With or without you, p.1
With or Without You, page 1
With or Without You
Eric Smith
For Preeti Chhibber, Swapna Krishna, and Lauren Gibaldi,
who always show up. I couldn’t do it wit’out you.
And for Saray Fitzhenry, who taught me how to cook that first year in Philly.
Thank you for making sure my diet wasn’t only hummus.
I’ll fire up the grill.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Cindy)
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Cindy)
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Five
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Cindy)
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Cindy)
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Cindy)
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan)
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript(Cindy)
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Eesha & Ariana via Zoom)
Chapter Thirty
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Bethany, Producer)
Chapter Thirty-One
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan & Cindy)
Chapter Thirty-Two
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Steve)
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan & Cindy)
Chapter Thirty-Four
Pilot Confessional Shot Transcript (Jordan & Cindy)
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE:
JORDAN
Thursday, Ten Days until Truck Off!
“Wow, Cindy already has a line down the block.”
I look up from the onions I’m slicing to see that Steve has arrived. Instead of hopping right in and getting to work, he’s leaning out of the truck, gripping one of the metal handles on the inside so he can look around without stepping outside. He’s like a sailor in a war movie, tilting himself over the bow to get a better view of something, only the conflict we’re fighting isn’t all that serious and a food truck is far from a battleship. Though considering how my family behaves, you’d think this food truck was the Battleship New Jersey docked over in Camden across the river.
I pull open the window shutter in front of me just a little bit, and squint through the crack.
He’s not lying about that crowd.
Ortiz Steaks has a line sprawling from their food truck across the square, and it looks like it spills out around the corner, but I can’t tell how far. I nudge the shutter closed again, and Steve swings in, settling next to me.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Toad in the Pothole has a new sandwich special, had to try it. You know they’re using white cheddar?”
“God that...” I look up at the ceiling and close my eyes, exhausted by the play on words. “That cannot be the name of their food truck.”
“They can’t be all as groundbreaking as ‘Plazas Steaks,’ bro.” Steve laughs and starts shaking out some mushrooms from a small container. He stares at them for a beat before his eyes flit up to mine.
“Do you think we should—”
“No,” I scoff, tossing the freshly cut square chunks of onion into a metal container along the grill. I grab another whole onion and start cutting. The trick is to slice it in half lengthwise, and then make several long cuts along those halves, so when you chop right along the side, boom. Small cubes of onion, ready to be sprinkled on the hot grill.
“It’s just yesterday—”
“Steve, I know.” I stop and roll my eyes at him, and he backs off, a grin on his face, hands up in a faux surrender. I get back to slicing. “Dirt on mushrooms is normal, it’s natural. If we wash them hours before cooking, they’re gonna get all slimy.”
“Yeah, but that lady who asked for raw mushrooms made such a fuss over the, like, globs of actual dirt in her sandwich last week.”
“First of all, that’s what you get for asking for raw mushrooms on a cheesesteak. It’s justice. Secondly, did she die?”
“Not that we know of.” He nudges me with his elbow. “You gotta stop being such a...cheesesteak purist.” He pauses for a moment and exhales. “Have you figured out the sandwich for Truck Off yet? Or you know, your magic ingredient?”
“No.” I exhale, chopping down a little too hard on the onion I’m cutting. But a little flash of anxiety rushes through me. Truck Off is in two weeks—ten days, really—and I still don’t know what we’re going to serve at the competition. I’ve experimented with a few different ideas, from mini-cheesesteaks that are basically just the same thing we make right now but made...well, mini, to attempting cheesesteak egg rolls in the never-used truck fryer my family mostly stores condiments in.
Neither were a hit.
The prize money is huge, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since the spring. My grades even slipped a little, leading up to graduation. Winning it could change everything, and yet I’m still stuck.
Steve nudges closer and joins me in preparing the one topping we allow in the truck. He makes quick work of the whole white-capped mushrooms, cutting them up into thick slices, before putting them into the container next to the onions...which do not count as toppings. Onions are a key part of the cheesesteak, as much as the cheese, steak, and bread. Mushrooms are the unwelcome interlopers, but Mom and Dad were asked about them so many times, they finally caved.
Though with mushrooms come consequences.
“Look, I know you’re stressed and there’s a lot riding on the competition,” Steve presses, slicing away. “But we...you...have to think of something.”
“I know, I know...” I grumble.
Steve’s been here with me nearly every weekend these last two years, in my family’s cheesesteak truck, splitting tips while saving for his own dreams. And now it’s the summer, and we’re spending as many days as we can slinging lunches and spectacularly late-night meals for folks in South Philly. I couldn’t ask for a better sous-chef, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend. But he knows how my whole family feels about change. After my parents lost their diner years ago, they try to play things as safe as possible. Give people what they want, and that’s it.
New ingredients? New sandwiches? You start messing with the menu, and bam, that’s when your deli gets turned into an H&M, Dad likes to say, swapping out small eateries for big retail chains each time. Coffee shop into a Sephora. Bakery into a CVS. Greasy spoon into a RadioShack.
No one says greasy spoon anymore and RadioShack hasn’t existed for a really long time, but what can I do.
Mom and Dad aren’t thrilled about me entering this competition in the first place, especially since they know what I want to do with the money. I’ve had to sneak new ingredients into the truck to experiment with, which hasn’t been easy. But it’ll be worth it, if in a few months I can hit the open road.
Even though I’m trying hard to make sure everything changes, I can’t help but want to savor it all before everything changes. I don’t know if that makes sense, but I’ve come to realize it is possible to foster those two emotions at once inside yourself. The need for change that I feel, and the want for things to stay the same that my parents cling to.
I swipe at my eyes, some of the onion vapors starting to sting a bit.
Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.
“You really need to start wearing those protective glasses.” Steve says, nodding at the goggles hanging above the grill. The clear plastic has a film on the lenses from days, weeks, and months of grease splashing on them. I’ve never put them on, and I don’t think Mom or Dad have ever used them on their own shifts in here.
“I can power through.” I sniff, blinking through the pain. “Great work comes from suffering.”
“Yeah, okay, Daniel Day-Lewis,” Steve scoffs, and I laugh.
God. I’m going to miss this, being here, with him. The chop busting, the hustle. The sound of the gathering crowd rings out over the hiss of the grill, and I glance back at the shutter just as it rattles open from the outside.
“Hey, nerds,” a voice chimes in through the metal slats. I don’t have to turn around to know who is there.
“Hey, Laura,” I say, wiping my onion knife on my jeans. Steve gives me a nudge with his elbow and nods at my pants.
“Come on, man, be sanitary,” Steve complains.
“Jeans are self-cleaning, it’s okay.” I move to slice an onion when he grabs my arm, giving me a look. “Fine.”
“I loathe to think what food prep looks like in this truck when I’m not in here,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Or when you finally head off on your road trip.”
“I bet he tastes every single cheesesteak before handing it off to people,” Laura instigates, and the truck rocks around a little bit as she takes a seat on the edge, where the side door opens inside. “Just licks the bread and wraps it up.”
“Don’t,” Steve says, holding up a finger. He’s always had a thing with germs and things not being quite-so-clean, which makes his work in a food truck with a grease-coated floor slightly ironic, so I give Laura a look to not push any further.
“So, what are you guys doing today?” Laura asks, the strum of a guitar chord echoing through the truck. I see she’s brought her acoustic with her, which shouldn’t surprise me. Since the start of the summer, she’s been out here just as often as Steve, fiddling over new songs, sometimes busking and playing covers in the square. She’s wearing a dark blue jean jacket littered with enamel pins that’s way too warm for the weather right now, but I know Laura. That’s the look. Best not to question it.
“Just the usual.” I sigh.
“Hmm,” Laura grumbles, tuning her guitar. “Not gonna win with the usual.”
“That’s what I keep telling him!” Steve shouts.
“Okay, you two!” I exclaim, laughing, grabbing another onion. “I know. I’m gonna figure it out. What time is it?”
“Uh...” Steve fumbles around awkwardly for his phone. He is—even though he will never admit this—a little too tall for this truck. I fit in here fine, but he’s a little over six feet tall and spends a lot of his time stretching outside or leaning through the shutter window. Meanwhile Laura’s nearly a foot shorter than me, a small, angst-filled emo powerhouse in jean jacket armor. “Almost eleven.”
“Alright, it’s time. Let’s toss some onions on the grill.” They’re not actually for cooking anything, not yet. But once the food truck starts smelling delicious, people know that we’re open. If the winds are right, the smell of onions sizzling will lift the right person off the ground like an old cartoon character catching a whiff of cooling apple pie.
“Oh, and open that up and ready the counter, would you?” I nod at the shutter. Steve looks eager for some air anyway.
He moves to jump out of the truck and Laura shifts out of the way. She spins her guitar around by the neck and peers back inside.
“I’m gonna go snag a bench,” she says, glancing over at the Ortiz truck with a smirk. “Any requests?”
I smile.
“Surprise me.”
I grip a squeeze bottle full of canola oil and spray it over the grill, steam rising from the blackened silver surface. I add some of the white onions, a loud sizzle immediately filling the truck. That sound, that smell, reminds me of my family—of being a kid in Mom and Dad’s old diner, or back at home, the aroma of spices and onions clinging to their clothes.
It’s inescapable, and that’s fine with me.
The heat from the grill warms my skin, and as I flip the onions around, I can already feel beads of sweat starting to form on my forehead. I’ve only just gotten started, but that’s a Philadelphia summer mashed together with the steamy interior of a food truck for you. Sweltering mornings and late afternoons when you can see the heat rising off the cobblestones, brick, and concrete. The hope that a break from it all is waiting in the chilly evening.
There’s a reason why my favorite bands, like The Ataris and The Wonder Years and Yellowcard, sing about summer so often. Maybe I can get Laura to play “The Boys of Summer” or “Dismantling Summer” or “Always Summer.” Something with summer in the name. My favorite bands are not subtle.
The shutter rattles open, making a chunk-chunk-chunk sound as the metal slats and rivets disappear into the ceiling of the truck. The summer air brings some immediate relief from the heating up grill, far more effective than the cheap, poorly mounted fans tucked in the corners of the truck, and for a moment I close my eyes, feeling the late-morning breeze on my face.
God. I love it here. And if I win Truck Off, it’ll be so much easier to get my own. The dream.
Steve unfolds the small steel countertop on the front of the truck, puts out the napkin holder, and then reaches into the truck for the mason jar under the window.
“Can’t forget this.” He grins, wiggling the jar in the air.
It’s empty right now, but last week we wrangled up nearly five hundred dollars in tips. It was rough saving the measly tips from only working weekends during the school year, but now that we’ve graduated and summer is here, there’s just this wild flood of extra money from working full weeks.
I’m not sure if it’ll be enough to buy my own truck with though—at least, not the ideal one. Maybe something will pop up, but food trucks really don’t get listed all that often. People keep them running until they fall apart, and the ones that are still in good condition go for tens of thousands of dollars.
Tens of thousands, I do not have. A few thousand that I’ve spent every week working toward these last two years? Sure. But the Truck Off winnings would put me in a great spot to make this dream a reality.
It doesn’t have to be perfect. An old junker that needs some love would do just fine, as long as it moves and is fixable with a few YouTube tutorials. Meanwhile Steve’s got his eyes set on ICA here in Philly, the Philadelphia Institute of Culinary Arts, and constantly rattles on about molecular gastronomy, to the point that Dad won’t let him come over anymore. If it isn’t salt and pepper, Dad doesn’t want to hear it.
Me either, really, but he’s one of my best friends. Mom likes to joke that I was born with my arms around Steve, Laura, and a spatula.
I scrape a terribly charred section of the grill down a little, but not much. This slab of metal has seen things and so many flavors. Better to leave it a little oily, a little burnt, and very seasoned. With the shutter open, the bustling of Bardhan Square in South Philadelphia breaks the constant sizzling, the scratch of the metal. The cars trying to navigate the nearby roundabout, people out with their dogs, Laura plucking her guitar strings. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the water from the fountain a block away.
Instead, though, I look at the Ortiz truck.
Parked on the opposite side of the roundabout, across the small grassy area with tiny city trees, shrubs, and benches, sits the Ortiz family cheesesteak truck. Well, if you can call it that. I’d argue it’s more of a hoagie truck, as their “cheesesteaks” come with lettuce, peppers, and ugh, Jesus, tomatoes. Fruit doesn’t belong on cheesesteaks. Lately they’ve introduced cheesesteak wraps, where they sometimes substitute the steak for chicken, and I’m sorry, at that point you are just a deli.
But the people turn up for it, I’ll give them that.
And if I hope to win Truck Off, I’m going to have to do some more innovating than me or my family have been comfortable with. Our menu is simple. Cheesesteaks. Three options for cheese: American, provolone, whiz. Onions. And for the brave, foolish few...mushrooms. Our menu is a sentence, and the Ortizes’s truck’s menu is a novella. And as much as I love it, staying true to what my parents wanted, I know I’m going to have to come up with something different, something a little more...novella-ish, if I want to win the competition.
Steve hefts himself back into the truck and joins me in leaning out the window. He squints at the crowd and nudges me with his elbow again.
“It begins,” he says as Cindy Ortiz gets out from the back of the truck somewhere and hurries around the front. She hoists up the entire metal flap that slides on top of the window, and pulls out large poles, creating a cozy canopy.
A few of the people in line rush to get under it as she walks back around the truck, looking relieved for the shade. Some more are off to the side, eyeing up the menu that’s revealed itself since she raised the shutter. It’s written in colorful chalk, like something you would see outside of a fancy café.
