Plus, food trucks were trending around the country and Durham didn’t have many yet.
I smiled at a few posts from people excited about Friday’s opening. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and I couldn’t help the excitement that began to bubble inside me. I nibbled on my bottom lip, unable to hold the superstition at bay, afraid of having too much confidence at this point. But hope still bloomed, washing away the lingering nerves and fear of failure.
The message box indicated someone had contacted me and it grabbed my attention. I eagerly opened it to find my first business related private message. It was sent this afternoon, and I instantly felt bad for not checking sooner. I would have to do better at keeping up with this page now that Foodie was finally becoming a reality.
I skimmed the message first, too nervous to dive into the content. My spirits jumped off a cliff and landed in a fiery explosion when I forced myself to go back to the beginning and read it word for word.
Checking out the name of the sender, I clicked on it and quickly skimmed through what I could see of his private profile page. Fear of being discovered burned at the back of my neck, but I promised myself that my business page kept my identity hidden. It was there to promote my food truck and nothing more. There was no personal information or picture of me. It was just the truck, Molly’s gorgeous promo material and my mission statement. The sender could glean as much information about me as I could about him. Which was virtually nothing.
Although clearly, he didn’t like me anyway.
James Q: I don’t understand the point of your food truck. There are already restaurants in that area of downtown. What are you hoping to accomplish? The other restaurants are going to crush you. Save yourself the pain.
My chest felt hollowed out by embarrassment. It was like he’d read my mind and thrown all of my insecurities and fears back at me, asking the same questions I was too afraid to say out loud.
Vann’s parking lot was the only real estate I’d looked at because he let me park there for free. Plus, I could park beside his building with access to power and water, promising to pay my portion of the utility bills of course. And I was in accordance with the city laws that pertained to the distance I needed to be away from brick and mortar restaurants. Lilou was the closest restaurant, and I parked exactly the required distance away.
The spot had been perfect. Unfortunately, it was also surrounded by other established restaurants. I consoled myself with the knowledge that none of them served what I would offer. My truck and menu were all about late night comfort food. The other six restaurants in the plaza catered to the high-end dining experience. My food would come in a box with unlimited napkins. Theirs required a dress code.
Insecurity was quickly replaced with outrage. Did this guy not know anything about the food industry?
I tapped out a response to James Q. And could we be honest for a second? That didn’t even sound like a real name.
Foodie the Food Truck: Thanks for the unwanted advice, James Q. But you missed the point, idiot. Go back to trolling the internet and living in your mom’s basement.
I quickly backspaced before my itchy fingers accidentally pressed send against my better judgment. The customer, or potential customer, in this case, was always right.
Foodie the Food Truck: Thanks for your concern, James.
We were obviously on a first name basis by now. He’d lost his right to the Q and any formality by being a complete jackass.
I continued my message response.
Foodie the Food Truck: But, I am not interested in competing with the other restaurants. In fact, I wouldn’t even consider myself a restaurant. I’m offering a completely different service that I’m hoping will be very popular in that particular section of town. Thank you for reaching out to me. I hope you give Foodie a try sometime soon!
I pressed send, impressed with my professionalism.
The cursor started blinking immediately, telling me he had started his reply.
Well, James. That was fast. Maybe he really was hanging out in his mom’s dingy basement.
A sense of dread filled me. If this guy was a troll, I might have just set him off. Both Vann and Molly warned me not to engage with people just looking for attention.
Just ignore the bad reviews, Vann advised. Interacting with them makes you the douche.
I scanned my message again, assuring myself that I didn’t add any douche-ness to it. I hoped I was good. James Q already seemed to have made up his opinion of me from his first message, so this could be bad.
James Q: The other restaurants might beg to differ.
I huffed at the screen, not liking James Q’s reply at all. So what if they thought I was competition? I didn’t move to the plaza to make friends. At least, not with the other restaurants.
I was across the street from Lilou for God’s sake. Nobody would ever put my food next to Killian Quinn’s and call it equal. Any sane person would feel sorry for me.
I felt sorry for me.
I tried appealing to James’s softer side. That’s right, I was going to win him over with my upbeat attitude and indomitable spirit. Kumbaya, James Q. Namaste and all that.
Foodie the Food Truck: The goal of Foodie is to make good, late night food that people can enjoy after a fun night out!
I worried over my exclamation point. Was it too much? Was James going to assume I was a hyperactive chipmunk?
James Q: So, you’re catering to hammered club rats by serving greasy street tacos?
Oh, my God, James Q was a real asshole! Forget that his estimation was almost exactly what I was trying to do. It was rude coming from a total stranger on the internet.
And what’s wrong with greasy street tacos?
Nothing.
Not a damn thing.
Hoping to wrap this up, I replied as politely as possible.
Foodie the Food Truck: Thanks again for getting in touch with me. I hope you change your mind about Foodie and give us a try!
Are you kidding me? Did I just use another exclamation point? What was wrong with me? This guy didn’t deserve exclamation points!
Oops. I meant, this guy didn’t deserve exclamation points. Please note the angry period at the end of that sentence.
James Q’s reply was short and to the point, but at least the conversation officially ended when he typed out a terse, Not likely.
I stared at those two words for a long time, waiting for them to trample my hopes and dreams, and force me to give up. Those words eventually would. I knew they would.