Lost in LA

by Amy Craig

  Nolan shook his head. “The next morning, I went out for coffee and paramedics were zipping that man into a body bag. Anything could have caused his death, but I started asking myself if I should have done more to help him.”

  “He needed more than food,” Jonathan said.

  “But what about the single mothers trying to hold down a job and manage their kids? What about the blue-collar employee who signed over his paycheck to cover unexpected medical bills? What about the seminary student who’s studying on a scholarship to pull himself up? They’re all humans and they all need food.”

  John and Patty looked at each other. “You can’t separate the two,” Patty said. “You can’t offer sustenance with one hand and dangle shelter with the other. Either you’re committed to being a good citizen of the world or you’re not.”

  Nolan nodded. “I might not be able to fix local housing markets, but I can do more with what I have—and you can too. By combining our assets, we can transform cash and goodwill into tangible benefits. I brainstormed what I could do to help people in need, but nothing clicked until I attended an event for the food community. The organizers had styled the event after TED Talks, but none of the attendees felt content to sit in a dimly lit auditorium. They milled in small groups, clustered around high-top tables and circulating tapas.”

  “You’d be amazed at what good food can do to improve the mood,” Patty said.

  Nolan smiled at the woman. “I think it was a setup. One of the speakers challenged chefs to feed the people in their restaurants but to also feed the people who lack access to healthy foods or need a helping hand. There’s a McDonald’s in Marseilles that’s known for giving people their first jobs along with a side of fries. The residents don’t throw their wrappers on the sidewalk. They stay loyal to that community for years.”

  Jonathan sighed. “The LA riots didn’t touch McDonald’s.”

  “Exactly!” Nolan said. “Communities safeguard organizations that earn their respect. Your commercial kitchen could be the next step toward turning Modesto into a concept that meets the needs of the twenty-first century. It could be the anchor for the local community.”

  “Or your mother could flip it when you get bored with your pet project,” Jonathan said.

  Nolan shook his head. “I give you my word.”

  “Well.” Patty smoothed the napkin in her lap. “What more could you ask for than that?”

  Jonathan kept his gaze focused on Nolan and raised his eyebrows. “Fair market value.”

  Wylie swallowed.

  Nolan laughed. “You know as well as I do that my offer is competitive. I told Wylie I don’t want to oversee the work. I want to do it. I’ll tell you the same thing. This project means something to me, and Wylie’s passion for the city’s most vulnerable citizens has brought clarity to my mission.”

  Beaming with pride, Wylie started when she felt Nolan squeeze her hand under the table. The gesture surprised her and she squeezed it back, realizing that she’d forgotten how long he had been holding it. She met his gaze and smiled, feeling that the passion behind his speech eclipsed the work of a dozen script writers. Oh, I’m going to do all the work tonight.

  “There are benefits to being rich,” he said. “We’re not helping blue-collar workers. We’re opening our doors to help every man, woman and child who needs food, because we’re the richest nation in the world.”

  Wylie kept her mouth closed and picked up her salad fork. Nolan, you have no idea what kind of benefits I have in store for you.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “See? You didn’t need me to close the deal,” she said the next morning. “The only thing you needed to secure John and Patty’s support was to open up to them and share how you got to this amazing place in your life.”

  He skimmed a hand along her side. “I’m pretty sure this amazing place started with arrogance and a kiss.”

  The invitation hung between them, but drowning his insecurities with a burst of pleasure felt like a disservice. “Patty and John don’t think you’re a kid, Nolan. I’ve never met your mom, but I’m sure she wants to support you, whatever you choose. Tell her what you’re doing. Let her see that Modesto isn’t just a hobby.”

  His hand stilled. “Your influence is messing with my business plan. It’s not the right time to get her involved in my projections.”

  Get involved in this or get involved in us? Sighing, she let his hand wander along her skin, giving in to the pleasure of his touch before she made a stand. I could get used to waking up like this, but where will it end? She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “So let’s keep going on the business plan. Today’s the day you get to test drive some of the menu offerings?”

  His hand stilled and he sighed. “Yeah, I emailed the coalition yesterday. They’re getting the word out. Wraps tonight, and if we’re successful, we’ll schedule another week for soups and stews over grains.” He took a deep breath. “What if they don’t like it?”

  She turned and propped herself on one elbow, smiling at the hint of uncertainty keeping a smile from his clear green eyes. “What if they do?”

  * * * *

  Jack, Antonia, Neil and Rikard stared at the bustle of the commissary yard. “Dude, I just thought you guys made, like, quesadillas on a stove. What is all this stuff?”

  Nolan stopped loading supplies and stared at the line of employees preparing the food truck. Esther and the man with the honeyed voice checked their inventory while a third worker confirmed fuel levels. “We’re going to have a big crowd. Wylie, get this crew to load the Bronco up with serving utensils and paper products. We won’t have any extra room in the food truck.”

  She swallowed and faced the four roommates who had turned to stare at her. “Okay, so everything goes in the back, then we ride together.”

  Rikard raised his eyebrows. “You’re driving?”

  “Are you volunteering?”

  He scanned the row of coolers stacked to form a narrow aisle inside the main truck. “No. I just volunteered to be on crowd control.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled. “We’re going to need it.”

  On the way to the urban site, Wylie explained how the food coalition previously served meals out of a food truck near Sycamore Avenue and Romaine Street. When local demand exceeded the capacity of their vehicle, they partnered with an international charitable organization to bring their food-service operation indoors.

  Jack stared out of the window. “So this idea brings nothing new to the table.”

  She glanced at him. You’re assuming these men and women have a table. She cleared her throat and thought about the outing from Jack’s perspective. “There have always been people in the community who wanted to help—churches, charities, civil services.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But the problem hasn’t gone away,” she added. “Decades of nightly meals testify to a persistent need, but Nolan’s thinking bigger than a food line. He might have started with the blue-collar people who want better options, but what if people have zero options? I love that he wants to create sustainable infrastructure. I love that he’s willing to serve anyone who walks in the door.”

  She cleared her throat and kept her eyes on the road before she lost control of the tears stinging her eyes. I love that he would have helped me when I needed it the most. “Modesto can model community support and upward mobility, but Nolan needs to learn what our community’s marginalized populations will accept. Man cannot live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches alone.”

  “We’re going to get mobbed,” Rikard said as the Hollywood Freeway carried them past a series of tents.

  Antonia met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Or worse.”

  Wylie ignored their fears and glanced at Neil. “What do you think?”

  “I think this is ridiculous. I’m an entrepreneur. Let me focus on that and I’ll do more good writing donation checks than handing out plastic-wrapped utensils.”

  “You’d like to think that
, but you’re missing small opportunities while you bury your head in code. Sometimes it’s the little things that matter the most.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the people who have nothing to lose.”

  Nolan turned the food truck in to the charitable organization’s parking lot and she parked the Bronco behind the vehicle to ease the task of unloading their excess supplies. A uniformed officer from LAPD waved in acknowledgment and a group of security guards and volunteers moved toward the far side of the campus to begin patrolling the street for loiterers or emerging encampments.

  “It’s too quiet,” Antonia said, peering at the empty lot.

  “The customers start lining up at six p.m. in the building’s gated hallway. They try to keep people from waiting in line on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  “Customers,” Jack said.

  Wylie turned to face him. “I don’t care what you think of me, but you volunteered to be helpful. If you can’t treat these men and women with respect, you get on the bus and ride it back to the Pacific Ocean. I hear it’s great for worrying about what you’re going to do next with your life.”

  “My lease didn’t come with a volunteer requirement.”

  Rikard opened the door. “Consider it amended.”

  They lined up outside the wood-paneled food truck and discussed how to manage crowd control and the needs of their future guests. “We’ve got two wraps today,” Nolan said. “They’re both high-protein, but one’s bean-based and the other’s got tuna, walnuts and raisins.”

  Esther nodded. “Quinoa and corn for a side dish. Water comes from the cooler.” She scanned the group and focused on Jack. “You can be on trash duty.”

  The trash piled up as the roommates came face-to-face with members of the local homeless community.

  “I got shot in Desert Storm, came back and it’s like the people running the government forgot I had ever existed.” The man took off his stained fedora and scratched his short black hair. “They forgot what I’d done for my country.”

  “Don’t we have Veteran’s Affairs?” Neil asked.

  “It’s the PTSD, man. I can’t always control it, and people in the mainstream work forget we’re people too. We’ve just fallen on hard times.”

  Wylie walked down the line, doing her best to direct people into the building or give them a chance to try Modesto’s wraps.

  “How long you been on the streets?

  “Since I was sixteen years old. I’ll be fifty in March and you don’t have to bother doing the math. I’ve never owned an apartment or a house. Sometimes I’m not even sure I own my tent.”

  Jack frowned. “How can ownership be confusing?”

  The woman laughed. “People get used to having zero rights when they live on this side of town. There are thousands of people sleeping on the streets in the shadow of the financial district. We’re in the homeless capital of the world.”

  Wylie looked at Nolan, leaning out of the food truck’s window with a tuna wrap and a welcoming smile. At least we’re trying to do something about it.

  “So where are you from?” Jack asked.

  The woman shook her head and her processed blonde hair obscured her face for a moment. “Columbus, Ohio. My best friend died twenty feet from me during a winter storm. I found her frozen to death, curled up in the fetal position. So, yeah, I’d rather not die like that.”

  Jack swallowed. “What keeps you going?

  The woman scanned his bold glasses and all-American warm brown eyes. “I sell a little speed and I sell a little of myself. Used to be a lot harder, but now they all have cell phones and things like that. You got a cell phone?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not interested in that business.”

  The woman laughed. “No problem. You change your mind, you can find me on Facebook under Clover Anne.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  The people listening to their conversation laughed.

  Antonia came from the back of the line and pulled Wylie to the side. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “We’re going to run out of food soon.”

  Wylie inhaled, knowing Nolan’s facilities limited the truck’s ability to ramp up and meet demand. “What’s the margin?”

  “Maybe three of four people more,” Antonia said. “I can’t pin everyone down. They shift away from strangers and skip the line to be closer to the people considered friends.”

  “Okay. Go tell the site coordinator. I’m going to stand at the end of the line and be the bookend.” She walked past the snaking line and focused on the last man who had joined them. “Why’d you pick the truck over the food coalition?”

  “Is it any good?”

  She nodded.

  “Novelty’s hard to come by in my life.”

  A woman walked up with a worried expression. “Is there going to be enough?”

  Wylie closed her eyes for a minute. “I think we’re about to run out, but the coalition is still serving hot meals. We’ll come back another day,” she added, hoping Nolan wouldn’t mind her promise.

  The woman’s shoulders fell and she turned toward the permanent building.

  “Wait,” Wylie said. “I’m sure they set aside some food for the employees. You can have my wrap.”

  The woman frowned. “No, you eat it.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t come here for food. I came here to help. What’s the nicest thing someone’s done for you this week?”

  “I saw my son.”

  “What?”

  “I was in a living program with my son, but it turned out to be a bad situation. The woman running it stole my identity and used my name to launder money she made at a crack house. When I found out, she threatened my life and I had to put my son in DCFS.”

  “How old are you?” Wylie asked.

  The woman smiled. “I’m twenty-six.”

  An hour later, the uniformed officer from LAPD shut the gates and the roommates stood in silence as they replayed their evening conversations. “I had no idea,” Antonia said.

  Rikard looked at her and nodded, but Jack and Neil stood firm, arms crossed as they debated the merits of what they’d heard.

  Nolan opened the back door of the food truck and stepped out, sweat staining his shirt and exhaustion straining his smile. “Most of these people are employable,” he said. “Maybe not forty hours a week, but something close to it—something that allows them to contribute while getting the services from the city they need.”

  “But that’s no way to run a business,” Rikard said.

  Nolan put his hands on his hips. “What’s the alternative? Close your eyes and pretend you don’t see this side of town?”

  Wylie walked up to him and put a hand on his back. “You did great today. Nothing but compliments on the food.”

  Antonia smiled. “I heard one lady ask if the wraps came with French fries.”

  The group laughed and Nolan shook his head. “There’s not enough space in the truck to accommodate a fryer. Next time, we can deploy the baked sweet potato fries if they want something besides quinoa.”

  Esther yawned. “I need a nap before the evening rush begins.”

  The group stared at her and she shrugged. “What? I’m Brazilian. Only old people eat dinner before ten.”

  They thanked the site coordinators and retraced their steps to the commissary and the house on the hill. Instead of movie night, they convened by the pool with leftovers from the refrigerator and their opinions about what Nolan should do next.

  “If you can feed these people, you can feed the world,” Wylie said with a mixture of challenge and pride.

  Nolan raised a beer and saluted her vote of encouragement. “I pictured a fast-casual restaurant with the food people would cook for their families on a limited income—low prices, no guilt and no empty stomachs.”

  Antonia raised her head. “But what if you’ve got nothing to give?”

  Neil stared
into the distance. “My father threatened to leave me as a dishwasher if I reached for the restaurant bill and refused to pay it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “It’s hard to be a curious kid,” Neil said, his gaze softening with the memory. “Why can’t people contribute to the community tab? Let them write checks or work. There’s no reason for food insecurity in a twenty-trillion-dollar economy.”

  Jack stood. “I appreciate the endorphin-laced group sentiments, but I’m not in this for the win. I have no interest in feeding drug dealers and prostitutes who can’t get their shit together from one day to the next. Fuck the Tragedy of the Commons. I’m a capitalist.”

  “You’re an ass,” Antonia said.

  The man raised his hand, but Rikard moved faster and intervened. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop threatening the people in this house?”

  “Let the Games begin,” Antonia said.

  Nolan looked up. “What are you talking about, Rikard?”

  The Croat shook his head and considered his choices. “When I moved into this house, you offered me kinship and told me to extend that offer to everyone else who moved in. Sometimes kinship hurts.”

  “Spit it out,” Nolan said.

  “I found Jack stalking Wylie in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure he asked her if he could fuck her before he called her the newest community benefit.”

  Jack stepped back from the group.

  Nolan rose to his feet and faced the man. “You have a thing for threatening people? Or is it just women?”

  “Fuck off, Nolan. It was just a joke.”

  “Look at Antonia and Wylie. They’re afraid to meet your eyes. Do they think it’s a joke? Do they think it’s okay that you’re disrespectful and selfish?”

  Wylie swallowed, unsure if she deserved Nolan’s heated defense. I could have handled it, right? She looked at Antonia, hoping to see relief in the woman’s expression. But instead of relief, she saw anger. She saw Antonia’s short brown hair, narrowed eyes and hard resistance. This isn’t the first time Jack’s threatened her. Did she tell anyone? Did I?