Joe’s in the middle of giving us the grand tour when there’s a rapid-fire knock on the side of the truck. A second later, a short, red-haired guy climbs the stairs.
“You’re late,” Joe barks at him as the guy squeezes his way inside. “Ladies, this is my nephew, Carter. He’s going to manage Tudor Tymes to Go.”
I know it’s not fair to make snap judgments, but Carter kind of looks like he crawled out of a swamp. And by that I mean he’s sort of dirty, with buggy eyes, and arms that are too long for his body. Definitely a guy you want to keep behind the scenes.
“While Carter is at the grill, you two will be serving customers.” Joe points to the take-out window. “You have ninety seconds to get the food from order to customer.”
Ninety seconds? There is no way. It takes us at least ten minutes to get a plate out at the restaurant.
“People have certain expectations about food trucks,” Joe says, registering my skeptical expression. “They’re on their lunch breaks, they want their food fast. So we need to give it to them as quickly as possible.”
Joe shuffles around Amy to get to the fridge. “Most of the food will be preprepared, with the exception of the turkey legs—Carter, you’ll need to fry those.” He pulls open the dented refrigerator door. The shelves are empty except for industrial-sized jars of condiments. “Obviously, you’ll be fully stocked when you leave here next week. If there’s no lineup—and I don’t think that will happen because we’ve got a real winning concept here—then you ladies will help Carter with prep.”
“You mean, like, cut vegetables and stuff?” Amy says.
“Yes, Amy. That’s exactly what I mean.” Joe lets the fridge door slam shut. “Now, we’ve had to modify our menu a bit. We’ll still serve turkey legs, of course, but also corn on the cob, salad, fries, and one of King Henry’s favorites, rice pudding.”
Joe spends a few minutes getting us familiar with the safety features of the truck, including pointing out where we can find the fire extinguisher (tucked underneath the counter) and the first aid kit (up front, in the glove compartment).
“What about the bathroom?” Amy asks. “I mean, there doesn’t seem to be one.”
“You’re right,” he says. “Bathroom breaks on your own time.”
“But what if we really have to go?”
“You’ll have to hold it.”
“Well, what if we can’t?”
Joe sighs and does what he always does when someone asks him a question he doesn’t want to answer—he changes the subject. “In case someone comes by to check our permit, it’s here”—he points to a small corkboard on the wall—“along with the truck’s schedule for the next two weeks.”
Amy and I lean forward to read the tiny spreadsheet. Pike Place. Alki Beach. Rock Fest. We smile at each other. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Quinn?” Joe says.
“Do we have to wear our costumes?”
Joe blinks. “Yes, Quinn. You have to wear your costumes.” He says this like I’ve just asked the dumbest question ever.
“It’s really hot in here.” My costume is sticking to me.
“Yeah. There’s no air-conditioning,” Amy says. “Isn’t that, like, against workers’ rights or something?”
“I’ll get you a fan.” Joe moves on, showing us how to work the old-fashioned cash register, before sending Amy outside so we can role-play a customer interaction.
Amy skips up to the window and takes her time studying the menu board. “Hmmm … do you use partially hydrogenated oils in your fries? Because trans fats are really bad for you—”
“Amy,” Joe barks. “Let’s take this seriously, all right?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “Fine. I guess I’ll have the special.” She hands me her pretend-money, which I pretend-deposit into the cash register.
I call the order to Carter. He’s leaning against the stove, studying his watch. When a minute passes, he hands me an empty plate.
I’m not sure how helpful this exercise is, considering we’re not really doing anything real. I guess the test will come when we’re actually out on the road. A prospect that seems ripe for disaster.
“Here you go!” I say with false cheer, passing an empty paper plate through the window to Amy. She eyeballs her nonexistent order. I can tell she’s thinking about complaining, but stops when Joe scowls at her.
He sets a tin can with a paper sign wrapped around it on the counter. He puts a couple of dollar bills in there—a trick that’s supposed to encourage people to tip. “I’m going to leave you in Carter’s hands for now,” he says. “See you inside.”
Amy smiles at Carter like she wouldn’t mind being left in his hands. Which, ew. Amy is a flirt—she can’t seem to help herself—and evidently swamp-monster looks and a boring personality aren’t a problem, particularly if she thinks the guy can get her somewhere. Although I’m not sure where, exactly, she thinks Carter will get her.
Her attraction is short-lived, however, because he immediately power trips by putting us to work filling plastic squeeze bottles with ketchup from one of the giant drums in the fridge. He stands there, staring at us with his froggy eyes, while we try to keep ketchup from getting all over our hands.
When Amy’s cell phone rings, she wipes her fingers on a paper towel and then grabs her phone out of her apron pocket. Before she can even look at the screen, Carter snatches it away from her.
“No personal calls on work time,” he says, dropping it into his chest pocket. “You can have this back at the end of your shift.”
“What if it’s an emergency?” she says.
“You can check your messages on your break.”
I guess watching us fill squeeze bottles must be as boring as actually filling them, because Carter eventually steps outside. A few seconds later, a plume of cigarette smoke slips through the open take-out window.
“I don’t know what I ever saw in him,” Amy says.
seventeen.
The next morning, Erin picks me up in her Prius. Her saxophone case is on the backseat, buckled in like a baby. I dump my clarinet case on the floor and slide into the passenger seat.
“Mornin’,” she says, handing me an iced coffee.
This, right here, is why Erin is my best friend. She instinctively knew how much I needed caffeine this morning. I didn’t sleep well. I was way too busy obsessing about having to face Caleb at band practice today.
I’ve been hoping that Caleb and I could pretend like that night on the beach didn’t exist. That he’d be okay with going back to being friends. But I’ve had, like, fifty text messages from him, and from the tone of them, I know that friendship is not what Caleb has in mind—his very dirty mind.
“So,” Erin says, sending me a sympathetic glance. “Practice should be big-time awkward today.”
“Yup.”
“What are you going to say to Caleb?”
“Well…” I fiddle with my straw. “I was thinking I could tell him that I’m Amish.”