by Marks, Leon
So the money I made yesterday is going to fix this. Which means it's not going into my rent. Handing that wad of cash over was like a fillet knife twisting around my guts. Wear and tear is one thing. Attempted murder is another.
Makes me miss Portland. Everyone there is either too polite or too high to pull shit like this.
WEDNESDAY
The health inspector came by today.
He comes up to my truck wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt and a bad attitude. Like I kicked his dog into a coma and then made him come do a surprise inspection.
I don't fuck around. My Mobile Food Vending Permit is in order. Since I handle raw meat on the truck, I have a sink for hand washing. And soap dispensers. And paper towel dispensers. The hot food is held at 140 degrees, and the cold food at 40. My prep surfaces are sterile as an operating room.
This guy, though, he was looking around like it was a fresh crime scene.
Like everything was something I should be guilty about.
So he stuck the needle of his thermometer through the plastic wrap covering the guacamole, and told me I had a problem. Said: Hot food needs to be held at 140 degrees.
Very politely, and without using words like 'fuck-brain' and 'douche-rocket,' I explained to him that it's guacamole, which is served cold, and therefore needs to be held at 40 degrees.
He shook his head. Said: Hot food needs to be held at 140 degrees. Like he was reciting it directly from a rulebook, without applying any real thought.
This is the point in our conversation where I did use the words 'fuck-brain' and 'douche-rocket.'
You might be surprised to hear this, but I failed the inspection.
THURSDAY
Now I see how business is done in this town.
I was up until four in the morning going over paperwork, trying to figure out how to appeal. Then I spent another hour going over my truck, just to make sure it wasn't booby-trapped.
So I drove into Manhattan and found a spot in Gramercy, set up the generator, Tweeted my location, and finished the last of the prep. I was so tired I nearly took the tip of my finger off dicing jalapenos.
Just before I was ready to open, there was a knock at the back of the truck, and standing there is this young guy wearing a suit. A bad suit, like it belonged to his taller, skinnier brother.
Without me inviting him in, he just climbed up to join me. Without offering me his hand or his name, he told me he could help me with the inspection problem.
I hadn't told anyone I failed, and I asked him how he knew.
He said he works for a company that helps food vendors sort through inspection issues. When I asked him the name of the company he didn't answer. I asked him how much his help would cost. The number he quoted me was about what I was hoping to make in the next three months.
That asshole may look at me and see a country mouse, but I know a shakedown when I see it. So I told him to get the fuck off my truck.
He said the permitting process is convoluted. Said that without friends—he pressed a finger into his chest when he said the word 'friends'—that new food vendors can have an exceedingly hard time.
The way he said it made it sound like a threat.
FRIDAY
Three hours and not one damn customer. People looked at the truck and then they walked faster. I figured, it's New York City. Everyone's always in a rush.
I should have been smart enough to get out and look around. But it was three hours before I left the truck to go over to Starbucks for a piss break, and that's when I found the fliers.
There were five of them, applied with clear packing tape. Must have gone up after I parked, while I was prepping to open. At the top they said, in big, capital, bold letters that you couldn't possibly miss: REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER.
To be clear, I am not a registered sex offender.
I tore them down, and spent the next two hours fuming. It made me careless, snapping at customers and fucking up orders. Which made me even more angry.
I know this is a tough town. I know we're all fighting to make it. But is this really the standard of New York City's business community? I just want to sell some tacos.
It's bad enough that the brick-and-mortar restaurants are lobbying the City Council to restrict our permits, and it's worse that the City Council is listening. You'd think the food truck guys would band together and go at this like a team.
Just as I was about give up for the day and head home, the waffle guy stopped over. Said I looked stressed out and asked how I was holding up. I told him about the past few days. He assured me the fixer probably wouldn't be necessary, and that his waffle batter had more reasoning ability than most of this city's health inspectors.
He told me we could grab a beer if I ever needed to vent, which I might take him up on. I don't have any friends in this town yet.
It calmed me down, him stopping by, so I got through the day. As I was gearing up to close, I noticed the bodega across the street had a camera. I went in and told the kid working the counter what happened with the fliers, and asked if I could see the tape from that morning.
I did not expect what happened next: He nodded, went in the back, came back with a DVD, said I could have it. Wished me luck, too.
I guess not everyone in this town is a fucking asshole.
SATURDAY
There's something I think needs to be clear right now.
I drove across the country with a wad of cash and three changes of clothes and my favorite chef's knife. I'm living in a closet in Bushwick, which I'm renting from some asshole who glues pieces of wood together and calls it art.
I had a plan. Bust some ass, make enough money to hire some people, maybe graduate to a storefront. I'm not going to pretend like I wasn't afraid. Those late nights, driving across the northern tier of the country, nothing but darkness beyond the yellow arc of my headlights, there were times I almost turned back.
But I didn't. Because this is it. This is my one true love.
I watched the tape. And who was it that put up the sex offender fliers?
Waffle truck guy.
Soon as I saw it, I thought, I need to strike back. Let this motherfucker know I'm not weak. Problem was, I wasn't sure what to do. I could glue his tires to the roadway using two-ton epoxy—which is a thing a friend of mine did to someone in college—and the tires will shred before the truck moves.
But that would take time, and planning, and effort, so instead, this morning, I parked my truck in Gramercy, didn't bother Tweeting my location. But I did take that paring knife I found sticking out of my tire, and slid it into the pocket on the front of my apron. Figured I would stab the shit out of his tires.
It wasn't exactly creative, but it sure would make me feel better.
So I went looking for him, and as I turned the corner of the street where he's usually parked, I saw him talking to the guy in the bad suit. They shook hands like they were buddies. Another layer of subterfuge. It made me wonder if he sicced the health inspector on me, too.
And as soon as he saw me, he knew I knew he did what he did.
But he didn't see the knife. It was still in the pocket on the front of my apron.
He came at me with a big smile on his face, like it was a joke, or no big deal that he lost me thousands of dollars over the course of a week. I snapped. Called him a coward. Called him a dumb fuck. Said I was going to kick his ass.
He got close to me and his right shoulder dropped, broadcasting the punch he was about to throw.
And here's where things get hazy. How the fight-or-flight response can smear time like grease on a countertop. Because I can't, for the life of me, tell you how the paring knife that started in my tire and then I put in the pocket on the front of my apron ended up in his chest.
It just did.
When the world came back into focus his eyes were frosted over, blood blooming on his white t-shirt, growing wet and thick and tugging on the fabric.
He began to fall backward.
Someone screamed.
I ran.
And here I am. Sitting in my little closet of a bedroom.
The shock of it hasn't settled into me yet. There's a hot, terrifying thing rumbling on the horizon like a thunderstorm, and I'm afraid of what'll happen when it crashes into me. Until then I'm just numb.
At this moment, someone is banging at the door, and my artist landlord is passed out on the couch, high as fuck, and nothing's going to get him up. Of course it's the cops. Because I don't fuck around, and my Mobile Food Vending Permit is in order. Complete with my current address.
So now I just have to decide what to do with this. My journal. I could burn it or shove it in the toilet, but is it even worth the effort? There had to be a dozen witnesses. I'm fucked no matter what angle you take this from.
Since this will probably be presented as a courtroom exhibit, I would like to point out that I did not intend for any of this to happen. Even though that guy was a dick, and tried to ruin my business, I'm sorry I killed him. I shouldn't have taken the knife.
Though, I guess that's the folly of these things. Am I apologizing because I'm sorry, or because I'm about to be caught?
Who knows? This is not the time to be philosophical. Because at this moment, there's a crash and a crack from the front of apartment. Cops breaking down the door, probably.
I had another plan for the future, too. After I built my taco empire, I was going to take this thing and turn it into a book. Even had a title planned out.
Confessions of a Taco Truck Owner.
I figured, in ten or twenty years, I would have mined enough material that I could have told a pretty good story. How to make it selling tacos in New York City.
Instead, it really did turn into a confession.
Good Luck in Puertos del Oro
by Justin Porter
The town of Cinco Putas y Medio sucked, and the giant Gregorian-looking monk beating the shit out of me wasn't improving it. This guy was so ugly the local whores would have rather serviced the horses, if there were any horses in Cinco Putas y Medio. Or whores.
The ogre's fist cracked across my jaw and sent me to the ground. Let's go back in time a couple days, and leave this asshole using my kidneys for a Stairmaster.
Maybe a flashback will give me some time to figure out how to win this fight.
"Mr. O'Shaunessey, Mr. Debonaire is ready for you."
I put down the copy of Men's Health just when the six-pack of a Greek god was nearly within my grasp. The secretary had gone back to her fingernails. I'd have liked to get to know her better, maybe tell her about the ab I almost had, see if she liked White Castle and candlelight.
Mr. Debonaire reached a hand across his desk to shake, and his fingernails rasped against my palm. Too much eye contact for a handshake like that, but freelancers like me don't pick their clients by manners.
"Mr. O'Shaunessey, thank you for coming."
"My pleasure, Mr. Debonaire. I like to work, you know. This was in my best interest."
"Please have a seat. Coffee or a drink?"
I might have trusted Ms. Fingernails to tell me her innermost secrets, but not to make me a cocktail.
"I'm good, Mr. Debonaire. Sooner we get to business, sooner you get happy and I get paid."
"Very well. Have you been reading the news lately?"
"My internet's down. Last I checked the world was still totally fucked."
"Then please allow me to fill you in."
Was that a wink?
"A new country has declared independence in South American. Puertos del Oro has carved large pieces out of Uruguay, Brazil and Argentina. The people now running this new country—and running is a strong word—are all private military contractors. They've all decided to retire. An army, if you will, has just stolen itself a country."
"Sounds like a great vacation spot."
"An interesting choice of words. The surrounding nations are not angry because they lost some land, but due to the loss of several silver mines that were still producing in large quantities. A priceless artifact was recovered in one of them."
"How long until this new country gets stamped back into the dust?"
"Exactly. This time of uncertainty is very opportune. I sent an employee of mine, a brilliant young archaeologist, to verify and purchase. He disappeared, and Puertos del Oro may collapse at any moment. He was last heard from in the town of Cinco Putas y Medio, a pestilent shithole that grew around the mine when it was still part of Uruguay.
"I'm sorry, what's the town called?"
"Unfortunate, isn't it? Before the mercs I believe it was called Flores."
"And the artifact?"
"A stone tablet, believed to be part of a larger whole. It is said to depict the ancient gods of…" He uttered a stream of syllables and spitting sounds between his chattering teeth. I didn't understand him, but at least I now knew what it sounds like when an epileptic chokes to death in a blizzard.
"Mr. Debonaire, I think anything's an artifact of it's been in my fridge for more than a month."
"I am aware of that, Mr. O'Shaunessey. A certain gentleman gave me your business card. Its description is not, I hope, just for effect."
He tossed a business card onto the desk. I didn't need to look at it, I know what it said:
Banyon O'Shaunessey. License to fuck shit up.
In Helvetica.
"Mr. O'Shaunessey, I believe you are perfect for the task. Go to Puertos del Oro and find my agent. If you can't bring him back, recover the artifact by whatever means you deem necessary."
"And my payment?"
He placed a large briefcase on the desk.
"Mr. Debonaire usually I…"
He opened the briefcase and took out a sandwich; peanut butter with the crusts cut off. "Do you have PayPal?"
"Uh, yes."
"Excellent. My secretary has travel documents and keys to a vehicle. You'll be flying into Montevideo and driving into Puertos del Oro."
"I'm on the job."
"I am pleased, Mr. O'Shaunessey. And do try not to get killed."
"Thanks. You've got a bright future as a miniature golf coach."
Mr. Debonaire called out something as I was leaving, but I only caught a couple words: artifact, hypnotic and careful.
Whatever. Careful's for pussies.
I picked up an envelope from the secretary who managed to communicate disdain and that everything was in order without once taking her eyes off her fingernails. They were now a troubling shade of red. As I examined the envelope, I saw they'd left a streak near the opening.
A lesser man would have taken that as a sign.
Signs are for pussies, too.
Before I left, I did some reading about Puertos del Oro. Four separate merc outfits, or "private military contractors," had been hired as protection from local rebel groups and environmental NGO's with more gunpowder than diplomacy. After watching how much money was leaving the place and how little was winding up in their pockets, the mercs took steps. These days in Puertos del Oro, it was easier to get a kilo of smack than a beer and a hamburger.
I made phone calls to Mr. Debonaire and a certain pair of vendors. There'd be a care package with the vehicle.
By care package I mean a bag of guns and ammunition.
Also some homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I'm kidding. It's just a bag of guns.
Carrasco International Airport in Montevideo was closest to the mines of Puertos del Oro and it showed in the well-armed security and humorless passport control. I handed across my passport and explained that I'd come to see the sights, perhaps do a little exploring and hiking. I eyed the pistol on the desk next to his stamp.
The passport officer was young but apparently not stupid.
"Bullshit."
I gestured for him to flip my passport where he found a crisp pair of hundreds.
"Very good, sir. Hiking it is. Would you like an Audubon guide for local birds?"
Wiseass.
I stopped in a cafe for a soda and a pastry that tasted like it might kill me in a couple years. My cab driver spoke better English than me and left me a few blocks from the drop. The keys in Debonaire's envelope opened a ground-floor security gate. An old Russian motorcycle was inside missing its sidecar, an armed Cossack, and its war. On the seat was a duffel bag that clinked appealingly.
"Busca a este pendejo! Oye, gringo, que tu tienes aqui?"
The voice came from outside the storage space, five local hardcases in the corner of my eye. I pretended to ignore them, took one of the guns out of the bag—a beautiful Kimber .45—and loaded a clip. I racked the slide and the action was smooth—a satisfying, solid noise. I turned to the door but they'd left. If history has taught the world anything, it's what usually happens when a white guy shows up in your country with a bag of guns. If I'd had some crosses and blankets, the entire block might have left. I put the Kimber into a shoulder holster and headed out of town.
The border checkpoint was an empty booth. What glass hadn't fallen out was riddled with bullet holes, the metal scorched and warped. Somebody had broken the crossbar and thrust it into the ground, a pair of weather-tortured granny panties billowing from the top. In the booth was a brown-stained Uruguayan military uniform, a broken assault rifle.
Adios a Puertos del Oro, amigo, I thought, nudging the uniform with my boot. La salida esta en la izquierda.
As I rode into this brand new country full of possibility, where a capable man stood to better himself, the theme from Fist Full of Dollars played in my head.
Probably because I was gonna get fucking shot.
I could feel the mining equipment thrumming through the road under the wheels of the bike, rattling the trees. There were bare patches in the tree line, scorch marks and craters. I reached the gates of Cinco Putas y Medio under a setting sun, flashes in the twilight above the buildings.