Chapter 21 Tyler [The Past] #2
He let out a breath, seeming half relieved and half disappointed. "Better safe than a grandpa, I suppose," he said.
"Gross, Dad."
I turned around and headed back to the garage.
"Just make sure you use protection," he whispered right before I shut the door behind me.
I wanted to die.
Everything looked hotter in Palm Springs.
The cars. The pavement. The actors and the filming crew who tried to keep them in line.
The Gobbler was a different kind of hot, of course. It actually sizzled and popped as if it had a dozen heat lamps above the grill. Not because of the weather since it was still January. It was because of the lines at the food truck this weekend.
Adri was out of town for a week. He’d left for Big Bear with his buddies, so I’d been asked to step in.
I’d to spend two full days with Naomi in that tiny kitchen. So I didn’t mind sweating and smelling like taco seasoning. Because she smelled like it too.
To me, it was paradise.
"Be right with you," Jose shouted at the customer at the window, flipping tortillas at the speed of light.
"Have them try our new sauce, mija," he instructed from behind the grill while Naomi was putting together a to-go order for the men who belonged to the group of TV people who’d been filming some reality show in the area for the past couple of weeks.
We didn’t know what kind of show it was or what network would release it.
Film crews weren’t a rarity in Coachella Valley.
And they were always fun to watch. Plus they brought a lot of business.
Some of those crew members had even tried Jose’s food before when they’d worked in the area on some other project.
I often felt like I was working for a minor celebrity.
"Next!" Letty yelled from the register, and the line moved up again.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my arm and filled another order, trying not to get distracted by Naomi’s smile.
It was hard not to want to hug her or kiss her.
We were so close, bumping into each other all the time.
But I respected her parents, respected that they didn’t try to run me off.
They’d probably guessed about us, same as mine, but chose to let things develop naturally.
I would be an asshole to behave inappropriately.
"Tyler, son!" Jose called, yanking me out of my thoughts. "We’re running low on Sprite. You think you can swing by the market after the rush hour and grab a few cases?"
"You got it, Mr. Medina."
The entire town seemed to have stopped for lunch, a steady stream of camera-ready faces.
"Be right with you," Letty shouted again, hardly looking up from that register.
Her fingers moved with such unnatural speed.
Even for someone like me who knew a thing or two about guitars, it was a wonder to watch.
A well-dressed man from the production crew, his shirt open at the collar and his beard neatly trimmed, came to the front of the line with a couple of guys who appeared to be his assistants. They smelled and looked like money.
I watched him study our chalkboard menu.
"I’m out of paper," Letty said.
"I got this one," Jose said, pointing his spatula in the air like a conductor’s baton.
The pan sizzled and smoked, the tight confines of the truck cooking us like a second entrée.
"What will it be, gentlemen?" He took the order by ear, starting on their tacos right away while his wife went out to the front of the truck to look for another roll of receipt paper.
The production guy then said, "I’d also like to place another order in advance for tonight’s dinner.
"Sure thing." Letty was back, fumbling with the register, then entering everything in.
"Five chicken, five beef," one of the assistants read off a piece of paper. "Five vegetarian, five pork. With fries. Extra-large drinks. And add twenty orders of nachos and some extra hot sauce."
"Do you want it all on one check?" Letty asked, rushing to punch in those keys.
"Yes. And we want all the fries just off the fryer. Can you do it by six?"
"Absolutely." She collected the money and gave the assistant their receipt.
"I hear your food’s worth the wait," the production guy said all of a sudden, his gaze stuck on Naomi as she put together their lunch plates. They were for here, and you could see the sun and the birds she made out of meats and veggies.
The three men sat at the only empty table in front of the truck and studied their plates. They were pointing at the food and smiling a little before digging in.
Next to me, Jose was practically buzzing with excitement because The Gobbler was getting attention from Hollywood. It was a huge deal. A lot of celebs came to Palm Springs, and a single mention by a big name meant good things for his food truck. For the Medina family. For Naomi.
The thought of it made me happy.
The trio ate their food, talking animatedly, their facial expressions ranging from frustrated to lighthearted. They seemed busy and intense and something I aspired to be as an adult.
I watched as the production guy finished his plate, gave us a nod, and left.
In the evening, I loaded up their dinner order into my trusty Honda and drove it down the street to where they had their trailers lined up.
I didn’t have to, but Jose asked if I could, and I did. I got a hefty tip out of it, and then right before we closed, the production guy showed up again.
It was dark outside now and we were winding down. Letty was coiling the string lights she’d hung on the truck, Jose was scrubbing the grill, and Naomi and I were doing whatever general cleanup needed to be done.
We were both cursing Adri. Today was very busy. No seventeen-year-old should be working a nine-hour shift.
"What’s the point of having an older brother?" Naomi grumbled frustratedly, wiping one of the fryers.
"Let me." I grabbed the towel from her and rubbed the steel surface.
"It’s okay, Ty. Just do your restocking."
"You do it." I nudged her gently toward the plates and napkins that needed to be replenished.
That’s when I saw the production dude approaching the window.
Jose immediately jumped forward.
"Just two extra-large horchatas." He handed Jose some money.
"Coming right up, sir."
Naomi and I dropped what we were doing and rushed to fill up the cups with the drink.
"Don’t put the lid on yet," she instructed me, fumbling with containers on the top shelf where we kept the sweets and aromatics. She snagged a cinnamon shaker, then grabbed a spice that looked like miniature stars. Each drink got its twist of magic.
"Ay, mija," Jose whispered under his breath. "Why did you put in star anise? That stuff’s pricey."
"They paid a lot of money for that dinner, Dad," she replied with a smile and gestured for me to snap the lids on the drinks.
Even at seventeen, Naomi Medina was a menace in the kitchen.
The production guy picked up his drinks. He looked up, his eyes first on Jose, then on Naomi, then back on Jose. "Your kid?" he asked the man. "Food arrangement is very original."
"My daughter." Jose nodded. "And yes, we sure do have artistic presentation." He beamed with pride. "You know, high school girls love things pretty."
The production guy offered a smile. "Professional quality."
"We do our best."
He put down the cups on the counter and fished out a business card from the inner pocket of his jacket, then handed it to Jose.
"If your daughter ever wants to be on TV.
" He paused, letting Jose review the information on the card.
"My production company is developing a cooking show for a celebrity chef. I’m always on the lookout for new talent.
Give me a call if you're interested in more details. "
Letty and Jose momentarily froze, their faces painted with surprise.
Naomi stood beside me, her expression mirroring theirs—eyes wide like saucers, mouth slightly agape.
Jose finally broke the silence by scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. "My daughter’s only seventeen."
"No worries. It’s all above board. Parents are welcome to be on set. Anyone under eighteen needs a chaperone anyway," the producer assured, turning his focus on Naomi like a spotlight shifting its beam. "You've got talent with food, young lady. Keep it up; you're destined for big things."
He gathered up his drinks with practiced ease, tossing us one last look before leaving. Over his shoulder, he threw out casually, "Worst case scenario? You don’t pass the audition, but you get three weeks on our dime in the cooking camp." He winked and strode off to the rest of his evening.