It's A Wrap!

IT’S A WRAP!

I looked down at the burrito. It was perfect—tightly rolled, nothing seeping out of the seams, the bottom and top tucked neatly into the wrap. The filling was evenly distributed along the length of the wrap, giving it a perfect cylindrical shape. Flawless!

Truly a work of art, if I do say so myself.

Two Years Ago

“Can I help the next customer?” I said, looking out at the crowd. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the lunchtime crowd at That’s A Wrap—my food truck—was still going growing. Since we’d won the silver medal at the Food Truck Olympics, people now went out of their way to find us. And we appreciated it. A lot.

Next in line, a couple and their dog, moved toward the window. I reached into a jar beside the window for a homemade dog biscuit.

“Can I give your puppo a treat?” I asked, showing the couple the bone-shaped dog snack.

The man smiled. “For sure!”

I handed the biscuit to him, and watched, smiling as the dog gobbled it down. I love dogs, but because of my job, I don’t have one of my own. I have to live vicariously through others lucky enough to have a fur-baby.

“So, what can I get you?”

The woman spoke up first, “I’ll have a—”

She was cut off by the yelling of a man pushing his way to the front of the line.  

“I demand to speak to the owner!” he bellowed, elbowing the couple out of his way. The crowd started murmuring about people not waiting their turn.

“Uh, I’m the owner, but you’re going to have to wait your turn, sir,” I said.

“I demand to speak with the owner right now!” he yelled

The grumbling from the crowd behind him grew louder. 

I leaned out the window so that he could hear me. “As I said, I am the owner, but you are going to have to wait your turn. Please go to the back of the line.”

“I will not be silenced!” he bellowed at me. He shook one of our takeout bags towards the crowd. “Do not let this woman pass off her food as worthy of your patronage! She is a fraud!”

My cook, Leo, turned around to look at me. “Everything okay?”

I nodded.

“Get to the back of the line!” said a woman near the head of the line.

“Move along, buddy!” said a man behind her.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about” said woman I had just been serving. “We come here because we love the food! You’re the fraud!” 

“Grrrrrrrrrrr,” said there dog, his hackles raised.

The interloper looked around at the crowd, sensing he was in enemy territory.

He shook the bag at me one more time. “You haven’t heard the last of me, not by a long shot!” He turned on his heel and stomped away, pushing past those in the crowd.

I looked out. “Well, that was weird!” A few people chuckled. I turned to the couple. “Now, what can I get you?”

The rest of the lunch rush went smoothly—like it always does. Leo and I are a well-oiled machine. But the encounter with the man had me unnerved. What did he want? And what was in the bag?

I found out the next morning as I was setting up for lunch. A car pulled up with Health Department written on the side.

“Shit!” I said under my breath.

Now, I run a very clean food truck, and I have all my permits in place. I know that my kitchen is up to code, but the sight of the health inspector always gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s like when you were in school and got called down to the office—you know you didn’t do anything wrong, but still you worry.

“Hi there!” I said, putting a smile on my face.

“Are you—” he looked at the iPad in his hand. “Penelope Carter?”

“I am.” I put on my happy-to-meet-you face. “And you are?”

“Aaron Bishop, Health Department.”

My smile faltered.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we got a complaint about an insect infestation in your truck.”

“Oh!”

My words were failing me.

“Yeah, the complaint was made yesterday. A customer claimed to have found a dead cockroach in his sandwich.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Me? My truck, It’s A Wrap? Here?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at his tablet. “And he said that you have a dog in the kitchen.”

“I … I don’t own a dog. I have homemade dog biscuits to give to dogs whose owners bring them to the truck, but they are not allowed in the truck, under any circumstances.”

He nodded. “Okay, well, I have to have a look inside for signs of an infestation.”

In my city, the health department gives food trucks certificates that must be displayed in or on the truck—green for pass, yellow for conditional pass, and red for fail. My truck was inspected at least three times a year, and I had always earned a green certificate. In fact, not once had there ever been a problem. Each inspection was a clear pass.

“Follow me,” I said, opening the back door and holding it open for him.

Monday through Friday, after every shift, Leo and I always cleaned and disinfected the cook areas, washed the dishes and utensils, put away all the food, removed garbage, and washed the floor. Then, there’s an additional deep clean duty that we do each day—Monday, washing down the walls, Tuesday, cleaning out the vent hood, Wednesday, washing the windows, Thursday, washing out the refrigeration units, Friday, food inventory, pitching anything nearing it’s expiration date. I’d had my truck for four years now, and it was a system that works well.

But somehow, we were now under Health Department scrutiny.

I stood just inside the door, chewing my lower lip, watching Aaron Bishop search for dead bugs. He opened cupboards, pulled out drawers, looked under things. He shone his flashlight up into the vent, and down into the grease trap. He looked behind things, and used an ultraviolet light on surfaces. He made notes on his iPad.

He worked in silence. I moved from chewing my lip to gnawing my thumb nail. And, I thought about the confrontation from yesterday—the belligerent man shaking a paper bag at me. Could this complaint have come from him? Could he have been the one who sicced Aaron Bishop on me? Probably, but honestly, I couldn’t even remember serving him yesterday. I decided to check and see if I had, in fact, served him. Pulling out my phone, I checked yesterday’s camera feeds.

And guess what? Belligerent Guy did not order any food from us yesterday. The first time that I had him on camera was when he stormed up to the service window. I checked the previous days’ feeds as well. Nothing. As far as I could tell, we hadn’t served him, at least not for the last two weeks. I’d have to do a deeper dive when I had more time to devote to it. Right now, though, I was busy watching Aaron Bishop methodically tear apart my business looking for dead roaches. Or worse, signs of live ones.

It took almost two hours to complete the inspection. Luckily I was ready for the lunch rush early. The only thing that I hadn’t done yet was to check the It’s A Wrap’s socials, and post today’s special—two ground turkey burritos with fresh avocado slices, caramelized onions, each with a dollop of spicy aioli, served with a side of sweet corn on the cob, and a cookie for dessert.

“Done,” said the inspector. My pulse ramped up. I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest. I was sure that if I looked down, I’d be able to see it pounding through my shirt.

We stepped outside. Aaron Bishop looked down at his electronic checklist, then up at me.

“Well, Ms. Carter,” he started, “I found no evidence whatsoever of any insect or rodent infestation. Nor is there is any evidence of a dog ever being inside the truck. Your food is stored properly in the refrigerators. Food not requiring refrigeration is kept in properly sealed containers that are all stored in sealed cupboards. In fact, this is probably the cleanest food truck I have ever seen.” He smiled for the first time. “I read your file, and it seems that this is the way that you always maintain your food truck.”

“So, then, why did Belligerent Guy file a complaint?”

“Belligerent Guy?”

“Sorry. A dissatisfied customer from yesterday.”  

“I don’t know who filed the complaint, but it was groundless. Your truck is a model for other food trucks.” He signed the electronic worksheet. ‘I’m done here. I’ll send this to your e-mail. Make sure that you keep a copy for your records.”

And he was gone. I didn’t have time to check the socials, but I did post the specials for the day. I had to get ready for lunch.

It was another fairly busy day, but not as busy as yesterday. Which was strange because it was Friday, and that was usually the busiest day of the week—you know, payday, go out for lunch with your friends, celebrate the end of another week. And the weather was great. It wasn’t slow, just not super busy. I usually close the truck once all the food that we’ve made for the day is gone, but today I’d have to take the excess food down to the soup kitchen—they were always appreciative of any donations I brought them.  

Leo and I were just discussing dropping off the food, when Maggie, the woman who ran the coffee truck Grinder, strolled up to the window.

“Hey guys!” she said. “You happen to look at your Insta today?”

Leo and I looked at each other, both shaking our heads no. “No. Why?” I asked.

“Oooohh,” she said. “So you don’t know.”

“What?” I asked. I was getting a little annoyed. Maggie’s a good neighbour, but sometimes she’s a bit of a drama queen, turning the mundane into a big deal.

She handed me her phone which was open on the It’s A Wrap Instagram page. And there, right below my post for that day’s specials, was a picture of Aaron Bishop and I talking, his car—with HEALTH DEPARTMENT writ large on the door—clearly visible. The post read: “I wonder why the health department is making a surprise visit to It’s A Wrap? Probably a complaint. In fact, I heard that a customer found a dead roach in their burrito.” It was signed, Telling It Truthfully. His site avatar was a Guy Fox mask. Lame.

But I knew who it was. It was Belligerent Guy! It had to be. I was fuming. This guy was recklessly screwing with my livelihood. How dare he!

I pulled out my phone and checked the other platforms. Same post was on all the socials that I promote It’s A Wrap on—X, Facebook, Tik Tok, and Tumblr.  

Asshole!

I opened my e-mail and retrieved the Health Department report, pasting it into my Instagram feed, and wrote: “Oops, sorry to burst your conspiracy bubble, Telling It Truthfully,  or TIT, but today’s visit by the Health Department was to affirm that It’s A Wrap is the cleanest food truck that the inspector has every seen. No bugs, no dogs, no problems. Just fantastic food! Ten percent off orders to the first fifty customers who show me this post on Monday. See you there!” I copied the post on to all the other platforms, closed my phone, and started to clean the truck.

When I arrived back at the truck early Monday morning—I like to make sure that we are fully stocked before I head out to the truck wash so that she’s all shiny and beautiful for the week. What greeted me, though, was not beautiful. Not beautiful at all.  

Someone had tagged my truck. Big time.  

I prepare a lot of my food in an industrial kitchen where I rent a cooking space—it’s where I bake the cookies, make the tortilla wraps, naan, pitas, flatbreads, and spring rolls that I use throughout the week. Not only does it allow Leo and I to prep our food everyday, the rental also comes with a parking spot in a secure lot—ten foot fences, razor wire on top, pass card entry only. The facility was specifically built to accommodate customers who don’t have access to a commercial kitchen. It serves the food cart, food truck, and small-scale food prepper market who need a kitchen space.

But, looking at the truck, maybe the lot wasn’t as secure as I had thought.

And, it was obvious that it was personal for whomever had done this. It was also pretty obvious who had done this. After the It’s A Wrap logo on both sides of the truck, someone had spray painted “SUX” in huge black letters. “UR THE TIT!” was spray painted across the back. Then, it looked like the person had taken a paintball gun, and peppered the truck. In the middle of each splat of paint, was a dent in the metal where the paintball struck the truck. I called the police and my insurance company. Then I downloaded the overnight feed, and yup, there was Belligerent Guy attacking my truck. He hadn't even bothered to cover his face. What was wrong with this guy?

My next call was to Leo. We needed to move fast if we were going to be open for lunch—we had four hours. My insurance agent arrived at the same time as the police. Pictures and videos were taken. I showed the officers the video from last night, as well as the video from the previous Thursday where Belligerent Guy was front and centre. They agreed that it was Belligerent Guy in both videos. Only one problem, though, we didn’t know who Belligerent Guy was.

I checked my social platforms. And, as expected, there was a photo of me talking to the police. “Aww, looks like someone had their truck tagged. Looks better than it did before the artist got to work!” read the post.

It was quite busy for a Monday, probably because of the ten percent off promotion. Most people had seen the truck photo, and commiserated with me. That was the point in time where I realized that I had a great community supporting me.  It was only a truck. I can have the truck repaired, but I'd be hard pressed to replace my customers.

Leo’s other superpower, besides being an amazing cook, is his understanding of everything computer. His skills are mad crazy. Leo is able to afford to work with me because of these skills. He developed a face-recognition app for tracking people, which was bought for some obscene amount of money by big tech, ensuring that he could pursue his true love—cooking. I sent him a copy of the videos and he set to work to identify the culprit. In a couple of hours he had Belligerent Guy’s name—Conrad Cooper—his address, phone number, online profiles, and access to his entire online life. We passed on the information to the police. But I also kept a copy of the information for my records, just in case.

Conrad Cooper was arrested, pled guilty, and served two months in jail, in addition to having to financially compensate me for the damage to my truck and for pain, suffering, and emotional turmoil.  

I also got a temporary restraining order, meaning that Conrad Cooper was not allowed within five hundred feet me and/or my truck.

That was justice served, right?

Present Day

Detective Terry Waits looked around. She was standing with her partner, Carlos Ito, in front of Google’s downtown office. There were about a million cameras, but not one of them had recorded a thing.  Somehow, the signals had been jammed.

“So,” she said to the victim, “What do you remember?”

The victim, Conrad Cooper, had been found disoriented, naked, wrapped in a sheet, on the sidewalk in front of the building. Witnesses reported seeing a—and she had to check the witness statements to make sure she understood—human-sized burrito on the sidewalk. Someone had called the police’s who cordoned off the area, and unwrapped the “package.’ Expecting to find a body, they were astonished to find Mr. Cooper naked, bound, gagged, and very much alive.

“Nothing,” said Cooper. “The last thing that I remember was finishing up at the bar, then nothing. I woke up here, with some cop shaking me.”

“You have the words “Revenge is a dish best served cold” written across your chest in indelible ink. It’s going to take a couple of days to disappear.” 

Cooper looked down, and groaned.  

“Any idea who would want do that?”

Cooper knew exactly who had done this to him. But there was no way he was going to tell the police.  It wasn't worth it.

“I have no idea.”