“Nice,” he says.
“Yeah.” I dip it into the sauce and put it in my mouth and the taste. Oh my God, the taste. It’s like eating a salty stick of tangy, spicy butter, maybe. So rich and sweet and … perfect. I almost cry. “Oh my God.”
He cracks up. “I love crab legs more than I love my mom,” he says. “And I love my mom a lot.”
“I get that. And can we get, like, more? Do a crab leg flight?”
“Absolutely. We worked our asses off in that heat. We got the rest of the day to do whatever. You up for an adventure?”
I nod and nod and nod. No words are needed. Clearly nothing in the world would be better than more time with Max.
We park the truck in my garage, Max picks me up in his truck, and we do up the town.
First we go to a trampoline park. Trampoline parks are about the last thing I would ever do on my own, or with the girls. Sounds like a good way to lose a testicle, or at best get annoyed by loud, boisterous boys. But suddenly I am kind of a loud, boisterous boy, and we get on the mats and Max shows me he can do a three-sixty jump off the side wall, where he somersaults in the air and somehow lands back on his feet.
“Whoa!” I say. I know better than to try to copy it, so instead I chance a side jump, where I get next to the wall, jump, twist my feet so they bounce off the wall, and land back on the mat.
“Weak, dude,” he says.
“Hey, I’m new.”
“At everything,” he says, and this makes me bounce away toward this area where I see some dodgeballs. I pick one up, cradle it in my arms, bounce back toward Max, who is trying his flips and all that, and hurl it at his head while he’s not looking. It misses by about a foot and bounces away toward a young girl, who picks it up with a delighted squeal.
“What the?” Max says. “Did you just?”
“I did just,” I say.
This time he leads us over to what turns out to be the designated dodgeball area — oops. I mouth Sorry to the kid who is working the area and is frowning at me. He ignores me, probably because I am the most pathetic trampoline person in the world. And for once I don’t really give two craps.
Max starts whaling balls at me and I have no dodging skills and I quickly remember why I hate dodgeball; those balls kinda hurt when they hit you in the stomach, you know? But unlike the horrifying experiences I had in gym class back in sixth grade, this time it’s fun. I fall onto the mat a few times and bounce back up, which makes me giggle, and a few times I throw at Max and actually come close to him. One he catches with one hand, which is pretty impressive.
I’m covered in sweat, which is gross and suddenly not that gross. Everyone here is slick with the stuff, and everyone is smiling, and while I imagine the comments Kayla and Pam would make about how ridiculous I look, I let them go. Having way too much fun for that for once.
We Angry Crab, we trampoline, we go and check out the marshmallow café, where they make various kinds of s’mores.
It’s all a blast, and I’ve never spent money like this before. By the time we’re at the café, having our second s’more each — I try the Elvis one with peanut butter, chocolate, and bananas, and he goes with one with mint marshmallows and chocolate — we’re drunk with power and starting to dream up ways to spend money.
“Rent a limo for a night? Go to dinner and a movie in a limo?” I ask.
“Go to dinner in it and then watch a movie in the limo,” he suggests.
“Yes. That. We gotta do that. Live the high life.”
“I always thought I was like that Lorde song,” Jordan says. “Was wrong. We will be royals. Obviously.”
“We’ll franchise. Become food truck moguls,” I say.
By the time I’m done with the second s’more, though, my stomach is done. Like I can’t even imagine eating more food, and I can down some food usually. I pat my stomach and Jordan laughs.
“I know,” he says. “Not even another bite. So what do we do? Call it a day? I guess we can do this every day after work if we want.”
I laugh. He’s right. I mean, I want to put some money away, but when you start making hundreds each day, money begins to lose its meaning. We could totally make this a daily habit. But thinking about it, my insides cramp a little. Not from the food either.
“I think we’re Donald Trump-ing,” I say.
He makes a face. “Ew.”
“Yeah. Ew. I actually think this is how you become the kind of person who puts his name in gold letters on buildings all over the world. You get increasingly immune to the good life.”
“Yes! Exactly. It’s like, Angry Crab was perfect today. But if we went every day, it would lose that.”
“Right. True,” I say.
Jordan demurely blots his face with a napkin, and I stare into space, thinking about how to be the anti-Trump.
“What was that called? Hooligan do-goodery?” I ask.
His eyes light up. “Yes!”
“You feel like doing one?”
“Sure,” he says, and I watch as he sits up and I can tell his brain starts spinning. I shake my head.
“Nah. This one’s my choice,” I say.
I can tell he doesn’t like giving up the control for about a nanosecond.
“Trust me,” I say.
“Don’t I always?”
I don’t actually know where I’m going for our hooligan do-goodery when I get into the truck, but by the time I drive us to Jordan’s and we get the food truck back and head toward the 101 North, I know exactly where we’re going.
I park across the street from Tempe Beach Park along Mill Avenue, right where the steakhouse Monti’s used to be before the rents got too high, right across from the old Hayden Flour Mill.
“More work?” Jordan asks, and even though he keeps a straight face, I can hear the slight irritation in his voice. “That’s not exactly an act of hooligan do-goodery.”
“Trust me,” I say again, and in silence we do our prep work. For a moment I wonder if I misjudged him. I think this idea is awesome. I hope he will too, but I’m truly not sure.
We open the window, put up the awning, and Jordan grabs the whiteboard to write the menu.
“No prices,” I say.
“No prices,” he repeats.
“Hooligan do-goodery.”
He shrugs and erases the prices and writes Everything Free! on top. He shows it to me and I smile.
“We’re feeding the homeless,” I say.
He stands there, motionless for a moment, and again I get afraid I’ve misjudged him. Then his lips curve up.
“Oh. Wow. Okay. Wow.”
I nod, and I get off the truck and speak loudly.
“If you’re hungry, we got food for you right here!” I yell. “All kindsa chicken, and fresh frozen lemonade too. Step right up!”
Mill Avenue, and especially the park, are known as the places homeless kids hang. For nine months out of the year, it’s probably not the worst life, though obviously most people would prefer a place to sleep, but at least the weather’s good. But in the summer, man. I wonder sometimes how the kids make it. I love me some heat, but at some point I get to go inside, turn up the air, and chill. These people don’t get that luxury, and I’m guessing it’s harder to make a living in the summer, when fewer people are walking along the street.
A haggard-looking, skinny kid with a backward red baseball cap and a few days of scraggly beard wanders up. I’m standing at the window with Jordan, and when he gets close I can see track marks on his right arm.
“Free? For real?”
“Whatever you want, my man,” I say.
He looks at the menu. “Can I get two? One for my girl and one for me?”
“Sure,” I say. “Which one?”
“I don’t care,” he says, and then he says, “Habanero. I like it spicy. But hers maybe mango-cayenne? Cayenne is less hot, right?”
“Yup,” I say, giving him a smile, and I pivot back to the grill and get to work.
I hear the blender going as I work, and I look over.
“I’m just gonna start making ’em and handing ’em out,” he says.