Skinnydipping (42 page)

“Shut up, Andy,” Jodi Sue said. “Don’t even say that. We’re going to make the most money. Ours is the best. Just shut up!”

We all sat in tense silence as I drove the big truck down 43rd Street to Seventh Avenue, then back around to 41st, inching along surrounded by cabs and delivery trucks and a few terrified-looking tourists in their sedans. They’re not as terrified as I am, I thought. What’s driving through Manhattan compared to the insane experience of being on this show? We pulled over where the producers had marked off our spot with orange cones. They were already there, moving the cones out of the way as I maneuvered the truck into place. It was ten thirty; we had half an hour until we opened.

Jodi Sue and Mikki immediately started passing out flyers. Mikki made coffee and checked that the drinks were cold. Her hands were shaking. I arranged the stacks of napkins and paper plates, and took the lids off the steam trays filled with dogs and sauerkraut, which we’d heated in the test kitchen. Everything looked good. Andy set up the mustard station and straightened the signage. Then I pulled out the first bag of hot dog buns.

Oh shit. They were soaking wet. “How the hell did this happen?” I shrieked. “The buns are wet!”

Andy ran over to look. “Fuck,” he said. “You can’t serve those. This is a disaster!”

“Did somebody sabotage us?” Mikki said, her eyes wild with paranoia.

“No, look,” said Andy. We’d stashed the buns in a cabinet under the steam trays for the drive over, and water was dripping down from where the hot dogs were warming, right on top of the bags of buns. “Somehow, the water got into the bags,” Andy said, opening up another bag. “These are wet, too.”

Mikki grabbed the rest of the bags, and we all opened them up. Two bags were still dry—one bag of white and one bag of wheat. I thought fast.

“Andy,” I said. “You have to find a toaster with as many slots as possible. We can toast the buns to dry them. Most of them are just damp.”

Andy looked wildly around. “Go!” I screamed. He ran out the door.

“Let’s lay these all out in the corner and open them up so they can start to dry,” I said. “I just hope the dry ones last until he gets back. We don’t want to lose because of soggy buns.”

“At least it’s better than losing for saggy buns,” Mikki said.

We looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

“We’ve already got a line!” Monica said, peeking in the door, her wispy blonde hair glinting in the sun, her cheeks and nose rosy. “They’re hungry! Are we ready? Is everything ready?”

“Do you need any help in there?” Jodi Sue said, coming up to the window. She looked good in that tight T-shirt, I had to admit.

“No, get out there and shake it,” I said. “We need customers.”

“Whatever,” she said, giving me a dirty look. But she tucked her T-shirt in and went bouncing back outside. This time, she could be
our
groupie. Mikki came in and took her place at the cash register next to the window. I peered out. I could see Monica and Jodi Sue handing out more flyers and directing people to the line. “Get them while you can, one day only!” Monica shrieked.

At eleven I went outside, rolled open the windows, and rang the bell hanging over the window. No sign of Andy yet. I was getting more and more nervous. What if we ran out of buns before he got back?
Why didn’t I tell him to buy more buns? Why the toaster? That was stupid! What was I thinking? I was too tired to think clearly. I ran back inside as Mikki took our first customer. “What up, dog?” she said, awkwardly.

“I’d like a Kobe beef dog with chipotle mustard and a lemonade,” said a young woman, handing Mikki a five-dollar bill.

“White or wheat bun?” Mikki asked.

After a while, I took over for Mikki at the counter because she was just too shy for the job. She was happy to take the money while I took the orders. “You’re better with interfacing,” she said. “I’ve had enough talking.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m on a roll. Or … a soggy bun.”Nobody laughed.

But the customer experience is what would earn us a win. We had to make the most money, so I sucked it up. “What up, dog?” I said, trying to look more cheerful than I felt to each new customer. Every time I said it, the customer smiled. That was a good sign. After an hour, we still had a line, and everyone outside the stand seemed to love the hot dogs.

But we were almost to the end of the dry buns, and Andy still wasn’t back.

And then I looked up, and Harris was at the window.

“Hi,” he said.

I blushed. “What up, dog?” I said. He laughed.

“I’m here to check in on your team,” he said.

“Oh, really?” I said. “Because you’re just so into being involved with your mother’s media ventures?”

“Yep, that’s me. I’m just a fame whore,” he said.

“I suspected as much,” I said. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a Kobe beef with spicy brown mustard and sauerkraut on white, and a duck dog with relish mustard on whole wheat,” he said. “How’s business?” he asked, while Mikki scrambled to get his order.

“Pretty steady,” I said. “Who doesn’t love a hot dog?”

“I like your cheerleaders out front,” he said, gesturing to Monica and Jodi Sue.

“I know. Hot, right?” I said.

“They drew me right in,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Then Mikki elbowed me. “We’re out of buns,” she whispered.

Shit.

“Um… Harris?” I said, trying to look sweet and winning. “It seems we have a little technical difficulty. We’re … temporarily out of buns.”

He looked worried. “You’d better get some more before my mother gets here,” he said. “She’ll frown on that.”

“Can I give you your order without a bun?” I said, apologetically.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m easy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I handed him his plate. “Thanks,” he said, picking up the hot dog with his fingers. “I’ll be critiquing these.”

“Do you want a fork?” I said.

“Nope, I’m good,” he said.

“I hope you enjoy.”

“Oh, I’m already enjoying,” he said, winking at me. “I’ll see you later.”

Just after Harris left, Andy showed up with a four-slice toaster in his arms. “This was all I could find. Don’t ask how I got it,” he said, bursting into the truck and plugging it in. “And I had to yell at slacker Jodi Sue out there to get off her ass and start bringing in customers. She was just sitting on a bench.”

The toasting worked—the buns dried out just enough, and people seemed to appreciate the warm buns more than the untoasted ones. “We should toast them all,” he said.

“Go for it,” I said, wishing he’d arrived just a few minutes sooner, so I wouldn’t have had to give Harris a second-rate product. No matter what positive thoughts he might be having about me now, he was still one of the judges, and if he was honest the way he claimed to be, he was going to have to be honest about this.

“I’m tired of this,” Monica said, coming up to the window.

“Move off,” said Andy. “Get out there and do your job. We’re working our asses off in here. We’ve only got an hour left.”

“My job’s harder,” Monica pouted, then went back to her post. “One more hour and we’re gone forever!” she yelled hoarsely. “Gourmet hot dogs in Times Square!”

“Everyone’s doing a really good job,” I said to Andy. “Except Jodi Sue.”

“She’s lame,” he said. “She has to go. If we go down, we have to make sure Sybil knows that she did the least work.”

“If we go down, it’s probably going to be my head on the block,” I said. “I’m team captain.” The idea terrified me. I
couldn’t
go home now. I just couldn’t. I’d given too much. I had nothing else left for my regular life. It was all riding on hot dogs.

Jodi Sue peeked in the side door. “You guys, I really need a bottle of water, my throat is dry from yelling,” she said.

“You weren’t even yelling,” Andy said. “Monica’s doing all the yelling.”

“I’m yelling just as much!” she said. “Even though I should be in here doing the easy job.”

“Screw you,” said Andy. “This is a hard job. Here,” he said, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to her. “Just go away.”

“Screw
you
,” she said. She opened the bottle, tossed the cap in the trash, and turned to go back out. Then her shoe caught on the top rim of the step, she stumbled back, and the bottle of water went flying out of her hand. We all watched it make a perfect arc, then land spout down … right in the toaster. The toaster fizzled and sputtered and exploded with a tiny poof of flame, followed by a curl of black smoke.

“Oh shit, Jodi Sue, you broke the toaster,” I said.

“Oh, that’s rich,” Andy said. “You don’t do a damn thing to help us, and then you break the one thing that’s keeping us going.” He turned to me. “It’s two thirty. I’ve got these buns I’ve already toasted, but I don’t know if it’s enough to last another half hour.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get out of the way,” Jodi Sue said meekly.

“We’ll just have to make the best of it,” I said. But inside, I was fuming. And horrified. Would I really go home? Was this the end? Because of a clumsy lazy groupie who didn’t care whether we won or not?

Fifteen minutes later, Sybil Hunter and Ruby Prasad showed up at the window. Of course. We had three already toasted buns left.

“What up, dog?” I said, feeling silly saying it to Sybil Hunter, but putting on my best game face.

Sybil surveyed the menu. “I’ll have a duck dog with maple mustard on wheat, and a Kobe beef dog with cranberry mustard on white,” she said. “And another Kobe beef hot dog, for Rasputin here.” She was holding his leash. “No mustard, no bun.” The big Newfoundland wagged his bushy tail.

“Right away,” I said.

“I’ll have a veggie dog with chipotle mustard on white,” said Ruby. “And a duck dog with relish mustard on wheat.”

“Of course,” I said weakly. Where the hell were we going to get the fourth bun?

I looked at Andy. He stared back at me. Did we give Ruby a soggy white bun, or Sybil? Or did we come clean and tell them we didn’t have any buns left? “What do we do?” Mikki said in a panicky whisper.

“Is there a problem?” Sybil asked.

“Not at all,” I said, smiling. “We did have a slight mishap with some of our buns getting a little damp, but we were toasting them. And of course”—I tried to laugh—“just before you came to see us, our toaster blew out.” I wanted to die.

“I see,” said Sybil. “So what are you going to do about it?”

I looked past Sybil. Our line had dwindled as the lunch hour had passed, but a group of people had already gathered, having recognized Sybil Hunter. They were whispering and pointing. I wondered what Sybil would do.

“May I suggest that Rasputin has excellent taste, in ordering without
a bun, and we would love to offer you an alternative preparation for your Kobe beef dog?” I suggested. “The quality and flavor are so high that we actually prefer to serve it sliced and drizzled with mustard. Would you be interested in this? We can still offer you a bun for your duck dog.”

Sybil smiled. “All right. Did you hear that, Rasputin? You have excellent taste. I’ll try one, Rasputin-style,” she said. I handed them their plates, and leaned out the window to offer Rasputin his Kobe beef dog. He gulped it happily and wagged his tail.

Sybil and Ruby began to eat, just as the clock struck three.

“Thank God,” I said. “We’re done.”

I could see Sybil and Ruby conferring. Then Sybil approached the window again.

“The hot dogs were good, and the mustards were excellent,” she said, smiling.

“I agree,” said Ruby. I wanted to faint with relief.

Sybil looked at me. “I remember when I was first starting out in corporate event planning,” she said. “I had to do a dessert buffet, and the caterer’s truck crashed on the way, so we were left without any desserts.”

“What did you do?” I said.

“The event wasn’t too large, and it was being held in a local church. I panicked, of course, but only for a moment. Then I went to the kitchen, where I found eggs, milk, butter, sugar, a few spices—just the basics. But the freezer was full of bread that the church would cut into cubes for communion Sundays. So I made four trays of bread pudding. And it was good,” she said. “It was a success.”

“Wow,” I said. I felt privileged. Sybil didn’t often share personal stories.

“The food truck challenge was
your most difficult test yet,” said Sybil, standing up. “You were face-to-face with the public, and every detail
mattered. Both teams rose to the occasion. However, one team emerged as the clear winner.” We sat in the conference room in front of Sybil, Ruby, Harris, and Alice. Andy and I looked at each other nervously. We had no idea how the other team had done.

She looked around at us, making us wait, before she continued.

“I was impressed that Faith didn’t get flustered by the mishap with the hot dog buns, and deftly served me a very nice platter without a bun. However, the one
with
the bun was uninspired,” she said. “The bun was cheap and flavorless, and the duck dog wasn’t as interesting as the Kobe beef. But I don’t understand why you didn’t just go out and buy more buns. Harris, what do you think? Did you get a bun?”