A Fine Line (Wells Family #5)

1. Crew

I had questioned a lot of great things in life.

Why does a round pizza come in a square box?

Are zebras white with black stripes or black with white stripes?

Who invented caramel corn and how can I possibly thank them and their mother for their existence?

My mind flipped through a bifold of pondered questions throughout my day like it was getting paid for overthinking. But I had never questioned something as much as I had wondered why it takes old people seven business days to take their card out of a chip reader.

The machine pinged loud sirens while they just sat there, staring. Bright, bold blue letters said PLEASE REMOVE YOUR CARD. And they always just looked at it like it was speaking morse code back to them.

BING.

“Ma’am, your card is-”

BING.

“What?” The white haired woman’s voice was as wobbly as her hands on her walker as she leaned closer to the window to hear me.

BING.

“Your card. You have to-”

BING.

“You know what,” I mumbled to myself and reached across the tiny window to remove the card and hand it back to her. “Here you go. Your order will be ready soon.”

I turned back from the sliver of space between me and the parking lot and got to work on what should be the last order of the day. A vegan taco, featuring a spicy zucchini blend with corn, tomatoes, jalapenos, and refried beans with a side of Mexican street corn dip and homemade tortilla chips.

My fingers pinched at the grills knobs, turning it on to its highest setting, the blue to red flame showcasing beneath my pan. My impatience grew stronger as my stainless steel pan took ages to heat, the butter in it melting at a snail’s pace. It always happened like this.

My shift would start around lunch, excited and looking forward to a day of being near a grill. Listening to families, couples, kids, and college students all ordering outside my window then taking their seats or eating outside their cars. The familiar hum of my ‘yacht dad’ playlist over my blue speaker dangling by a carabineer by the freezer that was stocked with assorted meats and fish. I looked forward to my day. To who I’d see. What I’d get to make. Where I’d find myself. Each day is new, I’d remind myself.

But then lunch time would come and go, leaving a break in my steadiness from 2-4 pm and allowing me to finally sit and rest for a while. Only problem was once I sat down, once I relaxed, I became restless. My hands begged for a job. Anything to keep my mind busy. I’d end up at my brothers bar, Romfuzzled, or at any of my other siblings house, searching for something to do. Somewhere I was needed. It was a rare occurrence that they actually could use me.

But then dinner would roll around eventually, my busiest shift, and before I knew it I had purpose again. Only with the end of the dinner rush came a wave of exhaustion. I’d leave and go to bed tired and full of anxiety for making one more fish taco.

But then I’d wake up the next day, recharged and excited to start all over. The cycle continued, day in and day out. And before I knew it I was approaching a four year anniversary with my little green engine that could. A fighter, she was.

I scooped the pan fried vegetables onto the tacos being held up by a small silver tin and folded them up, placing a cut beet root to the side next to some fresh mint for the fun of it. I eyed the plate. Something was missing…my eyes scanned the prep area around me, mostly broken down into soapy dishes by the sink but a few spare vegetables and some oregano were sitting out next to a half cut lemon.

“Ah,” I said out loud, grabbing the lemon and my favorite CUTCO knife. “I need you.” I cut a thin even slice of the lemon and squeezed it over top of the three tacos and a little on the elote dip as well, before setting an extra slice on the opposite side of the board in case card reader lady decided she wanted more.

This. This was what I loved about my job. Not so much the customers, the noise, and certainly not the heat. But the creativity. The one place where I could be my unapologetic, entirely authentic self and not worry a bit about what others thought. Or what they said when I was gone. Where mental diagnosis and anxiety left my body and mind and allowed me to be…Crew. Because although Crew in a public setting, surrounded by crowds and loud noises, and unbearably bright lights, might have been miserable or un-useful…Crew in this truck was a real person. A normal one. Not only was I considered normal, but I was liked. Enjoyed being around. Pleasant. A place where people flocked towards me for good food and laughs. Where my presence was never a burden, but a delight. One that they came back for again and again. I liked that Crew. It was a shame I couldn’t pick him up and take him with me.

As soon as white-haired, Ms. card reader stepped away from the truck, I shut my window down and unplugged my neon flashing open sign. I reached over to the tip jar, satisfied with the fullness of ones, fives, and a couple tens. I tucked it away where it wouldn’t get wet from what was about to be a cyclone of me and soapy dish water as I raced to get everything clean.

It wasn’t like I had plans tonight. Not official ones anyway. But the effects of the day were already wearing on me and I was already picturing sitting back on my nearly-collapsing college days couch with a glass of Malbec wine and an episode of Survivor queued up on my unreasonably large TV. Which meant I did somewhat have plans, they just involved Jeff Probst and some fancy wine.

With my dishes now dried and put away and all signs turned off, it was my time to close up the trailer and head out for the night. I hopped out of the back of my truck and closed the door, locking the hatches down and testing to make sure they were secure.

A flash of lights on the other side of the dark parking lot caught my eye. I glanced over to see none other than the auburn-haired she devil herself plugging her string lights back in for a last minute customer. She smiled that pretty little grin down at the somewhat older man, not a hint of disdain at his late arrival as we were both closing down.

That was exactly how she got you. She flashed that sweet smile and those pretty doe eyes at you in distraction while she poisoned your mind and before you knew it you were a puddle of man in front of a traitorous snake. Like Kaa from Jungle Book. Or Medusa. Or any other villain that could suck you in with sweet promises only to turn around and be another person entirely in the blink of an eye.

It was almost embarrassing looking back on how much I liked the girl. How in that crowded stadium I immediately started hearing wedding bells and seeing her in a long white dress. I should have known. Pretty girls in their early twenties who are funny and smart were always taken. Why I thought she was any different, I didn’t know. But as soon as I saw engaged written across my screen, I slammed that door shut and threw that scrap of paper away in an instant. I didn’t do cheaters, never in a million years. It was one of the few lines in the sand I had. But it was one I wasn’t willing to waver.

I went on to work the next day, determined to fully kick her out of my mind and it worked for the most part. Until an hour before my dinner rush came in and this pink fifth wheel with white flowers pulled into my parking spot. Doughnuts and ice cream. Immediately all of my customers flocked to it, like someone dumped out leftover fries onto a beach and seagulls just spawned out of nowhere.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t peak my interest too, so I temporarily shut the place down and walked over. When you owned a small business, emphasis on the small, you learned the best way to stay afloat was to support other businesses. I tried my best to always go eat at other food trucks and vendors downtown when I wasn’t working, this wouldn’t be any exception.

Only there was a giant Winnifred Meadows shaped exception.

I waited in that long line and greeted the cute brunette girl- who looked a little familiar- with a wide smile. She smiled back and I found myself entirely grateful that she was nothing like my last neighbor- a Greek-based food truck with a crotchety old woman named Gerd and her nearly deaf husband, Amos. They both liked to regularly tell me I needed a haircut or asked what kind of drugs I was on.

“I’m Crew,” I pointed to the truck behind me that had my name written across the bottom below the logo. “I’m your neighbor. Glad to have you guys here.” I reached a hand up and she leaned forward to meet halfway and clutched our fingers together.

“So nice to meet you, hold on, this is more of my roommate’s thing.” She reached behind her and tapped on a redhead with a pink hat on and as that figure turned towards me I felt like every video game I had ever played led me to this moment.

Your opponent unexpectedly shows up, what do you do?

Option A. Pretend you’ve never met her and be cordial. Option B. Call her out on being a lying, cheating, beautifully conniving jerk. Option C. Reach in your pocket for your keys, stab three of four of her tires-so the insurance doesn’t cover it- and dart off in the night to never be seen again. Or of course, option D. Walk away without a word.

I chose option D. Because the words I did possess were not nice enough to be shared in a family friendly environment such as this dimly lit parking lot at eight thirty pm.

“Hey!” she shouted after me the way you would a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time. I ignored her, walking right back to my truck and opening it up as if I’d never seen the woman before. I avoided any direct eye contact and when I got the chance, I packed down early and sprinted out of there.

I wish I could say she didn’t do well her first night. Wish I could say she drove away earlier than me and I never saw her again. Some of us aren’t so lucky.

One night. A single night and she practically wiped me clean with doughnuts and root beer floats? It pissed me off. I was livid. It wasn’t enough for the girl to mess with my heart but now she was going after my head too. My business. I wasn’t convinced the girl wasn’t a witch, reading my thoughts and going after the two things I cared about most at the time: my sex life and my business.

But here we were, three years later and still, the evil woman had the nerve to show up here every night. Same time as me, same struggle. We didn’t even serve near the same food. Hers was all desserts. Pastries and fried croissants and gelato. Mine was all Mexican cuisine. Various bowls of barbacoa, gulf shrimp, and elote. Mine was artistic and fun and hers was…calculated. Scientific.

I shook my head out, my wavy hair settling into a mess over my eyes. I needed to cut it again, it grows so fast I swear I see my old barber every five weeks now. I probably supplied his entire household grocery costs as much as I had to visit him.

“Excuse me!” A voice called out behind me as my keys dangled from my fingers, ready to hop in my truck for the night. I craned my neck back and saw the same guy that was in front of Winnie truck earlier. Navy slacks and a white button down, with shoes that looked freshly polished and probably very comfortable. He did that weird jog/fast walk towards me like you would trying to catch an elevator that someone held open for you. He held out a few white papers, a flash of green and yellow logos waving back and forth.

“Wait a moment!” He added like I was going to hop in my truck and run away after already making eye contact.

I’d learned the importance of eye contact in the last two years. Apparently, it was vital for strengthening relationships. Not that I was wanting a relationship with this man, or his obvious toupee and shiny shoes. But I’d grown to more naturally forcing my eyes to meet others. Making eye contact meant I was engaged, focused. Not actively ignoring another person as I wondered if I forgot to take the garbage out that morning.

The man finally reached me, slightly out of breath, with his hands over his knees. He swallowed heavily. “Hey, sorry I had to catch you before you left. I just wanted to offer an invitation to you for the city’s Food Truck Fest competition this fall.”

I grabbed the flier and looked down at the details, picking up on a few stuck out words. State wide competition, Food Truck Fest. Best entree and dessert combo wins. Permanent spot. The guy kept talking. My eyes kept scanning.

“The winner gets a five thousand dollar check and a permanent spot at the corner of I-23 and Main Street.”

I-23 and Main? That place was flooded. Even more so than my pretty busy lot across the street from a movie theater and bowling event center.

I eyed the flier with wariness. It seemed a little too good. I’d found that most things that were too good often meant they weren’t real. I lifted my gaze to the pink truck across the lot, expecting to find Winnie closing up her fifth wheel, only to see she was biting down a smile at the same paper I held.

My chin jerked up. “You invite Winnifreddie Kruger over there?”

The man looked confused between the two of us, his eyebrows dipping together. “Uhh…yeah. All food trucks are invited.”

Well, there you go. Too good to be true. That settled that. There was no way I was going into a head to head competition with the daughter of Ursula.

“Hmm. No thanks.” I folded the paper into a tucked square and opened the passenger door to my Silverado, tossing it in the truck’s floorboard.

The man nodded along when I turned around and shut the door. back. “Alright, well if you change your mind- sign-ups are open until next Thursday.”

I waved a hand, signaling my disinterest. “Thanks, but I’ll stick here.”

Where I was settled. Where I thrived. Winnifred Meadows could do her worst, but she had nothing on me.