Page 24 of Loving Carter

He scratches the side of his face.

For the love of Pete.“They found that the number one reason why people who have been close friends for most of their lives suddenly grow distant is because one of them is suffering from extreme boneheadedness and therefore ignores the other.”

That gets a reaction. He laughs.

“So is this what’s happening to us?” I ask.

He sighs one of those deep, sad sighs, then shakes his head. “No. It’s not extreme boneheadedness. I’m just tired these days. Sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

I feel like someone lifted an anvil off the top of my head. The last time I was this happy was when my third rescue dog became paper trained.

“I’m sorry you’re tired, but you should have just told me that. I’ve been worried that you’re sick or that something is wrong ... or that you’re mad at me.” I reach out and lightly touch his arm. “I would hate it if you were mad at me.”

I’m being gooey sweet, I know, but it’s how I feel. Thankfully, he smiles slightly, although his focus is mostly on his driving.

“I’m still your friend,” he says.

It’s not quite the loud declaration of friendship I’d hoped for, but it’s good enough. I’ll take what I can get.

“Good,” I say.

Then we return to silence, but at least this time, I know it’s friendship silence not I-can’t-stand-you silence. The two types of silence feel very different.

When we reach the celebration, a crowd has formed. Not by the stage where it appears a few politicians are talking, but instead by the collection of food trucks, which is quite a distance away. Carter parks in the first space we can find, and we also head for the food.

“So the first thing I see is that we shouldn’t have food trucks arrive until after people have had a chance to wander through the booth,” I say. “If we don’t, no one will attend the expo.”

“True.” He nods toward the small stage behind the food trucks where a band is playing. They aren’t loud enough to make it so the people at the stage can’t hear the politicians, but loud enough to drown out some of the chatter by the food trucks.

“Hmm,” I say, standing near the food trucks and looking around. “This setup is okay, but I think we can do better.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t want people to forget about the booths and only concentrate on the food trucks. I want them to see the booths, then go to the food trucks afterward.” I point to where the band is located. “I think having the band playing behind the food trucks is good. We can set up some chairs and tables like they have so people can eat and enjoy the music.”

“But if we have food trucks, no one is going to stop at the booths. They also won’t wander around in town and go to the café or your bakery or any of the other businesses.”

He’s right. Folks would just head over to the food trucks, get something to eat, maybe listen to the band for a while, then leave. It seems pretty obvious now that it’s staring me in the face. I’m not sure why I had to see it in person because it makes logical sense. But I needed to see it, and now that I have, having food trucks is a bad idea.

“So no food trucks,” I say, realizing I’m committing myself, and the folks at the café if they’re interested, in cooking our little hearts out to ensure there’s enough food for everyone. The influx of business will be great, assuming we can handle the load. Based on the crowd here, we can expect a huge group, although many of these people may have come only for the food trucks.

“Want to get something to eat?” Carter asks. “I know we’re no longer testing them to see if they should come to the expo, but I’m hungry.”

I’m hungry too, so I walk with him from one truck to the next. There’s a diversity of food choices, everything from spicy Tex-Mex to standard burgers. We explore one truck after another and finally decide on burgers and fries. Not too exciting, but hey, it works. After we get our food, we sit at one of the picnic tables near where the band is playing.

“They’re pretty good,” I say, nodding toward the band. “Maybe we should talk to them.”

Carter is sitting across from me with his back to the band. Now he turns and looks at them. The band consists of three young men.

“They look like high school students,” he says. “Or maybe even middle school.”

“No. That can’t be right.” I lean forward and study them closer. Although I didn’t notice it at first, now that he’s mentioned it, the band members do seem young. Very young.

“Do you think we should see if the Endearing high school band wants to play at the expo?” I ask, hoping he says no. It’s not that I don’t like our high school band. They do a great job at the football games. The problem is they’re a marching band, and all their music is marching band music.

“No,” is all he says, but that’s okay. That’s what I wanted to hear.

This group is playing some older country songs. Not exactly cutting edge, but at least it’s not John Philip Sousa songs.

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