Lunch Truck

The lunch truck is silver, with bags of chips hanging on the outside. The man inside is mostly bald and very tan, with short white hair on the sides of his head. He smiles at me. "grilled cheese, please" I say. He knows what I always order, but never assumes anything. "White or wheat?" he says. His words are clipped, precise. I can't place his accent. He throws two pieces of white bread on the hot metal, and moves on to the next customer. I watch him put ketchup and mustard on hot sausages, fill sub rolls with tuna or chicken salad, chop frozen blocks of steak with the side of his metal spatula, which clangs against the grill. He adds two slices of white cheese to my bread, closes the sandwich and puts a metal press on it.

Just before the sandwich is done, he lays out a square of tinfoil with a smaller square of unwaxed paper on top. He anchors the paper with a clean knife. He checks my sandwich, then takes it off the grill and puts it on the paper. He cuts it diagonally with the big knife, and folds the paper around it.

I can tell that he doesn't like it when I change the routine by not needing a bag. So I don't say anything. I hand him a bottled water from the ice bin. He wipes it off on his apron and puts it in the bag with the sandwich, then stuffs a pile of napkins on top. "Three dollars," he says. I pay him, smile, say thank you. He smiles and moves on to the next customer.