Brooklyn Girls

by Gemma Burgess

  “It was that, or Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark,” she says. “Toto seemed easier. I’m Francie.”

  “Pia.” I lean over to shake her hand. Very firm handshake, I notice.

  “You taking a break?” she asks.

  I’m thrilled that she thinks I might actually work here. “Not exactly … I’m waiting for a friend. I love this place, though. Everyone seems so happy. Especially the food truck people.”

  “They should be, those upstart trucks are making a damn fortune,” she says, checking her iPhone. Impressive. My mother confuses the remote control and the cordless phone. An iPhone would induce a total meltdown.

  “Really?” I say. “Do you work here, too?”

  “Nope. I’m trying to sell her. No luck,” Francie says, sighing and patting the truck, as though it—I mean she—was a dog.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s old.” Francie shrugs. “She’s fully equipped—she used to sell ice cream at Coney Island—but she doesn’t have all the modern bells and whistles they want. And her engine ain’t great.”

  “Poor Toto,” I say sympathetically, giving the truck a pat. Her paint feels sort of warm and grainy, rather than the high-shine gloss of all the other food trucks. And I like her shape, too. I know nothing about food trucks, or any kind of motor vehicle for that matter, but Toto’s kind of … cuddly.

  “How much is she?” I ask.

  “She’s nine thousand dollars, give or take a hundred. My problem is I don’t want to sell her to someone who won’t love her.”

  I could love that truck, I think suddenly. Can’t you picture me driving her? Selling food out of the back? I could do that; I know I could … if only I could cook.

  Damn.

  “Okay, gotta go, honey. I’ve got a date at Battersby at five.”

  She opens the truck door, jumps nimbly in, and drives away with a salute.

  Deep in thought, I turn around and almost knock over Jonah and Bianca, that bitchy punk-headed waitress from Bartolo’s.

  “Look who I ran into!” says Jonah happily, his face full of ice cream. He leans over conspiratorially. “Bianca’s hungover.”

  “I was celebrating never having to visit that freaking pawnshop on Pitkin again,” says Bianca. She’s talking exclusively to Jonah. Classic mean-girl stuff. “Cosmo gave me my money and my truck is on the way!”

  “He’s a loan shark. It’s his money,” says Jonah.

  “Whatever! It’s mine now!” Bianca goes into peals of seriously annoying laughter.

  “What a surprise, running into you,” I say in my sweetest voice. I bet she knew Jonah would be here.

  Ignoring me, Bianca leans over and sticks her tongue right into Jonah’s ice cream. It’s a gesture of ownership so transparent I fight the urge to salute her. Whatever, sister. He’s all yours.

  “I really dig the whole food truck concept, you know?” says Bianca as we walk back toward A Meal Grows in Brooklyn. She’s on Jonah’s other side, talking just low enough that it’s hard for me to hear her. “I love how we’re teaching the huddled masses the intrinsic value of food that truly nourishes, body and soul.… It feels so right that I’m finally starting my own artisan caketruckery.”

  Huddled masses? Artisan caketruckery?

  “Dude, you’re gonna rock!” says Jonah.

  “Seriously, J. Maybe food trucks are the beginning of something bigger, and the drones in Manhattan will stop poisoning Mother Earth now, and realize that we’re here to make the world a better place for our children’s children.”

  I snort with laughter. Is this chick for real? I go to exchange a glance with Jonah—sorry, “J”—but I see he’s nodding. “I see your point. It’s all about education, about educating people that what they eat really makes a difference.”

  “That’s what food trucks are all about!” shouts Bianca. “We need to harness the Zeitgeist, influence pop culture, establish grass roots that can grow into trees!”

  “I thought food trucks simply made life easier for people who can’t afford the time or money to sit in a damn restaurant every lunch break,” I mutter, half to myself. “And since when does grass grow into trees?”

  There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, what?” says Bianca.

  I clear my throat. “My friends who work in Manhattan always say they don’t get time for lunch. A food truck should make their lives easier, right? It’s fast, cheap, good food.”

  “Well, that’s true, too,” says Jonah.

  “I bet you have a lot of friends in Manhattan,” Bianca says snarkily.

  “Oh, I do.” I flash a fake smile. Wow. She is such a skank-face.

  We reach A Meal Grows in Brooklyn, and Phil leans his head out of the truck. “We need your help! We’ve almost run out of our lunch food already!” he calls, and starts laughing, slightly hysterically. “It’s not even noon!”

  Lara hurries toward us. “Jonah, can you please drive me back to the bakery to get more supplies? We didn’t plan this very well.”

  “Okay, and I’ll call Ray,” says Jonah, frowning in that Boy-Scout-I-can-fix-it way that nice guys always do. Eddie had a frown like that. “He’ll be sure to have something we can use. Buffalo mozzarella, maybe, or some of that awesome local sausage—” He pulls out his phone.

  “I’ll come with you, too,” adds Bianca insistently, linking an arm through his and smiling at me as she pulls him away. “So are you working at Bartolo’s tonight? My friend is playing this gig in Red Hook—”

  Jonah pulls away from her. “Pia! Dude, you coming with us?”

  “And desert a food truck emergency? No way!” I say, and shout at Phil: “Hey! You need some help in that kitchen?”

  “Hell, yeah!” he says. “Come on in!”

  Okay, I mostly wanted to get away from Bianca’s annoying whine, but four hours later, I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun with something not involving booze and/or a bed. I love working in a food truck!

  It’s everything I loved most about Bartolo’s—talking to people and seeing them enjoying great food—without the annoying bits, like running around, getting the bill, and picking up dirty dishes.

  “Why don’t we make a topless sandwich, you know, with just the bottom half of the bread?” I say to Phil, noticing a lot of people, especially women, immediately discard half the bread and scrape off the more calorific ingredients, like sour cream, or fried onions. “Or a salad? Or make the heavy stuff like sour cream optional?”

  “That’s not what people want, Pia.”

  I guess the sustainable food movement doesn’t include sustaining the size of your ass.

  By 4:00 P.M., we close up, open some ice-cold drinks, and lean against the truck, talking about the day. I love feeling part of the team, even though the team includes skank-face Bianca. She and Jonah spent the afternoon handing out A Meal Grows in Brooklyn flyers and tasters.

  Phil gives me a hundred dollars and a jar of Kings County honey.

  “Wow, thanks, are you sure?” I say. “I only worked for a few hours!”

  “Honey, you earned it,” says Lara. “Take the money and run.”

  Jonah and Phil are talking about sourcing local pears, and Lara and Bianca are talking about what to name Bianca’s new business (sorry, “caketruckery”). So I zone out. Today was fun and all, but let’s remember the big issue: I need a real job. A sour feeling fills the center of my chest as I think about how broke I am, how I don’t know how I’m going to pay rent next month, let alone eat.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Phil banging on the truck to emphasize his point.

  “What’s really amazing is that the food truck movement has—literally—covered all bases in a matter of years,” Phil is saying. “There’s something for everyone.”

  I don’t want to argue, but … that’s just not true.

  “There are some ethnic food groups underrepresented, I guess,” muses Lara. “It’s hard to do churrascaria from a truck.”

  “Someone should do a Texan food truc
k,” says Jonah dreamily. “Iced tea, chicken-fried steak, white gravy, fried oysters…”

  “Why don’t you do it?” says Phil.

  “Because it sounds like a lot of work.” Jonah starts laughing good-naturedly at himself.

  “There’s room for more artisan cake,” says Bianca insistently.

  I roll my eyes and stifle a snort.

  “What do you think, Pia?” says Phil. Shit. I didn’t think anyone was paying attention to me.

  “What do I know?” I say. “I’m not a food … specialist. I mean a cook, uh, chef. Whatever.”

  “Your opinion is valid,” says Lara. “Sometimes it takes an outsider to see things clearly.”

  “And your bacon chili jam sandwich was the most popular item on the breakfast menu today,” says Phil.

  “Come on, don’t make me get the wuss hat again,” says Jonah.

  “Fine.” I try to sound confident. “I think there’s nothing in these trucks for people who don’t want a fatty, salt-laden carb-overload. Like, if I’m working in an office and I’m going to take a lunch break, I don’t want to eat a Mexineasy sweet-n-sour burrito with sour cream and cheese, or a Charter pie, whatever the hell that is.”

  “Chicken and leek in a cream tarragon sauce topped with pastry,” interjects Phil.

  “Exactly! Cream and pastry! I mean, come on!” I can feel a rant coming on, and I don’t want to stop. “I love food, I love to eat, but I don’t want something fattening, and I don’t want a sandwich that will send me into a carb coma or grease that will make me burp garlic oil all afternoon. On the other hand, I don’t want some ancient anemic salad from a deli, because it’ll only fill me up for twenty minutes and then I’ll be hungry again.”

  “Chicks burp?” says Jonah.

  “I’m serious! I want a big fresh crunchy salad with loads of protein, like tuna, or poached chicken, or boiled eggs, and I want lots of flavors, like ginger and garlic and, um, chili lime marinade.” I trail off; trying to talk food the way the guys have been all afternoon is tough. “And endives and almonds and radishes and, um, avocado, and reduced-fat cheese, and just enough fat in the dressing to taste good.…”

  “Well, good luck finding it,” interrupts Phil. “Try a salad bar. Or go to a restaurant.”

  “Most girls my age can’t afford to eat in a restaurant every day, and there aren’t enough salad bars. We want a food truck with fresh food that tastes good, and isn’t loaded with fat and calories.” I pause for a second, as my little idea seed suddenly bursts into flower. “We want SkinnyWheels.”

  “Well, hon, girls your age are a tiny subsection of the population,” says Phil.

  I’m thinking aloud now. “Actually, it’s got nothing to do with age. There are thousands, no, millions of women like me. Guys, too, I’d bet. I love to eat, but I have to make smart choices. It’s about a balance, don’t you see? Between food that tastes good and food that’s good for the size of my ass?”

  Phil and Jonah shrug. Lara is nodding thoughtfully. Bianca is looking at her nails.

  And then I make a decision that might just change the rest of my life.

  I jump down from the front of the truck.

  “Where are you going?” says Jonah as I march away.

  Without breaking my stride, I shout over my shoulder, “I’m going to buy myself a goddamn food truck.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “I’m here to see Cosmo. I’m, uh, a friend of Bianca’s.”

  I’ve never been in a pawnshop before. I came straight from the Brooklyn Flea to Pitkin Avenue, and it’s every cliché in the book. Greasy windows, bad lighting: the modern-day last-chance saloon. Right now, this is my only option. Plus, if it worked for Bianca, it’ll work for me, right?

  The pawnshop guy—straight out of central casting with a perma-toothpick and everything—picks up his phone and dials. “Cosmo? Business for you. Nah, you’ll like this one.”

  I’m nervous as hell, so I try to look like hanging out in pawnshops is something I do every day by playing Pretend Shopping with the sad little engagement rings lined up like orphans. A few minutes later, Cosmo arrives.

  He’s wearing well-cut pants and a perfectly pressed shirt, and his head is freshly shaved. Not good-looking, but kind of suave. He could be anywhere between thirty and fifty. He gives me a sturdy handshake as he looks me right in the eye and smiles, showing perfectly white teeth and very pink, healthy gums.

  “Cosmo Ferris.”

  “Pia Keller.”

  “A pleasure to meet you. Shall we go out back and talk?” He’s well-spoken, with a soft Brooklyn accent.

  “Let’s go to the diner instead.” Cosmo seems legit, but I don’t think stories that start “So she went to the private room behind the pawnshop” tend to end well, do you?

  We head to the diner next door, and both order bottles of still water. I try to look as professional as possible considering I’m wearing cutoff jean shorts and probably smell like A Meal Grows in Brooklyn. This is a business meeting.

  “I really need to hydrate,” says Cosmo. “I love Smartwater, have you tried it?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s the best,” I say. Julia was obsessed with Smartwater last year.

  “It’s all I drink now. I compete in triathlons, and my trainer put me on to it. It really gives the body all the electrolytes it needs.”

  Wow, a triathlete moneylender. The unsettled feeling in my stomach eases a bit. I kind of like this guy.

  As our drinks arrive, Cosmo nods at a few people in the diner: he’s clearly a well-established local. This is a good sign. He’s not some underworld kingpin, or whatever. Not that I’d recognize an underworld kingpin if I fell over him.

  “I’m glad Bianca told you about me.” Cosmo smiles genially. “Great kid. So, here’s my deal. I’m a Brooklyn boy, born and bred. I run a successful security firm, that’s my primary business and source of income, and these days, knock wood, it mostly takes care of itself. I’ve been a professional moneylender for about four years, since I had trouble, myself, getting a loan from a bank, and realized that sometimes good, honest people just need a little helping hand.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding. He makes sentences far more complicated than they need to be. I wonder if he thinks it makes him sound smart. Some people just talk that way, I guess.

  “I make the loan, you pay it back in weekly installments, with a lump sum at the end of an agreed period, plus a reasonable rate of ten-percent interest, of course, as you’d probably expect. My interest rates are comparable to or lower than any of the major banks, as I’m sure a smart girl like you can see. It’s all very straightforward.”

  “Uh-huh.” Convoluted syntax or not, it makes sense. And his rates are lower than a bank.

  “So how much do you need?”

  “Just nine thousand dollars,” I say. “I’m starting a business. I’ll have profits immediately, so paying you back won’t be a problem.”

  Food trucks are cash businesses, which means immediate profits, right? A Meal Grows in Brooklyn made thousands today. And there’s no rent, no overhead aside from the food and a commissary to park it at night. This is the only way that I can build a business and a career, make money and impress my parents. It’s a short-term loan for a long-term solution. Suddenly my heart is beating faster with excitement. I’m really going to make this happen.

  “Let’s make it a nice even ten thousand,” says Cosmo.

  “Okay.”

  He takes out a tiny ledger book and starts writing.

  “Let’s see … ten thousand, at a weekly interest rate of ten percent, makes it a one-thousand weekly repayment, then, in six weeks, you’ll just owe me the original ten thousand. It’s very simple.”

  “Great!” I say. That seems like a hefty interest rate, but then again, once I’m making thousands every day, it’ll be nothing. This is business.

  He starts talking about loan extensions and how the rates will change. If I don’t make the ten thousand back in time, I’ll just sell the t
ruck before the end of the loan period and pay him that way.

  “So, I’ll transfer you the money every week?”

  “No, no, let’s make it easier,” he says. “I’ll come over to your place and pick it up in cash every Sunday at 7:00 P.M., okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. “So … what happens now?”

  “I take down your details, you read and sign the contract, I give you the cash, and you’re all set.” And it really is that easy.

  Two hours and a quick visit to Francie later, I’m the proud owner of Toto the truck.

  Toto and I hit Union Street just as the sun is going down, and I’m in such a good mood. She doesn’t have any air conditioning, and her radio hops around any station broadcast within a half mile. Somehow, with perfect timing, “Happy Together” by the Turtles comes on. I’m singing along at the top of my lungs.

  “Imagine me and you, I do…”

  A delicious sense of calm and well-being comes over me as I drive up Union Street. The acrid-sweet smell of barbecue is drifting in the air, kids on bikes are shouting in that slightly hysterical way kids do, and two little girls are actually playing hopscotch. It’s ridiculously idyllic, spoiled only slightly by Toto’s engine, which coughs like a chain-smoking coal miner.

  With great difficulty, I reverse park just outside Rookhaven, and look over and see Julia, Madeleine, and Coco on our stoop, chatting happily with beers and a bowl of Doritos between them. I lean out the window, pull my aviators down to the end of my nose, and shout, “Well, howdy!”

  Julia looks up at me, gasps, and drops her beer. It rolls down the front steps, spurting foam and clunking all the way. I jump out of the truck, slamming the door behind me, and pick up the beer.

  “Why—how—the hell—do you have a truck?” says Julia.

  “I bought her.” I feel elated. “Her name is Toto!” We all turn to look at her. Toto is even bigger and rustier than she looked at the Brooklyn Flea earlier today, and her pale pink color is a cross between Pepto-Bismol and a piglet. “Don’t you just love her?”

  Francie was so excited that I wanted to buy her that she didn’t even mind that I’d stalked her to her date at Battersby. She took me to her place just around the corner to give me the keys and all the papers right away.