She takes a bite of her pancake, chews, and frowns. “This is not as good as yours.”
“Ha! Thanks, but I’m sure that’s not true.… Anyway. My friend Julia suggested I sell SkinnyWheels. The whole business, you know, not just the truck. I know it won’t happen overnight, but I was hoping—like, really hoping—that it might be an option,” I say. “And I was hoping you might have some advice for me.”
Lina nods. “Okay, well, I can’t—”
Then she stops, and stares at the wall behind me, deep in thought. After about a minute, she blinks, and looks at me again, and then rapid-fires questions at me.
“It’s only been, what, six weeks since you started? How did you think of everything? How did you know where to go, what to do, how you’d tweet and Facebook, how did you know what people would want?”
I think for a few seconds. “Instinct, I guess? SkinnyWheels was just an idea because it seemed to me to be so obvious. That’s why I’m not sure if it’s even a business idea worth selling. Anyone could do it. It’s not that special.”
Lina stares at me, and nods, lost in thought.
As the seconds tick into minutes, I realize she’s trying to figure out how to tell me to get a grip. Oh, God, how embarrassing, I’m such an idiot. I’ll apologize for wasting her time, I’ll just say, never mind—
Then she looks me right in the eye and starts talking again.
“The gourmet food truck movement has been gaining a lot of traction over the past four or five years. People adore them. It’s a combination of the allure of a genuine passion for specialty or gourmet food, the personal touch of being served by the chef or owner, and the toy-like adorability of the trucks. Plus, it’s the new mom ’n’ pop store. It’s so personal; the owner is the food truck: they drive, cook, serve, and sell. In this day and age, having something that feels so real is a draw in itself.”
I nod uncertainly. I feel like she’s giving a presentation, but I’m not sure why.
She keeps talking. “You know exactly what you’re getting with a food truck. It’s fast, but it’s not dirty, like most fast-food chains. The prices are low, it’s great value. You can follow them online, track them down via social media, which makes it feel like an achievement when you find them.… It’s like a game.”
I nod. Everything she’s saying makes sense to me. “I think people also get emotionally attached to trucks,” I say tentatively. “They’re really passionate about it. It’s like seeing a buddy out and about around the city. You feel like you own that truck. People actually wave at me when I’m driving!”
“That’s amazing!” says Lina. “And now you have food trucks pairing up with brands. I was in San Francisco a few years ago and got a snow cone from a food truck advertising some ski resort. I mean, fantastic idea, right? So brands can use the truck as the medium. Or the truck can pair with brands for events and launches—turn up, give food out, it’s more exciting than the ubiquitous caterers with goddamn cupcakes. Like that truck Treatery, they’ve really nailed it. They pair up with brands but they keep their own name. Every time a brand pays them to turn up somewhere, their name gets a little more cachet.”
“Right,” I say. I don’t really know what she’s talking about.
“You may think ‘anyone’ could think of this idea, Pia, but that’s not true. Some people are creative and original thinkers, some people aren’t. The people who are tend to believe that whatever they create seems like the most obvious thing in the world, like you do. I’m a strategist, and I’m not particularly creative, but I can recognize a great idea when I see it. And more important, I can explain why it works.” She stares at me, nodding fervently. I don’t know what to do, so I nod back. “Tell me more about how you thought of the idea.”
“Um, my roommates kept saying how they were in carb comas at work; I saw all these trucks selling greasy, fatty foods, and I’m the kind of girl who likes to eat but also likes to fit into tight jeans, you know? When it comes down to it, SkinnyWheels is all about vanity, really.…” I grin, trying to make a joke, but Lina isn’t smiling.
“Vanity is a huge part of every major new business success in the past century,” she says seriously. “It’s human nature. When you look great, you feel happy. No one should ever apologize for that. That’s the reason the fitness industry has become a multibillion dollar industry in the past twenty years. Not to mention fashion, cosmetics…”
There’s another pause. I take a sip of my coffee, nodding. I don’t know anything about the fitness industry, or fashion, or cosmetics. I feel like I’m frantically paddling to keep up as Lina’s brain races ahead.
Then she smiles at me. “I think food trucks are really interesting, Pia. And I particularly think your take on food trucks is really interesting.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Do you have any other ideas? Like, food truck ideas?”
“Yeah … I have lots of ideas. Driving a food truck leaves you a lot of time to daydream.”
“Dazzle me,” she says, rolling her eyes slightly on the dazzle.
“Uh, I think that there should be an all-day healthy breakfast truck. People want gluten-free pancakes anytime, I get requests at three in the afternoon that I can’t fulfill because I’m always out of batter. And it should offer waffles, too, and seasonal fruit salad with fat-free yogurt.… And there should be a truck specializing in eggs: omelets, egg-white omelets, scrambled eggs. I get requests for that all the time but I don’t have the capacity to do it.”
“Go on,” says Lina. Her eyes are gleaming.
“And my friends had a truck called A Meal Grows in Brooklyn. All the food came from the Brooklyn area, right? Sustainable, local, organic, hand-reared, yada yada. Such a great idea, and so Brooklyn. But they’ve failed, they had to close the business. Someone should buy the idea from them or, uh, the equity in the business.” I talk quickly, trying to cover up that I still don’t really know what equity means. “You could launch a chain of trucks nationwide, with different regions getting their own local produce on the menu. A Meal Grows in Santa Barbara, A Meal Grows in Seattle, A Meal Grows in Dallas…”
“A Meal Grows in Detroit?” says Lina, smirking.
“Exactly,” I say. “And there should be a packed-lunch truck in the mornings, for people like my friend Julia who hardly ever leave their desk. So you could buy a good packed lunch when you’re walking from the subway to your office, with a midmorning snack and an afternoon snack. Like a little school lunchbox! With a salad, maybe celery stalks with almond butter, a sugar-free flapjack…”
“Right on!”
“And there should be a dinner-for-two truck, for when you’re heading home from work and you just want to put something in the oven and have it with your boyfriend or husband or whatever.” I’m gabbling now. “People are always buying two of my salads at the end of the day, to take home and have for dinner, but in winter they’re not going to want that, you know? They’re going to need something they can warm up at home. Like a gingery-honey poached chicken with steamed vegetables, or a tuna steak that’s marinating in herbs and all you have to do is grill it quickly on each side. I mean, you can get that stuff at Whole Foods, but let’s make it so people can just pick it up after work right outside their office, without going out of their way or spending a fortune, right? And there should be an organic Italian food truck that gives you take-home packs of organic and gluten-free lasagne or pasta.”
“This is fantastic! Keep talking!”
“And there should be a soup truck, but like, a really genuinely low-fat, health-packed, low-salt soup truck with gluten-free bread rolls. Half the soup places in this town have more fat and sodium than a Big Mac.…”
“Pia, this is great stuff. Really, really great stuff.” Lina is frowning at me intently.
I beam. Why do I feel like I just passed an exam?
She clears her throat. “Look, I work with someone you should talk to, and I’ve been working on some things that might … hmm. I shouldn’t tell you more till
I figure out if and how it’s going to work. Can you come to my office at ten in the morning tomorrow? You may have to wait awhile, his schedule is crazy, but if I’m any good at my job he’ll find time to see you.”
“Yes…” I say. I’m confused. Who is “he”? What would a huge, glossy hotel and restaurant chain want with a measly little SkinnyWheels food truck? But I just nod. There’s something about her enthusiasm and focus that makes me desperate to impress her. “Thank you, Lina, thank you so much.”
Lina’s phone rings. “Hey, hon … Okay, no problem, I’m coming now.” She hangs up. “I’ve gotta go, Pia. We’ve got an afternoon playdate with another family with kids the same age as Pia and Gabe.”
“Sounds like a blast,” I say.
“Oh, it is,” she says, pulling on her jacket. “It’s like double-dating, but more potential for sandbox fights and tears. So I’ll see you at ten tomorrow?”
“Yes!” I exclaim. Sheesh, Pia, dial down the desperation. “I mean, yes. And thank you so much for meeting me, I really appreciate it. You go ahead, I think I’ll have another cup of coffee here. And, uh, is there anything I can do to prepare for tomorrow?”
“Can you get some photos of your salads and the truck? Apart from that, nothing. You’re perfect.”
She takes some money out of her purse and tries to give it to me for the check.
“No, no!” I say. “I’ll pay. Thank you so much, again, for meeting me.”
As we say good-bye and she hurries back to her busy, seemingly perfect grown-up mommy life, my mind is spinning.
What is she planning? Should I have opened my mouth and bothered her for every detail instead of pretending to understand? I met her for advice—but now I’m even more confused!
Okay, okay, it’s fine. I’ll just prepare for whatever happens in the meeting tomorrow, just like she said.
And try not to think about the fact that Cosmo is coming over in a few hours.
CHAPTER 28
So the first thing I do is call Angie, and we drive Toto and some freshly made SkinnyWheels salads straight to her workplace in Chelsea.
“You’re sure this is okay?” I ask for the sixteenth time.
“The Bitch is in Miami this weekend. And it’s a food photography studio, I mean, it’s just sitting there! Now, listen, we’re gonna drive the whole truck into the underground garage, we have an area where we do big shoots.”
Two hours later, I’ve got thousands of incredible shots of Toto and my salads.
“You are so talented!” I exclaim, looking at the shots on my laptop. Angie is brandishing a state-of-the-art digital camera like a pro, and even set up all the lighting, all by herself. I just watched in awe.
“You have no idea how not talented I am,” she says. “These shots would make the Bitch scream in pain.” She grins, and lights a cigarette. “She would be like this. Angelique? Angelique?” Angie puts on a pretend high-pitched Dutch accent. “Fail, Angelique! Why is my latte so cold? Angelique? You are failing, Angelique! Why is my driver not outside? Angelique? Why am I such a total fucking bitch to you every single fucking day?” She jumps on the table and starts humping the air. “Angelique! Why does no one want to fuck me? Angelique!”
“Angelique?”
Another voice. From the door.
We both whirl around in shock. It’s the Bitch. Tall. Tanned. And angry.
“Why are you smoking? In my studio? And using my camera? And my lights?”
Angie pauses, still standing on the table, mid-hump.
“Um…”
“You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me! I quit!”
Angie jumps down, puts the camera carefully on the table, and then turns to give the Bitch the finger from both hands. “See that? That’s a big bag of I quit with your name on it!”
“Okay, Angie, let’s go.” I quickly close my laptop and start dragging her toward Toto.
“And you know what else? All those lattes I got you were full-fat!”
I can still hear the Bitch screaming from the street.
Angie cackles all the way home, and dismisses my apologies.
“That was my fault, I’m so sorry—”
“Are you kidding? I can’t believe I lasted two months! Don’t you worry about me. New York is a big city. I’ll find another job.” She pauses. “Or maybe I’ll just start a food truck business.”
“Ha!”
Then, as we drive over the Brooklyn Bridge, that niggling thought I’ve been pushing to the back of my brain for the last few hours returns with a thud. Tonight, Cosmo is coming over with his monkey boys, Nicky and Nolan, to get his ten thousand dollars. And I don’t have it.
What did I think was going to happen? Did I think Lina would have ten thousand dollars to just hand over? Did I think she’d find someone to buy the entire business on a Sunday afternoon? I am an idiot.
I’m simply going to ask Cosmo—okay, beg him—to give me a forty-eight hour extension. I’ll explain that my money was stolen—because of crazy Nolan!—that I need a little longer to get it together.
Then, if whatever Lina is planning tomorrow works out, I’ll do that.
If it doesn’t, then when my parents arrive on Tuesday I’ll explain to them, in person, why I need the money. Maybe actually seeing Toto, and seeing how hard I’ve been working, will make a difference. Maybe they won’t be so disappointed.
I’ll leave Brooklyn with them, go to Zurich, get some boring desk job, and pay them back every last penny. Then I’ll come back to New York, and start again.
And that’s just how it has to be.
CHAPTER 29
Letting ourselves into Vic’s house feels wrong, somehow. Like we’re sneaking in illegally, even though we have a key.
Julia breathes in sharply as we enter, as if to steel herself against the inevitable grief.
“This time two days ago, Marie was sitting right here,” she whispers. “Talking, eating, breathing.… How can it be possible that someone can be alive and then be gone so fast?”
I don’t know what to say. My life hasn’t been touched by death before, not really, not like Julia’s has. Imagine your mother dying … I can’t. I don’t even want to imagine it. I don’t know how you’d ever get over something like that.
I just want to make today easy for Julia. Cosmo coming over in three hours really isn’t a problem compared to what she’s going through. It’s not fair for one person to have to say so many good-byes to people she loves.
So I reach out and give Julia another hug and for a second she is shaking, and I think she’s going to cry. But instead, she mutters “boobsquash,” and pushes me away.
“Let’s get this over with.”
“I’ll do Marie’s bed,” I say. “You go make sure the kitchen is all in order.”
Marie slept in a single bed with pink, rose-covered sheets, which gives me an immediate lump in my throat, though I don’t really know why. All her knickknacks are still out on her dresser and bedside table: dozens of photos, her tiny wristwatch and a tiny travel alarm clock that looks like something from the set of Mad Men, a well-worn copy of Mariana by Monica Dickens open next to it.
Quickly, I strip the bed and bundle the sheets into the corner. Then I fold the quilt and stack the pillows on top of it. The mattress looks so tiny and helpless by itself.
Heading into Vic’s room, I strip his bed, too, and put on fresh sheets. Then I open his curtains. The place is immaculate: not a speck of dust anywhere. He only has one photo: a black-and-white picture of a girl smiling happily, shielding her eyes from the sun. She looks like Katharine Hepburn, except with bigger eyes and a pointy little chin. It must be Eleanor. His wife.
Now I feel even more like I’m trespassing.
“Julia?” I shout. “You okay?”
There’s no reply.
Picking up the bedding, I hurry into the kitchen. Julia has her head in the fridge, and is rearranging the food.
“We need to buy fresh milk, butter, and
bread,” she mutters. “And I’d like to get some kind of soup or casserole thing to put in here for Vic when he comes home tomorrow.”
“I’ll go to Esposito’s. He likes the lasagne.… Jules, I’m going to wash this bedding upstairs, okay? Why don’t you come up with me? The place is immaculate. You don’t need to be here.”
Julia nods. She’s hardly even listening to me.
I take her hand and we head back upstairs. The leaves are falling, and Union Street feels unusually empty. Depressing Sunday night back-to-school type weather.
I put the bedding in the wash, head up to my room, and lie on my bed.
Only a few more hours till Cosmo is here.
You know what’s almost the worst about all this? I hate the idea of asking my parents to bail me out again. They’re in Zurich right now. It’s the city that sleeps all day Sunday: there’s nothing to do, nowhere to go. My dad is probably planning their trip over here, or reading the Zürcher Zeitung and making tsk tsk sounds to himself. My mother is probably on the phone, rolling her eyes, talking to her sisters about how I’m spoiled, silly, and a deeply disappointing daughter.
In twenty-two years, I’ve never surprised them.… Well, not in a good way. And they’ve never, ever said they’re proud of me. Not once.
It’s like they thought saying they were proud of me might make me complacent. It backfired: I became detached, instead.
Now that I haven’t spoken to them in so long, I can sort of see our relationship for what it is. How I’ve always been ostensibly obedient but figured out how to float around them and get what I wanted, whether that was more spending money or supervision-free vacations with Angie. And I’m about to do it again, by asking them to bail me out of a ten thousand dollar debt.
If I were them, I probably wouldn’t be proud of me, either.
But I’ve changed. I really feel like for the last six weeks, I’ve had a purpose: SkinnyWheels. I feel sure of myself for the first time in years, like I know what I want and if I work hard enough and am just a teeny bit lucky, I can get it. I feel, for the first time, that I’m where I belong. I’m home.
Brooklyn Girls Page 26
