American Dreamer (Dreamers #1)

Chapter 1

chapter one

nesto

“So, this is it? You’re really taking off to that wilderness upstate.”

I looked up from where I was trying to shove another gigantic container into the back of my food truck, and saw Camilo, one of my three best friends, walking down the sidewalk wearing oversized sunglasses and holding an enormous cup of coffee.

Late as always.

He was supposed to be here an hour ago, but could he manage to make it on time to help me literally pack up my entire life? No.

“What the fuck, Milo? You’re an hour late, pendejo! I’ve been waiting on you since seven a.m. You know I’m on a schedule, man. I can’t have this truck sitting here all morning!” I cringed internally thinking of everything I needed to get done in the next twenty-four hours.

“We need to be on the road by nine if I’m going to be ready for the gig tomorrow. I shouldn’t have let Mamí talk me into opening this thing the day after getting up there.”

Milo looked at me shaking his head, then put down his coffee and crossed his arms over his chest like he had all the time in the world.

“Chill out, you’ll be fine. Your mother already has your food order waiting at the commercial kitchen she found you.

As soon as we get in, she’ll be deploying people to make sure you’re ready to go.

Besides Juanpa, Patrice, and I will be there tonight to help, too.

Don’t worry so much, pa. It’s only like a five-hour drive. We’ll be there by two, tops.”

I took a deep breath, because I knew arguing with Milo would probably mean I’d either get going even later or that he’d get himself so worked up he’d crash my damn car on the interstate.

“Dude, can you be at least a little sympathetic? This is a big fucking deal for me. I’m moving out of New York City, my home since I was six years old, to try and get a food truck business going upstate.”

I reached over for another container and huffed in exasperation. “If I had a beard and a man bun I’d be a cancelled show on Food Network.”

Milo’s face softened and he started chuckling, while he finally got his ass in gear and walked a box to the truck.

“You’re so over the top sometimes. But okay,” he said, raising his hands.

Palms out. “It’s only a six-month trial.

You can always come back. Your truck is doing fine here.

It’s not like you’re going out of business or anything. People love those burritos.”

He grabbed his coffee and drank deeply before continuing with his pep talk.

“I mean, true, it’s hard to make a living out here with all the competition, but your food sells well. You’ve been killing it at Smorgasburg when you’re down in Brooklyn. Those hipsters go crazy over your shit.”

I shook my head forcefully at his words as I slammed the back doors of the truck closed.

I stepped away from the vehicle, taking a long look at it.

Emblazoned on the back was the logo for my business, OuNYe, Afro-Caribbean Food in huge bold black font on a red background.

The black and red contrasted with the flags of the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Haiti, and Jamaica painted over the entire truck.

To name my business, I used a word from the Yoruba language. Which had been spoken all over the Caribbean by our ancestors, the West Africans who were brought there as slaves. Ounje is the Yoruba word for nourishment, and I’d decided to play a bit with things and put the NY right at the center.

The two worlds that made me merged into one word.

OuNYe was my baby. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into getting this idea off the ground.

Street food filled with the flavors of the Caribbean.

My roots and those of Juan Pablo, Camilo, and Patrice, my three best friends.

The food we had grown up with and had been our connection to where we came from, while our families tried to make a life here in the Big Apple.

Now I was taking one last shot at making my living from it.

I looked over at Milo, who was still gulping down coffee.

“I’ve been doing this for two years, and I need to be able to make a decent living.

I’m not going to be sweating it out for the rest of my life, to barely break even.

If I can’t get it off the ground like I want to in Ithaca, I’m done. Se acabo.”

Milo clicked his tongue like it was taking every ounce of patience he had not to hit me upside the head.

“Oh my god, you gotta stop. You’ve agonized over this move for a year. You’ll be doing business like gangbusters up there. You’re gonna kill it. You know white people love ‘ethnic’ food wrapped in a tortilla.”

He held up his hands with his index fingers hooked together, ready to start pulling out the receipts to shut down my bullshit.

“First of all, the concept is awesome, and your food is delicious. Second, there isn’t any Caribbean food anywhere up there. Now stop whining before I lose my temper with you! I’ve had like three sips of this coffee, and you know better than to aggravate me when I’m not properly caffeinated.”

I could only laugh, “You’re an idiot,”

This is why I knew Milo and the guys coming along for the drive up was a good idea. Because despite the fact that he was salty as fuck sometimes, the guy could be a hell of a hype man.

I walked to my Prius, which Milo would be driving up to Ithaca, met him by the driver’s side door, and handed him the keys.

“Here, don’t drive like a fucking maniac.

I texted you the address where we’ll stop for lunch.

There’s a truck stop so we can park. Patrice and Juanpa already left in J’s truck.

They’ll meet us there.” I pointed a finger at his head.

“Again, do not drive while reading something on your phone or text the guys while the car is moving.”

“Pshh, you’re being mad extra today.” Milo blew me off. “Stress is not a good look on you, pa.” He scrunched his face, pressing the point as he got in the car. “See you in a couple of hours.” I stepped back and watched him set up Google Maps on his phone and drive off with a little wave.

I went back to stand by the truck and looked around one last time. It was a beautiful Sunday morning in New York City. The sun was shining and it was going to be a perfect spring day.

People in this corner of Manhattan, right up against the Hudson River, were already buzzing past me, heading to jobs and lives.

Going after their little piece of the American dream.

I choked up because this felt final, like it would never be my New York City again.

This place was not just where I lived, it was part of my DNA, and I was convinced I would never feel at home anywhere else.

After twenty-seven years of calling this place mine, I was leaving.

I took one last look at my surroundings and inhaled the smell of fresh coffee and hot oil from the empanada cart down the street.

I stood right off Broadway, on 155th street, Boricua College on my right, Trinity Church Cemetery on my left, and the Hudson straight ahead.

This had been my neighborhood for almost eight years, and I was going to miss it. I was going to miss all of it.

I sighed as I made my way back to the truck and climbed in. I got the map up on my phone, pushed down my sunglasses, and started the truck.

I was ready.

I was going after my dream, to pursue my passion. As I headed out of the city, I looked out and said a silent “See you soon.”

If it didn’t work out in Ithaca, I’d be back soon enough.

I was a son of New York City, and she would always have me back with open arms.

The day ended up being perfect for a long drive. Just a bit before two p.m., I took the exit for Ithaca and began to feel the nervous anticipation of what was to come. I was adventurous when it came to travel or trying new things, but not with my livelihood.

Immigrants didn’t fuck around with a steady stream of income. If you were making a decent living, you worked your ass off to keep it on lock.

Pursuing your passion? Risking everything on a dream?

That was for people with trust funds, not a Dominican kid from the Bronx.

While I coasted down the rural two-lane road that led to my destination, I thought about what this move meant.

It’d been terrifying to leave a good and secure job to try my luck in something so unpredictable, and where the chances for utter failure were sky-high.

Sure, I was confident in my skills, in my food, but I knew there would be a long way down if I failed.

This was not just a side-hustle anymore. I was going all-in with my business. It felt big, like it could change everything.

Before I got to my mom’s, I decided to stop at the gas station where I was going to park the truck for lunch services and check out the location. I was low on gas too, so I could kill two birds with one stone.

Navigating one of the many hills of Ithaca entering downtown, it was like I was seeing it for the first time.

I drove by houses painted in bright colors and narrow streets full of trees laden with flowers.

It was so green and quaint here. I wasn’t sure how I’d fit in, being so used to the fast pace of the city.

I turned the steering wheel of the truck and wedged into an empty spot next to a pump.

I jumped out and glanced around, taking in the location.

I couldn’t help the grin that broke out on my face.

Of course, my mom would somehow manage to find me the best possible spot in town.

It was right by the public library and all around were commercial buildings.

There would be a lot of foot traffic during the week.

I got distracted while I filled the truck and didn’t notice the car that drove up on the other side of me.

It was a small, green Subaru hatchback with a Human Rights Campaign sticker on the back window.

The guy who jumped out was gorgeous. He had the blondest hair I’d ever seen and was wearing jeans and a black NPR t-shirt.