For Here or To Go?

*Tic* my right eyelid spasmed as I crept uneasily towards the tunnel.

*Tic, tic, tic* the flappy fold of my ocular skin amped up the tempo of its flutter-dance the nearer I got; a possible primordial “fight-or-flight” instinct kicking in as I came closer and closer to breaching the secure boundaries of the highly guarded walls. And mere feet away from the escape route, I paused in unexpected meditative speculation as to the potentially life-altering decision I was about to make…

“Do I dare hazard the chance of freedom, or should I just quietly back away?” I fretted, poking a pinkie at my twitchy eye, weighing the risk versus reward. And in the heat of the moment, only one immediate solution presented itself:  I had to move forward.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” a Guard suddenly yelled authoritatively, stopping me dead in my tracks.

Having never learned the fine art of prevarication, I confessed immediately without so much as being handcuffed in a dark room with a blinding spotlight focused on Lefty (the only eye that was currently under my control). “I’m actually going to try one of the cheap trucks outside” I admitted, an odd sense of pride wafting over me in honor of my valiant courageousness.

“You’re a brave woman…” the Guard shook his head worriedly, wheeling away in his golf cart towards the other end of the studio lot.

*Tic* my right eye replied politely.

Exiting the aforementioned tunnel however and walking outside to the street, I realized that the odd sense wafting over me wasn’t so much actual pride as it was the thick oily emanations from the grill of the first food truck; most appropriately named “The Greasy Weiner” (I kid you not). And ambling past “The Yummy One”, “Patty Wagon” and finding my co-worker friends Dev and Brian awaiting their lunch orders at “Great Balls on Tires”, Dev hugged me for taking a chance on (what may be a world-wide Twitter/FaceBook phenomenon but new to me) the orchestration of specialized gourmet mobile menus.

“I guess I’ll try the ‘IncrediBalls’” (again, I kid you not), forking over $7.50 plus a dollar tip (what ever happened to food trucks being notoriously “cheap”?) for two Applewood Smoked Bacon wrapped Kobe beef spheres with Gruyere cheese, Wild Arugula, and Garlic Aioli on Toasted Brioche.

*Tic*

“Comin’ right up!” the lady winked back at me.

>>><<<

Given a half hour break the next day before pre-shooting a scene while our cast were busy getting prettier in the Hair/Make-up room, I escaped with Dev and Brian back through the tunnel, curious to see which culinary opportunities happened to be available that afternoon. And whilst the options of Cuban food from one portable ‘restaurant’, dumplings from another, ice cream cookie sandwiches from a third and Hawaiian cuisine from a fourth seemed harmless enough, I winced at the Filipino wagon at the end of the block, creepily titled “The White Rabbit”. After all if one vehicle offered “IncrediBalls” on the menu, who’s to say that that one might not recommend “Deep Fried Bunny on a Stick”? (Don’t sue me; I didn’t actually read their menu.)

*Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic* my rebel eyelid jittered to its newest rhythm, a possible improvisational tap-dance homage to Sammy Davis Jr. (Hey, some things just can't be explained.)

>>><<<

In my ongoing quest as One Red Cent Trying to Make Sense, I couldn’t help but stop and wonder what on earth in my subconscious was, as it were, ‘getting under my skin’.  

But then like an oily waft from a suppressed grimy memory it hit me: the last time prior to this month that I patronized a mobile eatery was five years ago…

Clad in an orange safety vest and hard-hat, fulfilling a legal responsibility to the great state of California for a painfully stupid lack of judgment, performing brutal labor in the name of highway beautification, reeking of dirt and sweat, and dismally resigned to eating peanut butter out of the jar while squatting on the curb as cars zoomed by, our Caltrans driver rallied the hoodlums’ spirits with her personal craving.

“Who wants Mexican?!” she beamed, loading us up in the van and depositing our foul-smelling crowd of twelve on a corner, somewhere in the Valley where carne asada tacos were available for only a buck at a travelling vendor. “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness” she continued, demanding that we buy our food as quickly as possible, get back in the shuttle and wait to eat until we were back on the side of the freeway. “I will keep you ALL DAY LONG if I find even ONE drop of salsa on the seats!” she admonished us, the aroma of freshly grilled meat battling for ambient control over the less-than-pleasant previous stench of a dozen armpit deodorants failing miserably in unison.

But we were a grateful (albeit stinky) clan of hooligans in the moment! (And may I stress the word “moment”?)

Suffice it to say (if I haven’t completely creeped you out already) sharing the port-a-potty on the back end of the trailer with eleven other people who had ‘digested’ their lunch, was ABSOLUTELY NOT AN OPTION FOR ME.

*TIC, TIC, TIC, TIC, TIC*

>>><<<

While I may never fully recover from that most unpleasant afternoon (one of too many to count), I must say that with a lot of help from friends and family, I believe I’ve successfully shaken the shackles of my past.

And wrapping up a short rehearsal today until we will receive the script rewrites for tomorrow, I escorted Dev to the street for a late lunch, almost eager to partake of something new, something exotic, something gourmet!

“Oh look…” Dev innocently pointed at “T’s Chili Wagon – Anything but a Tease”; a spicy jalapeno pepper adorning the graphics of the food/hot sauce-themed vehicle.

“Ooh, and they have TACOS!” he beamed hungrily.

Twitching at you affectionately,

~P