Don Bruns: Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

T he truck was James’s. He’d bought it with a twelve-thousand-dollar inheritance from an aunt he didn’t even know. In the last month I’d made a few more security system sales than usual so I chipped in to help buy the kitchen appliances. The stove and two small grills worked off propane gas, the refrigerator off of a generator. As I said, James cut out a window in the side of the truck, hinging the cut-out metal so we could breathe fresh air and see daylight. Then he’d cut a hole in the top of the vehicle, and we ran stove pipe to vent the grills. The aluminum step-up folded down when we parked, and our hungry patrons could step up to the makeshift counter, where I would hand them their plates. It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional. Everything was used and cheap, including my cast iron skillet, and I figured the worst that could happen would be that everything would break down and we’d be out $500. It turns out worse things can happen.

James shopped for supplies and we loaded up the truck. The meeting started Thursday afternoon, and when we pulled into the fairgrounds about six o’clock that night, I did a double take. It wasn’t the hundreds of cars, campers, and trailers that crowded the sprawling acreage, and it wasn’t the size of the massive yellow canvas tent. It wasn’t the throngs of people or the rows of portable toilets that threw me. It was the row of food vendors lined up on one side of a gravel drive. There were fifteen trucks, carts, vans, and booths offering pizza, donuts, chicken tenderloins and wings, burgers, onion rings, hot dogs, and barbecue.

“James?”

“Uh-oh.”

“Reverend Cashdollar gets seventy-five hundred a night and we do all the work?”

“Ah, Skip, there’s still going to be plenty for everyone. Let’s not go crazy. You saw all those cars as we drove in.”

Our place was clearly marked with a wooden sign: #15 MORE OR LESS CATERING. It was James’s idea, not mine. His name is Lessor, mine is Moore, so he thought it would be clever to — well, it was his idea. We pulled in, leaving the rear of the truck facing the drive. James had a table to set up in the back end of the truck and I’d serve from there.

“Honest to God, James. You should have checked to see how many vendors were going to be here.”

“Yeah, but look at our position, dude. We are number one when you come out of the tent. Right next to God’s door, amigo.”

I stepped out of the cab and almost knocked down the older balding guy with the pink apron standing right outside the truck door.

“Hey. You’re the new guys, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s our first time here. So you’ve been doing this for a while?”

“Bruce. Bruce Crayer. I’m the donut guy in the next trailor. Just wanted to introduce myself. Yeah, been coming to Cash’s revivals for about three years now. Every year they grow. We do real well, yes we do. Four years ago, there was maybe five or six vendors, and now just look. Enough for everybody though.” It was as if Bruce Crayer and James had set this up ahead of time.

“I’m Skip Moore and — ” I motioned to the cab as James came around the truck, “this is my partner James Lessor.”

Crayer seemed to notice the lot sign for the first time and chuckled. “Sure. MORE OR LESS. Well, we’ll be neighbors here for the next four days and three nights. These nights are something. Lots of things going on at night let me tell you.” Crayer rubbed his hands on his colorful apron. “Water hookup is right in front of your cab. You can just hook up your hose.” He pursed his lips and let his gaze roam up and down the two of us as if he was measuring us for a suit.

After an awkward silence, I finally grabbed his hand, shook it heartily, and looked him in the eye. “Thanks for coming over and saying ‘Hi,’ Bruce. I assume we can ask you if we have a question about anything.”

“Sure. You just ask for me. A little later some of the full-time vendors play a little poker down at Stan’s place. He’s got the pizza booth where you first drove in. You’re welcome to join us.”

He walked back to his trailer and James shook his head. “We just got here and already we’ve got a game.”

“Bruce said he’s been coming here for three years, and the nights get pretty interesting.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” James squinted, leveling his gaze at me. “Pard, where I come from, this is either a revival meeting or a craps game.”

“Poker, James.”

“ Titanic, Skip. Nineteen fifty-two or three. Thelma Ritter.”

James watched far, far too many old movies. “Obscure quote, James.”

“It fit the bill, amigo.”

“I say this tent revival meeting can’t be that interesting.”

But it was.

The first night was chaotic. Our setup was fast, since we’d prepared everything ahead of time. We had about five hundred burgers preformed and seasoned, and James had boiled the brats so all we had to do was finish them on his grill. He’d arranged the brats and burgers on waxed paper in cardboard boxes. I cooked the onions and peppers on my small grill and in my cast-iron skillet, always keeping them simmering, and we were off and running. About a quarter till seven the meeting broke up, and what had been a slow parade of diners turned into a torrent. Two thousand people poured out of the huge yellow tent, and they swarmed over the vendors like biblical locusts. I couldn’t keep up, and we lost dozens of customers who grew tired of our inexperience.

“Skip, I could use a little help back here!” James yelled from his grill covered in smoky burgers and brats.

“Join the crowd, buddy. I’m a little jammed up here at the moment.”

The line grew and grew and some people who got impatient just walked away, several who had paid their ten dollars. They just walked away from ten bucks.

The sweat ran off my face, the heavy smell of grease was nauseating, and a dozen customers at a time yelled orders up to me.

“A brat, two burgers, and make sure there are plenty of onions on the brats.”

“I said no onions on the brats, young man.”

“Kid, excuse me, but I gave you a twenty. You owe me a ten.”

“Peppers? I don’t want any peppers, can you take them off?”

“Lady, take the peppers off yourself!” Thirty minutes into our maiden voyage and I was about fried.

“Skip, I’m out of peppers. Why aren’t there more on the grill?”

“Because I’m a little busy up here, my friend, with the friendly Christians.”

And then it got to be a pattern. I could get most of the orders, tend to the onions, peppers, and the fried potatoes, and James started organizing the meat grill so we were actually ahead of the game. From time to time I’d see him flip the burgers, and press them to the grill to hurry the cooking process. He’d stack them, then I’d grab them and place them in buns, spoon on the onions, peppers, and potatoes and serve the meal on a cheap paper plate.

The gray, smoky haze hung everywhere and we observed the operation through tear-filled eyes, wiping at our faces with stained shirtsleeves.

“For ten bucks, can’t I get a decent helping of potatoes?”

“Did someone even cook this meat?”

“More onions, please.”

“I said no onions.”

They offered up the worn, paper money, some of them digging for quarters and the last of their change. Grabbing the greasy food, they’d start tearing into it before they’d even left. As ravenous as this crowd was, they may have eaten the paper plates too.

And finally, it was over. Finally the line evaporated, disappeared, and we just stood and looked at each other, shaking our heads. I’d smell like this for the rest of my life. There was no way a shower, deodorant, or cologne would ever get rid of the cloying, greasy smell of fried meat and onion. And I didn’t know if I could ever go through this another night, much less two.