Page 18 of Even After Sunset

“Do you mind?” The woman throws me another disapproving glower over her shoulder as she struggles to strap her kid into his car seat.

Pretty sure it’s obvious that I do, in fact, mind. A lot.

Jackie apologizes to her, like she’s the one who’s making a scene and cussing a blue streak. But I don’t feel one bit bad: sheisthe reason I’m losing my shit.

Once the lady has pushed the passenger door closed and hustled around to the driver’s seat, Jackie turns her attention back to me.

“The bus ticket would have cost me more,” she says matter-of-factly. She’s got me there. And that’s the problem: I feel like she’s laid a trap, and I’m fully ensnared. I’m officially her charity case and in her debt. Actually, if we’re being really technical here, I’min her care,too. My ego might as well lay down and take a nice extended nap, because it’s clear he won’t be getting air time anytime soon.

“Come on,Silas!” she calls impatiently. “The lobster festival starts at six. I need to check in and get set up! Can you toss me the rest of the stuff already, so we can get going?”

I lift my head, suddenlyconfused.

“Alobsterfestival?” My voice actually cracks on the word ‘lobster.’ “I thought you said you sold cookies and lemonade and crap?”

“Just cookies and lemonade.” She clarifies, “No crap.”

I exhale loudly. She’s too much. All of this… it’s too much to process in the span of just a few hours. Especially since for some reason, I feel more tired since that power-nap—like my body was reminded how good it feels to rest and now I crave it more than anything else.

I start passing the bags up to her. I shove them at her, actually. But she doesn’t even flinch. It doesn’t wipe that shit-eating grin off her face, either.

Probably because we both know she won this round.

Chapter Seven

Jackie

As soon as we round the corner into the festival gates, I start getting nervous. I’ve researched the ins and outs and regulations and protocols for this process, but I’ve never actuallydoneit. Or anything close to it.

I’m kind of glad Silas fell asleep shortly after the showdown at Walmart, because I’m not sure I could handle his attitude on top of the nerves I’m feeling right now.

When it’s finally my turn in the queue, I proudly hand my organized folder of documents to the young woman at the check-in booth. She looks barely older than me. She skims each sheet: seller’s permit, certification and inspection forms, each clearly labeled with narrow pastel sticky-notes. She ticks my name off a list and, to be honest, the entire process is a little anti-climatic. I’m not sure what I expected, though.

The woman glances over at Silas, still passed out beside me: wavy hair and cheeks slightly flushed, his dark lashes seemingly longer in slumber. Her gaze lingers for a moment and it kind of annoys me that he manages to look good even when he’s sleeping off a hangover. Shouldn’t he be pastey and covered in a sheen of sweat or something?

The attendant returns her focus to me. She hands me a site map and draws a large red “X” to show me where the assigned spot is for Trudy. And just like that, my venture becomes a legit honest-to-goodness reality.

It’s a short drive to the main festival grounds, which is like a scene from one of those “Where’s Waldo” books. Vehicles everywhere, attendants and festival organizers setting up barriers and portable washrooms and merchandise booths. Sweaty guys rigging electrical wires for string lights and hookups and Godknows what else. Another rag-tag crew is banging and calling out to each other up on the stage, and close by, more guys are lugging amps and speakers and instrument cases out of trucks.

And the smells are just as overwhelming: cooking oil, beer, sunscreen… something sickly sweet. Chocolate? Corn syrup, maybe? And some kind of musky incense which isreallystrong and very un-summery, but not strong enough to conceal the odor of weed, which seems to grow progressively stronger the closer I get to my “red X” parking spot.

Basically, everything’s one big blur of chaos. And I don’t do chaos. I like organized and calm and planned and predictable.

I inhale a slow, deep breath. This is what I signed up for. I can do this. I can handle a little mayhem. And pretty soon, surely, this will all become routine to me, right? Or familiar, at least.

Silas still doesn’t stir, even when I park Trudy and kill the engine. I don’t bother waking him since I figure all the while he’s sleeping, he can’t cause any trouble.

So for now: festival prep time. But before unlocking the main door to the camper, I take a few moments to glance around at the other food trucks. Everyone else seems to know exactly what they’re doing, and I can’t help noticing that their menus are long and the selections way more varied than mine. Even their vehicles are elaborate and adorned with colorful awnings or flashy flags or mini Chinese lanterns strung above the window. The Mexican food truck even has smiling chili-pepper lights strung along the entire front of the truck.

I pull my focus back to the task at hand, hoping it will keep my mind from fogging with self-doubt. I’ve already pre-baked all the cookies I should need for tonight, so for this first gig at least, my only focus is on display, accessibility setup, and organization. I have a check-list and I go through it methodically. And thankfully, the next couple of hours fly by as I become absorbed in hooking up the electrical, water, and prepping the truck for business.

About half an hour before the main gates open to the public, I hear the passenger door slam closed and a few seconds later, Silas appears on the first step in the opening of the main doorway. The light outside has changed to awarm evening-glow, and it smoothes the sharp edges I’ve come to associate with Teenage Silas. Behind him, someone up on stage is playing the same guitar riff over and over, adding a little more reverb each time.

I look up from the iPad in front of the order window, where I’m testing the payment app for the fourth time. Just to be sure.

“Good sleep?”

“Yeah.” He stretches an arm out to brace against the door casing, and his T-shirt lifts, exposing those horrible bruises again. But also, abs that were definitely not this defined when he was a lanky kid.

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