteen fifty-two or three. Thelma Ritter.”

  James watched far, far too many old movies. “Obscure quote, James.”

  “It fit the bill, amigo.”

  “I say this tent revival meeting can’t be that interesting.”

  But it was.

  * * *

  The first night was chaotic. Our setup was fast, since we’d prepared everything ahead of time. We had about five hundred burgers preformed and seasoned, and James had boiled the brats so all we had to do was finish them on his grill. He’d arranged the brats and burgers on waxed paper in cardboard boxes. I cooked the onions and peppers on my small grill and in my cast-iron skillet, always keeping them simmering, and we were off and running. About a quarter till seven the meeting broke up, and what had been a slow parade of diners turned into a torrent. Two thousand people poured out of the huge yellow tent, and they swarmed over the vendors like biblical locusts. I couldn’t keep up, and we lost dozens of customers who grew tired of our inexperience.

  “Skip, I could use a little help back here!” James yelled from his grill covered in smoky burgers and brats.

  “Join the crowd, buddy. I’m a little jammed up here at the moment.”

  The line grew and grew and some people who got impatient just walked away, several who had paid their ten dollars. They just walked away from ten bucks.

  The sweat ran off my face, the heavy smell of grease was nauseating, and a dozen customers at a time yelled orders up to me.

  “A brat, two burgers, and make sure there are plenty of onions on the brats.”

  “I said no onions on the brats, young man.”

  “Kid, excuse me, but I gave you a twenty. You owe me a ten.”

  “Peppers? I don’t want any peppers, can you take them off?”

  “Lady, take the peppers off yourself!” Thirty minutes into our maiden voyage and I was about fried.

  “Skip, I’m out of peppers. Why aren’t there more on the grill?”

  “Because I’m a little busy up here, my friend, with the friendly Christians.”

  And then it got to be a pattern. I could get most of the orders, tend to the onions, peppers, and the fried potatoes, and James started organizing the meat grill so we were actually ahead of the game. From time to time I’d see him flip the burgers, and press them to the grill to hurry the cooking process. He’d stack them, then I’d grab them and place them in buns, spoon on the onions, peppers, and potatoes and serve the meal on a cheap paper plate.

  The gray, smoky haze hung everywhere and we observed the operation through tear-filled eyes, wiping at our faces with stained shirtsleeves.

  “For ten bucks, can’t I get a decent helping of potatoes?”

  “Did someone even cook this meat?”

  “More onions, please.”

  “I said no onions.”

  They offered up the worn, paper money, some of them digging for quarters and the last of their change. Grabbing the greasy food, they’d start tearing into it before they’d even left. As ravenous as this crowd was, they may have eaten the paper plates too.

  And finally, it was over. Finally the line evaporated, disappeared, and we just stood and looked at each other, shaking our heads. I’d smell like this for the rest of my life. There was no way a shower, deodorant, or cologne would ever get rid of the cloying, greasy smell of fried meat and onion. And I didn’t know if I could ever go through this another night, much less two.

  It was eight thirty. We’d been jammed for a full hour and forty-five minutes. Not much time in the scope of eternity. “James, I don’t think I’ve ever worked that hard in my life
.” I wiped my face with the sleeve of the white cooking coat, noticing the sleeve was more damp than my face.

  “Man, Cap’n Crab is never this busy. I didn’t think we were going to keep up.”

  “I don’t want to depress you, but we didn’t.”

  “Wow. It just never seemed to stop.”

  “James, I don’t think I want to do this again. That was crazy.”

  He stooped over his boxes, lifting and sorting.

  “James did you hear me?”

  “I heard you, my friend. Have you counted the money?”

  I hadn’t. It was jammed into the cash box, and I’d taken some out and dumped it into a large canvas bag that sat on the floor.

  “Well, if your cash deposit matches the food we sold —”

  “Yes?”

  “We did about thirty-eight hundred ninety dollars tonight. Minus the rev’s five hundred.”

  “Thirty-three ninety? Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  He had a big grin on his face. “Still want to bow out?”

  I shook my head. “No, I think I’ll be here tomorrow night.”

  “Great. Bring the dog, I love animals. I’m a great cook.” I had to think for a minute. Obscure as it was, it came to me. “Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.”

  He wiped his wet, greasy hands on his dirty apron. “You know your movies. I’m proud of you, pard. Proud of you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The fairground restrooms had six public showers, like a college dorm. The cement block facility smelled sour, like ripe laundry, and as I washed off the stench of the grease and onion, I wondered which was worse. The running water echoed off the block walls and I scrubbed for all I was worth.

  We cleaned up as well as we could, glad that we’d brought a change of clothes, and we put on less offensive jeans and T-shirts and walked down the path.

  James found Stan’s pizza wagon. If it involved cards, a scheme, a business idea, or making and losing money, James could always sniff it out. The vehicle was painted like a circus wagon, with bright colors, big fake wooden wheels, and a huge slice of pizza painted on the side to look like a clown’s face. Two slices of pepperoni for the eyes, an olive for the nose, and a slice of red ripe tomato for the mouth.

  They’d already dealt a hand and cracked their first beers by the time we arrived, and my nose told me that one or two of the six had not yet showered.

  “Pull up a chair, boys.” Bruce Crayer waved, motioning to us to sit, so we watched the game close-up. The folding table sat outside the wagon, and an assortment of bugs buzzed the lights strung from Stan’s pizza emporium. Some of the six players had tossed a handful of poker chips in the center of the table and we watched as the game unfolded.

  No one said another word to us. There were glances, each of the players secretly sizing us up. Occasionally Crayer would look up and smile at me, but the others kept stern looks on their faces. I wondered if the rest of them were as interested in our participation as Crayer had been. The one thing they did know was that we’d made some good money in the last couple of hours, and I assumed they were ready to take it away from us. Twenty minutes later, the first game was over and after a whispered sixty-second conference with a cigar-smoking ringleader, two of the players left.

  “Sorry, guys.” Crayer nodded to us. “Should have introduced you, but the first game we play every year is all seriousness. Kind of sets the tone for the rest of the weekend. Stan, this here is Skip, and this is James.” He introduced us to the cigar smoker, who checked us out through squinty eyes. “They got the number fifteen booth up there. Burgers, brats. By the looks of things they did well tonight. Right, boys?” There was no recognition of the other two unknown players.

  “We didn’t know exactly what to expect.” I glanced at James.

  “I’d say we did very well.”

  Crayer smiled. “Well, what you made, we’d like the chance to take away. Are you boys in?” I knew it. For a couple of bucks we’d be accepted about anywhere.

  We played the first few hands and broke even. The conversation centered around the reverend himself. A guy I knew very little about.

  “Well, another season and more pickin’s for the rev.” Bruce Crayer settled back in the rickety wooden folding chair. “The rubes are out in number.”

  “Rubes?” James looked up from studying his cards.

  “Cashdollar’s flock,” Crayer said. “He has them all believing that if they follow his lead, they’ll be rich. ’Course, he makes sure that he gets rich first.”

  Stan, the pizza man, leaned back in his chair, keeping his cards close to his chest. Lighting another cigar, he studied us, not hiding his hard look. It was as if he was gauging our reaction.

  “And he’s back at it, pickin’ his targets.” A big mouthed guy who’d been silent up to now leaned back in his folding chair. He waved his hand at me. “The rev. Every campaign he picks a different target. Tonight he was working on this right-wing Miami talk show host, Barry Romans.”

  “He’ll get him, Mug. End of this tent meeting, Romans won’t know what hit him.”

  James sipped on his beer, holding his cards tightly. “I’ve heard Romans on the radio. Like a local Rush Limbaugh.”

  “Bigger than local.” Stan, the pizza man, took a puff off the fat cigar. “He’s got stations that carry him all over the state. Some even up in Georgia, I believe. So you boys are aware of him, huh?”

  The big-mouthed man referred to as Mug continued. “It’s gonna be brutal. Rev’s gonna accuse him of being the Devil, get his congregation all riled up.”

  “They’ll picket this Romans,” a tall skinny guy with thick glasses spoke for the first time, “and send hundreds of letters of protest to the newspaper, the radio stations.”

  “And,” our neighbor Crayer gave us all a broad grin, “we make more money every meeting. Right, Dusty? Cashdollar’s loyal following love to blame somebody else for all the world’s evils. Yes, they do.”

  I couldn’t help but smile too. More money was just what I needed right now.

  James added to the pot, apparently sensing a big win. It didn’t happen.

  For some reason I needed to know the outcome. “So does the reverend get his man? Does he bring down the target?”

  “Sometimes.” Crayer shuffled the deck.

  “What happens to Barry Romans?”

  Mug ran his hand through his unruly, greasy mop of hair. “The rev’s nailing him for being a racist, for being a card-carrying member of the NRA, for being anticivil rights, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I think he was just makin’ shit up this afternoon, just to get more reaction. He gets a good reaction when he threatens right wingers. Even a better reaction if something happens to them.”

  Mug laughed, almost like a rumble deep in his throat. “Make stuff up? The rev?”

  “And?”

  Crayer looked around at the five of us. “And? If the rev gets three or four thousand people riled up, they take Romans on. Tear him down.”

  James was engrossed. “Is that what you mean about ‘something happening to them?’ You mean he influences that many people?”

  “Kid,” Stan was puffing like a locomotive, “he’ll influence maybe ten thousand people just this weekend.”

  “Wow.”

  “You remember what happened to that talk show host, Don Imus? He made some comment about some black college girls, and got fired inside of a week, from TV and radio.” Stan took another puff on his cigar and a spiral of smoke climbed high and disappeared in the dark. “Reverend Al Sharpton took him on. Crucified him. Kid, ministers and public opinion are powerful forces. They can bring down mountains.”

  Everything got quiet, and I was aware of the warm, humid night air. The cloying odor of old grease, stale beer, cigar smoke, and sweat was getting to my stomach and I realized, with all the food we’d cooked, I hadn’t eaten anything.

  I lost three hands, folded quickly, and was down about forty bucks. James had won his first hand, raking in over
$300. And then, in typical James fashion, he promptly lost the next two hands and ended up down $200. I’d locked our newfound money in a small closet in the truck, so thank goodness he had limited funds. Knowing James, he could have blown the entire night’s take.

  “More beer?” Crayer pulled a couple of long necks from the aluminum cooler by the side of Stan’s trailer. We’d already swallowed three, and I pushed myself away from the table.

  “I’m going to have to decline. I’ve got work tomorrow, and then this again tomorrow night.”

  “Skip, couple more hands here. I can win this back and we can really go home with a stash.” James gave me a pleading look.

  I grabbed him by the shoulder, and he shook my hand off. “Come on, amigo. One more hand.” He twisted the cap off his beer and played another hand. Now he was down $500. It was obvious they could smell blood. Stan, Bruce, Dusty, Mug all pleaded with him to stay in the game.

  James looked down at his dwindling stake, shoved the few paltry dollars back in his pocket and sadly shook his head. “Got to take Skip home, guys.”

  Stan pointed up the lane. “Girls comin’ in half an hour.”

  James and I both perked up a little. “Girls?”

  “Thought maybe Bruce told you. Where there’s loose money, they’ll find it.”

  I glanced at my partner, his big smile dwindling. “Working girls?”

  The guy with the big face and shaved head named Mug, laughed out loud. “They’ll be workin’ their asses off once they get here. We set ’em up in a small tent over by the Intracoastal Waterway.” He pointed off to the right, behind a stand of trees, where the state had built a series of shelters that looked out on the man-made waterway. Working girls. Another fine use of the Florida taxpayer’s dollar. A tented whorehouse.

  “Uh, I think we’ll pass.”

  “Tomorrow night,” Stan the pizza guy jammed his finger into my chest, “you stay late. There’s a special little treat goin’ on and I think you young guys would enjoy it. Stay late, got it?”