Wide Arms

Six poboy sandwiches are lined up tight on the prep board. The truck is small, so I keep my elbows pinned to my sides while I move around Jemil. Even as it has started to become an automatic operation to [fry fish, griddle chicken, butterfly shrimp, assemble] I still have to concentrate to keep the shredded lettuce atop the sandwiches from trickling to the truck floor. My hands move fast. The bread is tippy, rocks when I jostle it. Suddenly, Jemil's voice at my ear. "Bunny, look over there." His voice is lower than usual, deliberately gravely, I know what's coming, at least approximately, and further chill my focus. I look up. Across the street, a street person sitting disheveled on the curb. She looks like misery. Jemil leans in closer. I can hear him lick his lips. He drops his voice still lower. You see that? I would like to eat the crusty parts out of her drawers. Goddamnit, Jemil, even knowing it was coming. I'm trying to make these sandwiches. Candace, Jemil's daughter, tells us to stop fooling, and how long on those sandwiches? Jemil claps me on the back and reels off to the corner of the truck, his white chef coat straining to contain his laughter. I return to the sandwiches and then whatever other orders come in from our line.

Later, I'm bundling an order, negotiating with bread pudding and fries in a paper bag. I glance out the service window while my hands tuck the bag and slide it to Candace. Jemil is sitting on the curb next to the woman, and a stack of gumbo, red beans, and jambalaya sits next to her. She's eating. He's smoking. She's speaking. He listens.

~

Friday June 27, 2014. Bobby Womack died. Anyway, Julie lined up a catering for a friend of hers way up in Blue Ridge. A neighborhood well named to signal the smug wealth it was developed to attract. The sun is easing into the Puget Sound when we park the truck next to their mailbox. Before I can open the propane, Jemil plucks out a couple plastic ramekins--ones not yet filled with ketchup or fry sauce--and pours a couple shots of Evan Williams. Julie meets us at the truck, dressed for the party, and climbs in the back, so Jemil pours one more. The whiskey runs warm, ignition and lubricant. I fire up the fryers. Julie heads back inside bubbling. The party guests drift out in twos and fours and back with crawfish monica and seared catfish crostini. Jemil's niece, takes in a trays of hors d'oeuvres, and when they start coming back only half picked over, Jemil grabs a pan, a bottle of brandy, and a gallon Ziploc of pitted Bing cherries, all in one hand. He picks up the Williams with the other. Something about "...these goddamn whites..." as he humphs the double tall step off the truck. Inside, he's laughing reassurance while flame swirls over the cherries jubilee. I clean the griddle, close up the oil, cut propane.

It's dark when he gets back. He's carrying the whiskey, only no bottle. I drive, his niece in the other seat. Jemil sits low on the toolbox in the center. He wheezes, lights up a cigarette, and I put on "Woman's Gotta Have It". Bobby Womack asks for our attention. Jemil gives it. I shift into drive "...if you wanna keep your thing together, listen to me now." His lips are move along with Womack's, orange tip of the cigarette glowing against the cool blue of resolving night. His left hand is a hook around a guitar that's not there, his right swings. Jemil's voice is hoarse. A white band panted from eye to chin, stretched past his smile, as we pass a streetlamp.

~

It's a couple years in, my twin brother has joined the truck. He's Rabbit, of course. Plus Jemil's niece and daughter on the truck. We're there for a wedding catering. No money in it--the wear on the truck through the mountains eats whatever fried gator balls and blackened chicken sliders bring. Vacation or not, Jemil is going to have us take service seriously. He calls us all to the truck. Everyone, get in here. You too, Candace. Get in here. Close the door behind you. Jemil pulls the service window shut. It's dark inside, just the strip of LED's that cast to the heating lamp tray. Get in here. His arms hold all our shoulders. He's barely five feet tall, how has he rope wrapped four people into so tight a ring? He says, You know I love you all, I have every confidence in you. I can hear his smile, feel fingers grip my shoulder a bit tighter. I just want to tell you--. His voice falls away as a squealing fart picks up, rising to a brief trumpet. We break to squirming, but his crooked knuckly fingers are strong from thirty years of stirring. He laughs in the dark, holding on to all of us. Candace swears she'll kill him. Someone gets to the door, and Jemil's cheeks catch first light, raised high. That night, Jemil opens a game of pitty-pat and a bottle of vodka. Vaka, he keeps calling it. Growling it. The cards slap the table fast, up and down. Exchanged custody quickly warps the bills. Jemil is laughing except when he's telling someone to keep their elbows off the table. By two in the morning, everyone else wilts from the table and Peter, who is up fifty, is begging to stop. Jemil laughs and pours another shot.

~

I pop out of the train and wind lashes my cheek. I'm wearing Grace's zip back tank-top, my grandpa's pants. I'm not equipped for this cold. It's nasty out, unkind weather. My head is shaved, delicate necklace, scarf and jacket. I know already what's waiting for me, what Grace has to say. My phone rings before the first intersection. I switch focus to Jemil's voice. I ask after his health, what's upcoming. Surgery, heart. This from a man who's been smoking steadily since he was thirteen, with a broad chest and a soft spot for 7-11 chili dogs. They're gonna take a look up his asshole too. But how am I doing? Well, I'm walking toward an ending with my eyes open, my limbs shaky, and what feels like a cold cavity somewhere between my stomach and my lungs. Do I want to hear an old negro spiritual? Yes, Jemil.

I don't know what he'd been doing on the other end of the phone--picking up Arby's fries for his wife Pat? Dropping food at church? (he doesn't attend, but the man will be right with Jesus)--but whatever it was, he's no longer moving when he starts to sing.

Anybody here seen my old friend Martin? Can you tell me where he's gone? He freed a lot of people but it seems the good they die young I just looked around and he's gone

Here's to Martin, a good one gone under. I don't know the song, but I know the voice.