Brooklyn Girls (10 page)

“Don’t you need a license, or something?” says Julia. “And to register the vehicle?”

I wave a hand. “Easy. I have to send in some paperwork with my name on it, blah blah blah. The truck is already licensed as Toto’s Ice Creamery. I’ll paint ‘SkinnyWheels’ over the top. It’s just a name, and I’m leasing the permit from the owner since everyone does that.” Francie talked me through it all. There seems to be a lot of slight-of-hand about the food truck vendor permit system in New York, which suits me just fine.

“Where are you going to make the food?”

“In our kitchen till I get enough cash to go to one of the proper kitchen commissary thingies,” I say. This part is, I’m aware, bending the rules a bit. “We’ve got that big spare fridge in the laundry with, like, nothing in it. And I’ll make sure it’s all sanitary. You know, gloves, clean knives, that sort of thing. If that’s, um, okay with you guys?”

“Of course it is,” says Julia. “It’s just …
you
? A food truck?”

“This is the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. Who would buy food from
you
?” says Madeleine.

For a second, my heart sinks. She’s right. What the hell am I thinking?

“I would!” says Coco. I clink beers with her and smile gratefully.

“You know what, I would, too,” says Julia slowly. “It’s crazy, but I would. Will you park near my office first?”

“I’m showering.” Madeleine stomps up the steps and bangs the front door shut behind her.

“Dude, she showers like three times a day, it’s really weird,” I say. Julia gives me a shut-up look. “It is!”

“Well, if it isn’t the Rookhaven rookies!”

We all look up to see Vic and his sister, Marie, ambling along the sidewalk. Marie looks a bit like Vic, the same big pointy ears and a face crumpled like an old love letter, with pale pink fluffy hair. It suits her. She looks like a very old pixie.

“Hi, Uncle Vic! Hi, Aunty Marie!” chorus Julia and Coco, sounding about five years old.

“Look at that!” says Vic. “A pink truck!” They’re both eating lemon ices.

“The truck is mine,” I say proudly. “Her name is Toto! I’m starting a business! A food truck business!”

“You don’t say,” says Marie. “Looks like one that used to sell lemon ice at Coney Island.”

“It’s the same truck!” I exclaim. “Well, it could be. Maybe. It was an ice-cream truck.”

“That’s a great pedigree, sweetie,” she says. “Oh, we loved Coney Island when we were younger. Do you remember, Vittorio? On a day like today, we’d go to Ravenhall! Now that was a swimming pool! Vic would swim the entire length, holding his breath, just to impress Eleanor.” Vic doesn’t react to this story, just keeps eating his ice cream. Was Eleanor his wife? The one he gave the rosebush to, the one who died? Marie continues, barely drawing breath. “Oh, and then we’d stop at Williams Candy. The caramel corn was to die for. You know, I think it’s still there. Vittorio, we should go.”

“Caramel corn and dentures, now there’s a great idea,” says Vic. Then he looks over at me. “So, I heard you made a little scene down at Bartolo’s last night.”

Was that really only last night? It seems like so long ago.

“Oh, God, yes, um, oh, Vic, I really enjoyed the job, and I love the restaurant,” I say honestly. “I am so sorry, I guess it reflects badly on you—”

“I heard the full story from Ricky and Vinnie at the club today.”

“Angelo is too uptight,” interrupts Marie. “Always was. He was an uptight kid. His mother, now, there was an uptight woman. Tense! I’m surprised she managed to push him out—”

“Marie,” interrupts Vic warningly. She rolls her eyes with a little grin, and goes back to eating her ice cream. He turns to me and says, surprisingly: “Well, good for you for standing up for yourself. So now you’ve got another job, huh? Think you can stick it out this time?”

“I will,” I say. “I promise.”

“How are you, Aunty Marie?” asks Julia. “How’s the hip?”

“Oh, can’t complain. Coco, honey, would you help me down the stairs? I’m gonna lie down. Vittorio, it’s time for you to rest up, too, you hear me?”

“Who died and made you boss?”

As Coco helps Marie, Julia offers Vic a beer, but he refuses. He seems happy to just lean against the stoop in the early evening sun.

“You look just like your Aunt Jo, you know,” he says to Julia. “And Coco looks just like your mother.”

“I know,” says Julia. “The older Coco gets, the more she reminds me of her. I don’t think she knows.”

Coco bursts back out of the garden-level apartment, leaps up the stoop two steps at a time, and runs into our house, banging the front door behind her, and comes out a few seconds later with a basket of homemade blueberry scones.

“Marie’s favorite,” she says, skipping down the stairs back into Vic and Marie’s house.

“Yep, just like your mother, always baking and helping,” says Vic.

“She was the best,” says Julia. There’s a pause, and no one says anything.

“Well, I better go look into this blueberry scone phenomenon,” says Vic. “Can’t have my sister eating them all by herself. I’ll be back out here a little later.”

“Some of my earliest memories are sitting out here with Vic and Marie and my mom on summer evenings, watching the world go by,” says Julia, half to herself.

“I really like them,” I say.

“Me too. It makes me feel so safe, knowing they’re here. It’s like Rookhaven really belongs to them. Or they belong to Rookhaven.”

“Does he have any kids of his own?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No kids. My mom’s family moved in during the sixties, I think. Vic moved straight downstairs, and Marie moved in when her husband passed away. They’re like family.” She meets my eye and smiles, but her eyes are sad.

I hold my beer up to hers. “To friends who are like family.”

We clink, and drink.

An hour later, Coco’s back sitting on the stoop with us, and I’ve got a thoroughly giggly beer buzz. I have a truck! I’m starting a business! I’ve got a new career!

We’re talking about men. Or as Coco calls them,
booooyyysss
.

I tell the girls all about Jonah. “Verdict: not my type. Not even for a fling.”

“You want to fall in love.” Coco nods knowingly.

“No fucking way!” I say. “However, I’d be happy to
like
someone for a prolonged period of time. And have the sex.”

“Please. I have not had anyone near my sugar in, like, fourteen months.” Julia casts sad kitten eyes at us.

“I wish you wouldn’t call it your sugar,” I say.

“Why, because I should call it my hoohoo, the way you used to?”

“Hey. Don’t insult my hoohoo. My hoohoo has never let me down.” I pause. “Actually, my hoohoo constantly lets me down, the little bitch.”

Coco clears her throat. “I’m thinking about joining a club or taking a class to meet more guys. Have you heard of Brooklyn Brainery? And there’s bocce ball at Union Hall.”

“Men playing bocce ball are either Vic’s age, or the worst kind of hipsters,” says Julia.

“I think we should go for older men,” I say. “Guys our age need more time in the oven or something.”

“Yeah,” says Julia. “And I think guys think I’m weird for being, you know, ambitious and caring about my career and stuff.” She frowns, pulling away some of her beer bottle label.

“All you really need is someone kind, hot, and smart,” I say. “It seems like guys are only ever two out of the three.”

“And he has to be funny,” says Julia.

“And he has to laugh,” I say. “Not just say ‘that’s funny’ when I’m being funny.”

“Affirmative. And he can’t be skinnier than me and he has to have a college degree.”

Coco is watching Julia and I make out this list of attributes like a kid at a tennis match.

“Where are we going to find dudes who are older, single, kind, smart, educated, funny, and hot?” says Julia.

“What about your office?” I imagine Julia’s workplace is a combination of
Wall Street 2
and
American Psycho
. “Come on. All those buff men in suits…”

“No,” says Julia. “None of the guys that I sit near, anyway. They’re all the worst kind of frat boys. And none of the older ones even talk to me. It’s like I don’t exist.”

“It’s probably against some kind of policy,” suggests Coco. “You know, because of sexual harassment.”

“I don’t think so, most of them are banging their assistants,” she says, sighing. “They’re disgusting, anyway. I wouldn’t want an office fling, I just hate being ignored. How am I ever supposed to meet anyone?”

“There’s a salsa class place on Smith!” says Coco.

“Salsa class? No goddamn way,” I say. “It’s simple. Go to a bar. Men will be there. Make eye contact. Give it twenty minutes. Voilà.”

“Yeah, like it’s that easy,” Julia says, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, what kind of quality control is that? He could be a total cockmonkey!”

“The world is full of cockmonkeys.” I nod. “The question is how hot they are.”

Coco giggles and Julia rolls her eyes.

“Ladybitches!” says a voice. It’s Angie, hiccupping and wavering slightly on the stoop. “I’ve been at Spring Lounge in SoHo all afternoon with Lord Hugh. The drinks were sta-
rong
.”

“Things getting serious with the good lord?” I am dying to ask about the fight with the Brooklyn Flea guy, but I know she’ll never tell me in front of the others. She probably wouldn’t tell me even if we were alone.

“Ah, Hugh … my lord and savior,” she says, then squints up at the sky. “Sorry, God. You know I’m only kidd— Whoa!” She falls off the step. “Oopsh! No, never mind, all good, nothing to see here, move along.…”

“Dude, she’s shitfaced,” says Julia.

Duh.

“I wanna go out!” Angie shouts. “Let’s get ready to rumble!” She starts shadowboxing, her purse whipping back and forth. “Ow, ow, owww. Bag boob bang.”

I stand up and take one of her arms to take her upstairs. Julia gets up and takes the other one. “Come on, drunky. Upstairs.”

“I’m not that kind of girl, goddamnit.…” Angie starts walking up the stairs slowly, mumbling to herself. “Blow jobs are a privilege, not a right.”

“What?” say Julia and I in unison, and start laughing hysterically.

“I’ll make her some toast and hot tea,” says Coco, hurrying behind us.

“I am fucking starving,” Angie enunciates clearly. “Carb me up, Scottie!”

An hour and seven pieces of buttery toast later, Angie passes out. I need to keep an eye on her. There’s that whiff of self-destruction about her. I know it well. I had it after Eddie.

Coco and I are in the kitchen talking about baking while Julia and Madeleine watch some Nicholas Sparks movie (I just cannot handle that shit, why would I
want
to cry? And by the way, why are they staying in on a Saturday night when Jules was just complaining about never meeting men? I’m staying in because I’m working. That’s totally different. And, let’s face it, hilarious.).

Coco really knows her stuff when it comes to low-fat baking. Like using canned pumpkin or applesauce to make cakes, instead of oil or butter. We agree to avoid high-fructose corn syrup at all costs, and fake sugars (most of them bloat me like a starlet in rehab). Coco suggests organic cane sugar, agave syrup, or even maple syrup.

“Sounds perfect. I’ll spend tomorrow making just two simple salads,” I say, planning out loud. “Then all I have to do is paint the truck and get on the road first thing Monday morning. Easy!”

“Easy,” echoes Coco happily.

I make a list of things to buy at Trader Joe’s tomorrow. I’m glad I have that extra thousand dollars leftover from buying the truck: I think I’ll need it.

“This is so exciting!” Coco is such a positive person to be around, I’m sometimes not sure if she’s actually being sarcastic. “I really think your truck idea is totally super-awesome.” She plays with the spine of the book she’s been reading,
Rilla of Ingleside
by L. M. Montgomery, then flips it open to the first page, absently stroking the name written there.
Kim Lucalli.
Her mom. Lucalli was her maiden name.

“Thanks, Coco,” I say. “I think your low-fat baking ideas are totally super-awesome, too.”

“You’re not scared at all, it’s like … wow,” she says, blinking her big blue eyes at me.

“I do get scared sometimes,” I admit. “I’m trying to ignore it in the hope the fear goes away. And I’m kind of excited, too. I saw a hundred people doing this food-truck thing today. If they can do it, I can, too.” This really is how I feel … and whenever I think it, I feel my heart give a little elated jump. SkinnyWheels! Yeah!

“So how about you, kitten-pants? How’s work?” Coco shrugs. She never talks about the preschool where she works. I try another subject. “Seeing anybody? Interested in anyone?”

“Yes! Um, I’ve been”—a deep sigh—“in love with my best friend, Eric, for like, four years? I know we’ll end up together someday, we get along so well.…”

“Really?” I say. In my experience, girls who say “I know we’ll end up together” tend to be a short stroll from psychotown.

“He lived on our street in high school, and I drove him to school every day when he totaled his car and we just talked for hours. The only problem is that he sees me as a friend and I’m not great at, you know, flirting. And since we left high school it’s been hard to keep in touch.” She sighs again. “He slept with Emily, my
former
best friend, at prom.”

“No,” I say. “What a bitch.”

“A hellbitch,” agrees Coco. “It wasn’t his fault. He was drunk and she totally took advantage of him.”

“He tripped and landed in her vagina, huh?”

Coco giggles despite herself. “No! I wish he hadn’t done it, but he didn’t know how much I like him … and I can’t help it, I like him anyway.” She’s a bit further from pyschotown than I thought. That’s a relief. “Have you ever been in love?”

“No,” I say automatically. “Well, yes, but … it doesn’t matter. Where’s Eric tonight? Maybe we can go and see him.”

“Oh, no, he’s at Yale,” she says importantly. “How do I make the transition from text friends to text flirting?”

“Be sarcastic. Be a smart-ass. Guys love a surprising text. It’s like … a little mental rough-and-tumble.”