Lost in LA

by Amy Craig

  “Heat,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  She cleared her throat. “So now I’m a gateway to respectability?”

  He cocked his head and considered his response, the silence stretching between them. “You’re fulfilling an older couple’s fantasy for the next generation and giving them a reason to release their stubborn hold on their unused property.”

  I liked it better when I was the date you couldn’t quite have. She shook her head. “That’s just it. I don’t want to time my moves to match a laugh track. I don’t want the confusion and vulnerability of second-guessing every word you say and doubting my place in the world. I thought we had limits.” Her voice cracked and she hiccupped.

  He reached for her and pulled her to him.

  She pressed her cheek against his chest and instead of tasting cardamom, she tasted the salt of her tears. Missing the passion and excitement of their stolen kisses, she struggled to stem her tears. “I don’t usually cry this much.”

  Nolan rubbed her back, shifting his stance to absorb the weight of her feelings. “I didn’t mean to put you in that situation, Wylie. I just saw the three of you laughing and I went along with it. For a minute, I thought you just wanted an apology for me touching your butt.”

  She hiccupped and wiped away her tears. “So you’re saying you were desperate?”

  “For your butt?”

  She snorted and wiped her face of signs of her embarrassment. When are the dynamics between us going to level out? “Something like that.”

  He looked down at her and his posture stiffened as he held himself back. “I still want to take you out to dinner. I still want to see your eyes light up when I walk into the room. Nothing about my feelings for you has changed, but for a minute, I just forgot everything we said when we were alone. I saw the deal and I saw the effect you had on them without thinking of the ramifications. Chalk it up to poor impulse control.”

  She swallowed.

  Nolan ran his hand through his hair, each stroke rekindling her warmth and attraction to the man.

  “Give me a break, Wylie. I know I can do better.”

  But do I want you to?

  “We can flirt and wink as much as you want, Nolan, but hands off.”

  He released her and stepped back. “That’s what you want?”

  She inhaled, holding on to the limits of a pretend relationship like the lifeline she needed to stay afloat. Hadn’t she thrilled to his touch before reality had set in? He’s not the only one benefitting from a fake relationship. I can use the Abramowitzes as an excuse to keep my vulnerable emotions under control and still spend time with him. It’ll buy me a while until I can trust my instincts.

  “It might not be what I want, but it’s what I need.”

  “You’re kind of amazing, Wylie, to do this for me.”

  She shook her head and ushered him from her room before she exposed her real desires and motives. “Thanks, dear.”

  * * * *

  When they arrived at the commissary, Nolan turned up the music volume in the Bronco and jumped out of the truck. The facility buzzed with the chaos of a schoolyard, but he strode into the melee and dealt with the logistics of provisioning and preparing his food truck for the night. Workers in chef’s whites greeted him before giving him updates on their completed work or changes to the menu. Drivers handed him clipboards to sign and asked about unloading freight.

  Wylie tried to absorb the flow of information. He was right about chaos and unimaginable logistics. How does he handle this level of activity every night?

  “Easy does it on the pepper in the tomato soup,” said a honeyed voice.

  Wylie recognized the familiar cadence and turned away from the orchestrated activity of the commissary’s worker bees.

  The speaker stilled the hand of a man holding a large shaker of red pepper. “Not everyone can hang with your masochistic Mexican taste buds.”

  The man moderating the tomato soup could have easily been the same one who had challenged Rusty’s ego with claims of targeting and social profiling. His voice reminded her of old newscasts and classic movie heroes.

  Searching for the actor, she squinted and scanned the women packaging baked goods. The woman raised her head and Wylie swore she saw neon green earrings hidden beneath the woman’s pinned black curls and industrial hair net. I’m surrounded by ringers. Did they all show up to the Social Club as a favor to Nolan?

  “We’ll have a big crowd tonight.” Nolan pulled a checklist from a basket waiting at the end of the prep table. “This event is part of a year-long celebration of movies, food and music underwritten by the Los Angeles Times.” He jerked his head toward Wylie. “She’s new, so I need someone else to come along and help us keep up.”

  Every person in the space dedicated to Modesto raised their hand.

  “You won’t be able to see the massive three-story inflatable movie screen, the local bands providing pre-show entertainment or visit any of the other food trucks until we’re closed down.” Half the hands went down and Nolan nodded. “On the bright side, tips will probably make up for your disappointment.”

  The man holding the red pepper shook his head and reached for the paprika.

  “Come on, Esther,” Nolan said to the probable samba dancer, “You’re up.”

  “Que sorte!” the woman said. She unbuttoned her jacket and headed toward the exit.

  Wylie smiled. Well, they have more than one reason to like him. She followed the woman to the parking lot and cleared her throat. “Hi, I’m Wylie.”

  “Boa tarde.”

  Boa? Wylie a deep breath. She’s got to speak enough English to have responded to Nolan’s offer. “Tell. Me. What. To. Do?”

  The woman laughed and Wylie inventoried everything she knew about Brazilians. Rio de Janeiro and the World Cup seemed like poor approximations for their culture, so she gave up on small talk, shook her head and walked toward the food truck. She’ll make friends when she’s ready.

  A stack of painted bistro chairs chained through the legs and a box of multi-colored prayer flags told her she had found the right truck. Nolan exited the commissary building and entered the work yard as she wondered whether to load the items into the food truck or find the keys to his Bronco.

  “Okay, Esther, let’s bring the truck to the building so the guys can load the food and the bistro sets.” He tossed his car keys to Wylie. “You load up the packaging and the utensils in the Bronco and follow me out of the yard.”

  She caught the keys and stared at them. “You want me to drive your truck?”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  No, just an unexpected perk. She gave thanks she had not offered to drive her vehicle. “Yes, chef.”

  Nolan grinned.

  “Então vamos meter o pé antes que o Rio de Janeiro alague.”

  “Do you have any idea what she’s saying?” she asked Nolan.

  He shook his head.

  She sighed. “Maybe it’s better if I don’t know.”

  * * * *

  The collection of food trucks at the event made Wylie blink in alarm. She had seen Nolan’s truck perform well in front of the yoga studio, but the diversity of this scene overwhelmed her senses. The street food and catering options rivaled the population of the United Nations as she put the Bronco in park and surveyed the signs advertising Middle Eastern, Thai Fusion, Indian, Mexican, lobster, wings and fries. We’re just shilling healthy food at a decent price. She frowned. What’s the competitive advantage?

  Nolan climbed down from the driver’s seat and threw open the back doors of the truck. “Stack the paper goods by the door and Esther will put them where they go.” He fired up the generator and plugged in a strand of patio lights. “After we finish the stock, jump over to the bathroom and give your hands a good scrub up to the elbows. The first customers will be here by the time we get everything set up.”

  She jumped into action and gave thanks for her tennis shoes against the cool traction o
f the grass. “Just tell me what to do, bossman.”

  They fired up the equipment, set up the bistro chairs and sanitized their hands as Nolan dished out gloves to her and Esther. “This event is too big for the inspectors to show up, but if anyone has questions on licenses or food handling, send them to me.”

  “Wait! Where will I be?” Wylie asked. The reality of the situation made her panic and second-guess her ability to be helpful. Will the health department break down the door and cite me for some vague regulation I should have learned in a certification class?

  “Buttering sandwich bread and running the other room-temperature foods. Esther will man the heat and I’ll take the orders. A twelve-year-old kid could do your job.”

  Thank you for small mercies. She closed her eyes and wondered how hard it could be to swill rice and beans with a sprinkling of cilantro. I mean, if a twelve-year-old could do it… She thought of herself at that age, one eye trained on adulthood. I’ve come a long way since then.

  The truck next to them advertised Korean-Mexican fusion such as tacos and burritos filled with Korean-style barbecued meats and kimchi. A woman leaned on the windowsill, chewing gum while she waited for the gates to open and a customer to appear. The men loitering near the side doors wore tight white shirts that revealed large biceps and a heat-honed sheen that spoke of hours and hours spent working the food truck. She swallowed and dismissed her ambitions for a carefree, playful mood. I think they’ve advanced beyond the cilantro.

  Chapter Nine

  Wylie collapsed into a bistro chair. Her legs and back hurt, but she worried about the tightness in her chest. The constriction felt like weight and reduced her breath to a slow wheeze. Now is not the time. Pulling air into her lungs, she tried to fight the pressure of an asthma attack without using her inhaler.

  Nolan, oblivious to her struggles, unplugged patio lights as the stewards of the neighboring trucks emerged to smoke, change their shirts and partake of their evening meals.

  When the tightness persisted, she pulled a rescue inhaler from her purse and triggered the medication to open her airways. She watched the steady stream of cars leaving the venue as her lungs opened and she drew easier breaths. The neighboring workers watched her for a moment, still gauging her reaction and debating the need for intervention. “Damn allergies,” she said to diffuse her embarrassment.

  What about this night hasn’t been embarrassing? She had updated her status and laughed when a few patrons mentioned the ‘Mini Mako’ promo code, but the rest of her evening had skirted disaster. Within the first hour, she had burned her arm, dropped two orders and developed a guilt-complex about the line of customers waiting outside Nolan’s window. Free of the demand of hungry patrons, she pulled off her hairnet and crumbled it into a wad. I doubt we got very many tips.

  “Not so bad, Gatinha.”

  Wylie winced and looked at Esther. The able-bodied woman had manned the hot plates and grill with an innate dexterity that must have predated her samba skills. “I’m sorry I messed up so many orders. I usually think I’m a quick study.”

  The woman laughed and adjusted her earrings. “When the popular trucks launched in 2009, people used to wander up to the truck like dos mortos-vivos. Zombies,” she clarified. “I worked in my momma’s clothing shop after school and I’d see the office workers staring at their mobile devices with puzzled expressions and fierce determination. They waited in line for hours to order fusion tacos and quesadillas drizzled with sweet chili sauce, but few of them knew what to expect until their first bite.”

  “That was a decade ago.” Wylie hung her head and realized those hungry hordes had abandoned their physical keyboards and outdated operating systems. How quickly will they abandon beachside yoga and the health emphasis that sustains my livelihood?

  “Don’t matter in this town,” Esther replied. “Social media trained them to be patient, especially at a venue like this one. Nobody comes out here expecting fast food and flawless service. They just want to have a good time.”

  “Well, I hope we met their expectations.”

  Esther laughed. “Gatinha, the night is just getting started.”

  “Well, it can’t get much worse.”

  Esther looked at the group of employees hanging out by the next food truck. One man sprayed a mixture of water and bleach into a trash can while the other tied garbage bags and tossed them into a pile of refuse waiting behind the truck. The third employee, a woman with pale pink hair, looked at Wylie’s coworker and smiled. Esther turned to Wylie. “So what’s up with you and bossman?”

  “Up?” She swallowed and looked for Nolan.

  He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with another vendor in front of the electrical panel for a humming truck.

  “Why does something have to be ‘up’ with us?”

  “I’ve never seen two people work so hard to keep their distance in all my life. I’m friendlier with o carteiro.”

  Wylie smiled. “Maybe that’s your cup of tea.”

  The woman stood and stretched, her millennial pink hair brilliant against her tanned skin. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? Well, Nolan and I are not exactly seeing each other. It’s complicated, but I’m here to work, just like you are.”

  “Dá Deus nozes a quem não tem dentes.”

  Wylie sighed. “You’re very selective with your English.”

  Esther looked at her and smiled. “I’m very selective with everything.” She fixed her hair and responded to their neighbor’s invitation with the sensuous walk of a woman who knew everyone within a fifty-foot radius was watching her move.

  There’s a difference between grace and flexibility. Right now, I’m not sure I have either one. What’s the difference between friendship and a fake relationship? I thought the answer was heat and clear expectations, but what happens when the bleed of dishonesty stains other friendships? I can’t play housewife with Nolan and ignore him five hours later.

  She held up her arm and looked at the raised red welt of the burn. Next time it won’t be my arm that gets hurt.

  “Did you put some cream on that?”

  She looked up and found Nolan standing at her side, illuminated by the vague glow of distant headlights. The slow bustle of decommissioning faded from her mind until the two of them remained in a cocoon of warm spring air. She scooted over and made room on the metal steps imprinted with a diamond pattern. “I’m pretty sure I slowed you down tonight.”

  He sat next to her and shook his head. “We made it work between the three of us.”

  “But you’re paying me to carry my share of the load.”

  He exhaled. “Why are you so hung up about earning your place?”

  She laughed, too nervous to ruin the easy comradery of the moment. “I don’t want to calculate my contribution to your bottom line. It’d be low.”

  “Wylie,” he said, looking at her, “it’s not a matter of whether you earned your keep or not. I asked you to do a job and you did your best to accomplish the task. If anything, kudos for doing the work with little training and zero experience.”

  “I’ve been a waitress.”

  “I’d be more interested in your resume if you’d been a line chef.”

  She blinked to break the intimacy of his stare and focused on the splatter of food staining his jeans. The duck and weave of three people maneuvering in the shared space had thrilled and confounded her. If his jeans are stained with beans and sour cream, mine probably look and smell a lot worse. But it doesn’t matter. I still wanted him. I still noticed every time our skin brushed. Stick to your guns, Wylie. This gig is strictly look but don’t touch. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sorry, chef, no such luck.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you did fine. I don’t want you to push yourself too hard.” He picked up her arm and turned it to expose the red welt. “I don’t want you to risk these kinds of burns.” He lowered his head and kissed the exposed skin near the welt. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

&
nbsp; She pulled back her arm and tucked it in her lap, ignoring the tingle from his lips and the soft scratch of his beard. Instead of meeting his gaze, she focused on the line of taillights leaving the festival. “Sometimes I can be too transactional about my place in the world. I guess it’s a holdover from being an only child with too much access to my family’s finances. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone.”

  He stayed silent and adjusted his position.

  She felt the wind slide between their bodies and wished she could lean into his warmth. “And the people who come to my yoga classes? You know, they’re not like my friends. I know I’m providing a service and they’re paying me to be nice to them.”

  “I’m paying you to be nice to me too,” he said. “Does that mean I should be suspicious of every smile?”

  Should I be suspicious of every kiss? She shook her head. “I think I’m getting the better end of the deal, assuming we can stick to our arrangement.”

  He sighed. “I know what you mean, though. It’s hard to manage expectations and family is the worst. Patty and John were like grandparents to me, but they still think I’m a kid. My mom thinks this food truck is a hobby. I don’t want her to be right about that assumption.”

  She wiped the grit from her forehead and glanced at her hand to confirm the grease she felt. “I can think of more relaxing hobbies.”

  He laughed, the sound deep and low, like the rumble of the first food trucks departing from the festival grounds. “I’m sure you can.”

  “Did you cook at a restaurant before you decided to open this food truck? Is it like your baby or something?” she asked.

  He scratched his beard. “Something like that. I was standing on a street corner in Europe with a fifteen-dollar sandwich and a can of soda and it struck me I’d be just as full with peanut butter and jelly.”

  “But it wouldn’t taste as good.” She stretched out her legs and leaned against the next step.