By Bailey Loveless
The bright red food truck is a revelation.
The flashing, wine-shaped neon is tacky, the decorative fringe is awful, and the smell coming from the generator is obscene, but I duck under the awning to escape the rain. The truck, as creaky and kitschy as an old peddler’s caravan, has no signage aside from a blinding, flickering bottle-shaped neon.
“What’s all this?” I ask the man at the counter as I shake out my waterlogged hair.
He gives me a cheeky glance up and down before busting into a toothy grin.
“Spirits for sale, and not just the kind you drink,” he says with a wink and points to an amber bottle sitting on the counter. “Perhaps I could interest you in the spirits of old pets. A perfect pairing for this kind of weather.”
“Umm, no thanks,” I say.
“Of course, much too provincial. For a woman such as yourself, both sophisticated and beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying, old pets will not do.”
Gesturing to a lavish purple beverage, he says, “Instead, perhaps I could interest you in ghosts of ex-lovers to warm you up this evening? Take the chill off?”
Sputtering, I say, “No, no thank you, absolutely not.”
He laughs. “Not nostalgic or sentimental, eh?”
“Not a bit,” I say. But I feel awfully nagged by a thin, empty spot on my ring finger, and I get the preposterous idea that he’s just as aware of it as I am.
He really does have a dodgy look, I decide, folding my arms. “Perhaps a nice cider?”
“Cider, did you say? Yes, perhaps something more rustic.”
Out of thin air, he procures several bright emerald bottles, fanning them out on the counter.
“Finest ghosts of farmers, factory workers, fishermen, and all sorts of respectable folk you’ve likely never consorted with. A good, illuminating time is guaranteed.”
“Tempting,” I say. “But no. I am really not in the mood for company of any sort this evening. I would just like a bottle of something to enjoy alone.”
His eyes narrow, and he studies me closely. Then his fingers snap.
“Yes, I have just the thing.”
He disappears somewhere, and the truck lurches to and fro. When he reappears at the counter, he holds a bottle of sapphire blue.
“The house special.”
“I’ll take it.”
He snatches it away. “Now see here, lady. This isn’t for the faint of heart.”
“What is it?”
The man’s smile disappears, and he lifts a finger in caution.
“The spirits of sadness. Spirits of regrets. Spirits of late nights and bad fights and all the things you didn’t get. Specters of those dreams you try so hard to hide and forget. And last but not least—” he says, pointing straight at me—“a solemn toast to all the little things that might just kill you yet.”
The poem is absurd, ridiculous, impertinent, and yet…
“I’ll take it,” I squeak, pulling out my wallet.
I don’t rush home through the rain. I clutch the blue bottle tight to my chest. Whatever’s inside, for better or for worse, I intend to drink all night.