The Music of What Happens(55)

I nod, and I get off the truck and speak loudly.

“If you’re hungry, we got food for you right here!” I yell. “All kindsa chicken, and fresh frozen lemonade too. Step right up!”

Mill Avenue, and especially the park, are known as the places homeless kids hang. For nine months out of the year, it’s probably not the worst life, though obviously most people would prefer a place to sleep, but at least the weather’s good. But in the summer, man. I wonder sometimes how the kids make it. I love me some heat, but at some point I get to go inside, turn up the air, and chill. These people don’t get that luxury, and I’m guessing it’s harder to make a living in the summer, when fewer people are walking along the street.

A haggard-looking, skinny kid with a backward red baseball cap and a few days of scraggly beard wanders up. I’m standing at the window with Jordan, and when he gets close I can see track marks on his right arm.

“Free? For real?”

“Whatever you want, my man,” I say.

He looks at the menu. “Can I get two? One for my girl and one for me?”

“Sure,” I say. “Which one?”

“I don’t care,” he says, and then he says, “Habanero. I like it spicy. But hers maybe mango-cayenne? Cayenne is less hot, right?”

“Yup,” I say, giving him a smile, and I pivot back to the grill and get to work.

I hear the blender going as I work, and I look over.

“I’m just gonna start making ’em and handing ’em out,” he says.

And that’s what we do. When word gets out, a line forms, and I take a peek at the number of chicken breasts we still have — basically our inventory for tomorrow — and realize that this is costing us probably a thousand dollars.

We can make more money tomorrow. This feels amazing.

Some of the homeless people — who knows, really, if they’re homeless or not — thank us profusely. But most of them just take the food and go on their way. It doesn’t matter. By the end of the day, when Jordan hands out the very last frozen lemonade and we close the window, it’s probably nine o’clock and we are utterly dripping with sweat. I wring out the bottom of my shirt and sweat drips onto the floor.

We clean up and the feeling in the truck is utter bliss. Like my chest could soar out of my mouth. Like I could jump a mile in the air and float on back down. I don’t know if Jordan feels it too.

Until he puts the clean blender away, turns to me, and puts his mouth on mine.

“Oh,” I say into his mouth.

Our soaked shirts merge. I feel his damp, skinny legs against my sopped, thick ones, and his cheek sweat mingles with mine. I feel his lips turn upward into a smile and he pulls back.

“We should do that. Every day.”

“We couldn’t afford to,” I say.

“Well we should do it again sometime. I had no idea. With Kayla and Pam especially, it’s like we’re supposed to be numb and above everything all the time. Right there, feeding strangers for free? I felt, like, not above.” His eyes tear up, and I have to look away because it’s cheesy as shit, and damn it, I feel the same way exactly. “I mean, above in that we have the food and they need it. But also, in that moment? I felt like I could be homeless. And I won’t be, now, because we’re food truck moguls and soon we’ll live in a mansion I guess. But I mean, I felt like I could understand what it would be like to put my head on a bench and sleep in this heat.”

I sit on the floor and pull Jordan down with me by his shirt. The floor is sticky with sauce that’s dripped off the chicken and probably some lemonade overflow, and I don’t give a damn.

“Can I tell you something?” I ask.

He nods.

“I’ve been hanging with my buds — we call ourselves the Three Amigos — for the last three years. Other than baseball and family, that’s what I do. And they rock. But it’s nothing like this. These two times we’ve hung out after work? Best days of my life.”

I find I can’t look him in the eye when I say it. I study the truck from the angle of the floor. The dashboard up front looks like it’s from some old, black-and-white movie, maybe. It’s amazing we haven’t stalled.

“Me too,” Jordan says, and he puts his hand in mine. “I know two days is only two days, but when I’m with my wives — I call them my wives — it’s like I’m always wondering how I come off. And I’m always doing what they want. I feel more like me with you.”

I turn to him. He turns to me. We kiss once more, this time more tender, more deep. His breath is the tiniest bit stale, and I devour him anyway. I run my fingers through his sopped black hair, and he sighs a little.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks into my mouth.

“Count on it,” I say.





“Mom!” I yell. “Mom!”

I just about burst in the front door, and Dorcas, bless her heart, does her jump-up greeting, putting her paws on my stomach. I scruff her hair and she pants at me. Her breath is awful.

I know it’s 10:30, and Mom could be asleep but probably not. I don’t care. This is worth waking her up for sure.

It’s not just pride about feeding the homeless. It’s that I’m happy about Max, my — what is he? Is he my boyfriend? My boyfriend! — and I want to tell Mom. More importantly, I am dying to see her face when I tell her that we’ve already — already! — made enough money to pay the back mortgage, and at this rate if we work all summer I can probably pay a year in advance before going back to school.