Although he told himself it didn’t matter, Swale knew his parents were going to be very proud.
The potholes on Fairfax Avenue caused the truck to bounce as it cruised north from the 10 freeway. The height and springiness of the driver’s seat matched the confident, tiptoe strut Swale had adopted after buying the truck. He bought the truck used but the engine ran so smoothly and the kitchen was so spotless, one would hardly believe the truck had been used at all. Soon, Swale believed, Vegistry would take its place as the latest hit in the Los Angeles food truck scene.
Swale’s given name was Robert. His grade school friends called him Robert, but his parents always called him Robbie. Only once, while shaking his hand after his college graduation, Swale’s father called him Rob. By that time, however, Robert had changed his name to Swale. He chose Swale because he thought it sounded like a character in an Irish novel, though he doesn’t recall having ever read an Irish novel.
The name Vegistry was born out of a brainstorm session that also produced the menu items “Soylent Greens” and “The Vegistered Sex Offender.” Swale had no doubt his food truck would be a hit. Despite the growing number of food trucks in Los Angeles, there weren’t any vegan options and nearly everybody Swale knew was vegan. The @vegistry Twitter account had 72 followers before he even bought the truck. As a test run, Swale sold avocado ruebens and mock meatloaf sandwiches at his friend Huck’s Earth Day bonfire. By all accounts, Swale’s Seitan was the best anybody had ever tasted, this despite Swale mispronouncing the word up until a month ago. Soon after he learned the proper pronunciation, “Seitan’s Little Helper” was added to the menu.
It was mid-morning when Swale parked his truck on Wilshire Boulevard. In front of him were The Grilled Cheese Truck and Frysmith; behind him, the Buttermilk Truck and Kogi BBQ. He was rolling with the big boys. A half-dozen lesser trucks extended beyond them in each direction. In no time, employees from the surrounding high-rises and visitors to the nearby museums would swarm the sidewalk. Each person would look at their lunch options then decide which truck to wait in line for. Swale knew his line wouldn’t be as long as the others on the first day, but he was confident that word would spread.
As the chefs in the other trucks prepared for the lunch rush, Swale stood on the sidewalk and daydreamed. He had prepped his ingredients at the house because his only employee (and ex-girlfriend), Tulip, wasn’t at the house when he woke up. The graphics on the truck turned out great, he thought. “Vegistry” was written in deep red on the shiny, black truck. The font and colors were selected to convey a sense of sophistication. Swale even cut off his dreads. He wasn’t a “dumb hippie,” as his dad was so fond of saying. He was now an entrepreneur.
Swale felt the sun’s heat reflect off the black truck. He closed his eyes and forced himself to remember all the times he had failed. He thought about the time he drove his mother’s Mercedes into quicksand. His dad asked, “How could you be so stupid?” Swale answered, “It looked like a puddle.” His mother sighed, “Oh, Robbie.” Swale yelled, “You can’t treat me like a child! I’m a college-educated man!”
He thought about the time his homemade soap burned down the back room of the house he was renting. Tulip angrily asked, “Why the fuck would you make flammable soap?” Swale responded, “The soap isn’t exactly flammable. Mostly, I think it was the paper packaging.” Tulip called him a “retard” and Swale reminded her that he was a “college-educated man.”
Swale reminded himself of the firemen’s giggling as they cut his hair from that revolving door. He reminded himself that he can’t grow a beard because he once tried to teach himself to eat fire. He reminded himself of the torn ACL suffered after getting his sandal caught in the chains of a frisbee golf target. He also reminded himself that none of it would matter once he opened the doors to Vegistry.
The sound of the rival trucks opening their doors snapped Swale from his daydream. From his left, Swale heard the canopies clang up and lock into place above the trucks’ windows. The metallic banging was rhythmically moving toward him until it was Swale’s turn to open for business. He took one step forward then stopped and stared dumbly at his truck. The sound of opening windows moved past him and to his right as Swale stood frozen. He stood on the sidewalk in disbelief looking at the flat, passenger’s side of Vegistry. He numbly walked around the back of his truck to the driver’s side and stood in the middle of the street. Despite the honking, oncoming cars of Wilshire Boulevard, Swale looked solemnly at the unopened window of his truck.
As the lines formed on the sidewalk in front of the other trucks’ windows, Swale continued to stand in the street staring at his irregular truck’s unopened window. Cars continued to honk and drivers yelled obscenities as they merged into the left lane to get around the entrepreneur. Eventually, a police car pulled up to Swale and twice beeped its siren. Swale softly reminded himself, “But I’m a college-educated man.”
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