And that’s what we do. When word gets out, a line forms, and I take a peek at the number of chicken breasts we still have — basically our inventory for tomorrow — and realize that this is costing us probably a thousand dollars.
We can make more money tomorrow. This feels amazing.
Some of the homeless people — who knows, really, if they’re homeless or not — thank us profusely. But most of them just take the food and go on their way. It doesn’t matter. By the end of the day, when Jordan hands out the very last frozen lemonade and we close the window, it’s probably nine o’clock and we are utterly dripping with sweat. I wring out the bottom of my shirt and sweat drips onto the floor.
We clean up and the feeling in the truck is utter bliss. Like my chest could soar out of my mouth. Like I could jump a mile in the air and float on back down. I don’t know if Jordan feels it too.
Until he puts the clean blender away, turns to me, and puts his mouth on mine.
“Oh,” I say into his mouth.
Our soaked shirts merge. I feel his damp, skinny legs against my sopped, thick ones, and his cheek sweat mingles with mine. I feel his lips turn upward into a smile and he pulls back.
“We should do that. Every day.”
“We couldn’t afford to,” I say.
“Well we should do it again sometime. I had no idea. With Kayla and Pam especially, it’s like we’re supposed to be numb and above everything all the time. Right there, feeding strangers for free? I felt, like, not above.” His eyes tear up, and I have to look away because it’s cheesy as shit, and damn it, I feel the same way exactly. “I mean, above in that we have the food and they need it. But also, in that moment? I felt like I could be homeless. And I won’t be, now, because we’re food truck moguls and soon we’ll live in a mansion I guess. But I mean, I felt like I could understand what it would be like to put my head on a bench and sleep in this heat.”
I sit on the floor and pull Jordan down with me by his shirt. The floor is sticky with sauce that’s dripped off the chicken and probably some lemonade overflow, and I don’t give a damn.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’ve been hanging with my buds — we call ourselves the Three Amigos — for the last three years. Other than baseball and family, that’s what I do. And they rock. But it’s nothing like this. These two times we’ve hung out after work? Best days of my life.”
I find I can’t look him in the eye when I say it. I study the truck from the angle of the floor. The dashboard up front looks like it’s from some old, black-and-white movie, maybe. It’s amazing we haven’t stalled.
“Me too,” Jordan says, and he puts his hand in mine. “I know two days is only two days, but when I’m with my wives — I call them my wives — it’s like I’m always wondering how I come off. And I’m always doing what they want. I feel more like me with you.”
I turn to him. He turns to me. We kiss once more, this time more tender, more deep. His breath is the tiniest bit stale, and I devour him anyway. I run my fingers through his sopped black hair, and he sighs a little.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks into my mouth.
“Count on it,” I say.
“Mom!” I yell. “Mom!”
I just about burst in the front door, and Dorcas, bless her heart, does her jump-up greeting, putting her paws on my stomach. I scruff her hair and she pants at me. Her breath is awful.
I know it’s 10:30, and Mom could be asleep but probably not. I don’t care. This is worth waking her up for sure.
It’s not just pride about feeding the homeless. It’s that I’m happy about Max, my — what is he? Is he my boyfriend? My boyfriend! — and I want to tell Mom. More importantly, I am dying to see her face when I tell her that we’ve already — already! — made enough money to pay the back mortgage, and at this rate if we work all summer I can probably pay a year in advance before going back to school.
Mom is going to be so proud! And yeah. Maybe I’m growing up this summer, but there’s nothing quite like a proud look on Mom’s face, and I guess also I hope it’ll raise her spirits.
She’s not in the TV room. There, next to her cell phone, are a few Twinkie wrappers on the kitchen island, a plate with sandwich crumbs, and a still-open bottle of mayonnaise. I run to her bedroom. The door isn’t closed so I know she’s not asleep.
But also she’s not there.
Which is weird. I wander the house, wondering where in the hell she could be. I don’t remember the last time she was out this late. Without her phone too. I peer out the front window. Her car is gone. I hadn’t noticed coming in.
I sit on the couch and text Kayla and Pam.
Me: So Max and I fed homeless people at Tempe Town Lake!
Kayla: Aww Jordan Teresa
Pam: You need like a sari
Me: You are. We like made over a thousand bucks today and we celebrated and then it was like we need to do something for someone else so we went and handed out food
Kayla: Your medal arrives tomorrow sweetie
Pam: And your sari
Me: Haha my boyfriend and I are better people than you
Pam: Have you even done the nasty yet
Me: Not yet
Pam: Not yr boyfriend, doll. Kissing is like whatever. If yr not doing it? Nah.
Kayla: Gotta rule with Pam on this one. Not yr boyfriend. Sorry sweetie
Pam: Friend zone
Me: Thnks vry supportive
Kayla: Just keepin it real
I put the phone down. Fifteen minutes ago I felt as good as I’d ever felt. Now I feel like crap.
I text Max.
Me: My mom’s not home
Max: Is that weird?
Me: Yeah a little
Max: You worried?
Me: Yah
Max: Want me to come over?
Me: Nah but thanks. I’ll let you know. Had so much fun with you today
Max: <big smile>
Me: <me too>
Max: <smooch>
Me: Pam and Kayla said you’re not my boyfriend and we’re in the friend zone because we only kiss
Max: Sigh … fuck them. I am your boyfriend. And stop telling them our business
I squeak. Literally. Dorcas, lying at my feet, tilts her head like, Huh? I mouth the word “boyfriend” to her and she yawns. Clearly she does not understand the nuance of this momentous occasion. I have a boyfriend! When my fingers stop shaking, I go back to texting, making sure to keep it casual.
Me: I always tell them everything. Are Betts and Zay-Rod mean to you?
Max: Yeah but it’s just trash talk
Me: I guess so but it was kinda like, why?
Max: I hear ya. Get some sleep, k?
Me: Nah gonna wait up for my mom.
Max: Text me when she gets there. Or if you need me. K?
Me: K. Thanks
I watch some Kimmy Schmidt and then some 30 Rock, which is a way underrated comedy. I’m about to drift off to sleep when I hear the front door creak open and Dorcas scramble her paws against the tile as she runs to greet whoever it is.
My mom lopes into the TV room and drops her car keys in the plate where we put keys and loose change. She looks as tired as I feel. “Hey, you’re still up,” she says.
I sit up. “Hey. Where were you?” I say.
She pauses dramatically. “Oh my God,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Worst meeting ever.”
Of course! I forgot about her Wednesday night Gamblers Anonymous meeting. I give her a sleepy laugh because I’ve heard the stories. The way that some people will talk for like twenty minutes because they refuse to institute a time limit on sharing because it might hurt someone’s feelings. I stand up, stretch, go to her, and bury my head in her shoulder, which I can tell surprises her because she freezes up momentarily before embracing back. She reeks of smoke, which is what happens at Gamblers Anonymous meetings because everyone is an addict and they all smoke like cigarettes are the new crack during breaks. But this time she smells even smokier. And it’s really late.
“You do the meeting after the meeting?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes again and laughs a bit. “I don’t know why I even bother. Gwen G. makes me homicidally crazy.” She goes to the refrigerator, pulls out a chocolate pudding, grabs a spoon, and sits on the couch. Dorcas comes and curls up at her feet, and she massages Dorcas’s stomach with the bottom of her left foot.
I sit back down on the couch opposite her.