The Food Truck

I look behind me. Everything is ready. Another busy day in the city. Out on the street, the click and clack of designer footwear on the sidewalk forms its rhythm. I take a deep breath in and exhale, smiling. New York City. No place like it.

A woman walking by turns her eyes towards the truck. Slowly coming to a halt, her hand comes to her chin. Her foot starts to tap against the ground, as busy pedestrians weave around her. Eyes fixated on the menu, she walks towards the truck. She is jogged out of her trance as she looks up to see me smiling at her. Her head wiggles, bringing her back to reality, and she returns the smile.

‘Good morning, honey’. Her voice sings a little, with a deep southern twang. ‘Funny menu, especially for breakfast time. What’s your specialty?’

‘If you’ve got a taste for spice, you’ll love my roti. It comes with some dahl, curry sauce and sambal.’ She flinched at my accent. ‘Where you from?’, I ask.

‘Jackson’, she replies, still deep in thought about her breakfast options.

‘Mississippi, huh? What brings you here?’

‘My daughter, she’s in film school up here. Crazy place, this New York City.’

‘Sure is. What can I get you?’ I notice a short queue forming behind her.

‘You decide, honey. Something simple. Not the roti.’

‘You got it’, I say, flinging a ham and cheese sandwich on the grill. ‘It’ll just be a few minutes.’

She steps to the side as the other customers come through. A coffee. A bagel. My regular who wants his morning roti. A nice guy, from Bangladesh. I flip the sandwich on the grill. Says he can’t get this kind of food for breakfast anywhere in the city. This is New York City; I find that hard to believe. Who cares though, he loves what I’ve got to offer.

As I serve five or six customers, the lady from Jackson’s eyes are darting back and forth. Between me, the customers, what I’m serving them. It’s amusing to watch. A light crackle from the grill tells me her sandwich is ready. I cut it in half, and slide it into the bag. A slight grin comes to her face as she watches my handiwork.

‘What do I owe you, honey?’

‘$3.50.’

She gets out her money. She seems to be moving so slowly.

‘You sure made quick work of that queue’, she says, handing me the money.

‘This is New York City. Gotta be fast here, otherwise they’ll be off to the next truck.’ I move to get her change.

‘I guess. Still, I appreciate the time you took to make my sandwich. It smells delicious. Thank you so much.’

My heart beats a little faster and reacting, I take a deep breath. My entire upper body rises, and I feel a light tingle in my head. A good one. The lady from Jackson smiles at me again.

‘You okay, honey?’

‘Yes, thank you ma’am.’ Now my foot is tapping, and I’m looking at her. I feel my brow furrow a little and my lips pout. I gather my thoughts.

‘What’s on your mind?’, she asks.

‘I don’t think anyone has ever said something like that to me before.’

‘What?’, she asks, ‘you mean me thanking you?’

‘Well, people say thank you all the time, it’s usually as they’re walking away and grabbing their coffee or food. This was different. My body had a reaction to it. Like you really meant it.’

‘I did mean it, honey. Look, I gotta go. My daughter is waiting for me. It was lovely meeting you, and thanks again for the sandwich. I’m Delia, what’s your name?’ She extends her hand.

I take her hand and shake it. Slowly. ‘Romesh. Thank you, Delia. It was lovely meeting you.’

She smiles at me again, likes she knows something I don’t. I notice a similar response in my body, and watch her as she walks off. The corners of my mouth rise, and I notice myself smiling.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

My head shakes, jarred out of the moment. I turn towards the racket.

‘Hey buddy! Two coffees, what are you doing?’

I look at the large man for a moment, then instinctively reach for the coffee.

‘Sorry sir. Here you go.’ He takes them in a huff, and walks off, joining the rest of the foot traffic.

© Santiago De Silva (also known as Tiago De Silva), 2018. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. The link to this page may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Tiago De Silva with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.