Page 232 of Bend
The Stock, and my car, were a block away. He pulled up to the curb. He put the Mercedes in park but didn’t turn the key.
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you make me curious.”
He smirked. “My wife and I were married that long. It wasn’t easy.” He rubbed the steering wheel, and I realized he regretted answering even the first part of the question. It was too late for me to give up on him now, so I waited until he said, “She left and took everything with her.”
“I don’t understand. Are you broke?”
He put the car into drive and turned to me. “She didn’t take a dime. She took everything that mattered.”
I felt sorry and then I felt stupid for feeling any kind of sympathy. I wanted to hold his hand and tell him he’d get over it someday, but nothing could have been less appropriate.
“I’m kinda hungry,” I said. “There’s this food truck thing on First and Olive. In a parking lot? You can come if you want.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Don’t come. Your call.”
“You’re a tough customer. Anyone ever tell you that?”
I shrugged. I really was hungry, and nothing sounded better than a little Kogi kimchi right then.
twelve
Jonathan was right in mentioning the time. Four in the morning was pretty late, as evidenced by the fact that he found a place for the car half a block away. We walked into the lot, against the traffic of twenty- and thirty-something partiers as they filtered out, one third more sober than they had been when they got there, carrying food folded in wax paper or swishing around eco-friendly containers. The lot was smallish, being in the middle of downtown and not in front of a Costco. The only parked vehicles lined the chain link fence, brightly painted trucks spewing luscious smells from all over the globe. My Kogi truck was there, as well as a gourmet popcorn truck, artisanal grilled cheese, lobster poppers, ice cream, sushi, and Mongolian barbecue. The night’s litter dotted the asphalt, hard white from the brash floodlights brought by the truck owners. The truck stops were informal and gathered by tweet and rumor. Each truck brought their own tables and chairs, garbage pail, and lights. The customers came between midnight and whenever.
I scanned the lot for someone I knew, hoping I’d find someone to say hello to on one hand and wishing Jonathan and I could stay alone on the other.
“My Kogi truck is over there,” I said.
“I’m going to Korea next week. The last think I need is to fill up on Kogi. Have you had the Tipo’s Tacos?”
“Tacos? Really?”
“Come on.” He took my hand and pulled me over to the taco truck. “You’re not a vegetarian or anything?”
“No.”
“Hola,” he said to the guy in the window, who looked to be about my age or younger with a wide smile and little moustache. “Que tal?” he continued. That was about the extent of my Spanish, but not Jonathan’s. He started rattling off stuff, asking questions, and if the laughter between him and the guy with the little moustache was any indication, joking fluidly. If I’d closed my eyes, I’d have thought he was a different person.
“You speak Spanish?” I asked.
“I live in Los Angeles,” Jonathan replied as if his answer was the most obvious in the world.
“You don’t speak it?” Little Moustache asked me.
“No.”
He said something to Jonathan, and there was more conversation, which made me feel left out. They were obviously talking about me.
“He wants to know if you’re as smart as you are beautiful,” Jonathan said.
“What did you tell him?”
