Self-Made

by J. Hernandez

Loud laughter drifted through the streets, riding the wave of tired string lights. It sliced through the cracks between booths and chairs and settled like smoke in the corners of the lot. Jake could hear it, even over the spit and sizzle of the burger he was searing. He didn’t bother looking. He knew exactly where it was coming from.

Roy’s truck sat dead center right across from him, lit up like a stage. Neon signs, cute chalkboard specials, a string of paper lanterns dangling and swaying in the wind, almost celebrating. And they were, apparently. Roy was killing it—again.

Jake leaned out against the window of his truck, spatula in hand. People were chatting and anticipating their food like Roy was serving magic instead of mayo.

Meanwhile, Jake’s own truck sat in the dark, crooked on the edge of the lot—an uninvited guest at the party.

Four nights. That’s how long the festival had been going. And for four nights straight, Roy had stolen the show. Not just busy but buzzing. Lines all night. Rave reviews. Even a feature on the local foodie blog that Jake couldn’t finish reading.

He clenched the spatula tighter. The frustration had been building for weeks now. Sizzling, like the burgers on his grill. But underneath the resentment was something deeper. The grease, the seasoning, the satisfaction of folding flavor into every bite. It was more than just cooking a meal to him. It was creating something special. But it was hard to feel proud when no one was around to taste it. Well...there was one person.

“Yo,” came a familiar voice from below the window.

Jake glanced down to see his buddy, Frankie, standing there, squinting up at the menu like he didn’t already know it by heart.

“One with everything,” Frankie said, in his classic New York accent, patting his stomach in anticipation.

Jake grunted. “Another one?"

Frankie ordered the same damn burger every time. It was limiting his creativity.

“Hey, I’m just tryin’ to keep your little dream alive,” Frankie said, smirking as he leaned against the side of the truck. He was built like a busted couch—soft in all the places that used to be strong. White T-shirt clinging to a belly that had survived four decades of deli counters and denial. His jeans looked like they hadn’t been washed since Woodstock.

Jake slapped the patty down, the sizzle flaring back up. “Not sure one customer a night qualifies as alive.”

Frankie shrugged. “Depends on the customer. I tip good.”

“You tip in compliments.”

“Those are worth more than cash if you believe in people."

Jake said nothing.

Frankie wiped the sweat from forehead with a crumpled napkin from his back pocket. “Jesus, you’re wound-up tight tonight. What is it—Roy again?”

Jake didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. His eyes hadn’t left that glowing food truck in the middle of it all.

Frankie followed his gaze. “Yeah, that guy. He’s got the whole town eating outta his hand. I don’t get it. I looked at the menu—nothin special. Cupcakes. Sandwiches. Freakin’ PB and J, man. I mean, come on. You could pack that in a lunchbox and call it a day.”

Jake slid the burger into a paper tray and passed it down without a word. Frankie took it like communion, took a bite like worship. He chewed slow, wiped the ketchup that crawled down his lip with a flick of the thumb. He noticed Jake still staring. Not at him. At Roy.

Frankie shook his head and chuckled. “You look like you wanna drag him into an alley and beat answers outta him.”

Jake didn’t blink. “There’s something off over there.”

“Oh yeah? What, like a family recipe?”

Jake looked down at the grill, at the spatula, then back toward the crowd.

“Secret sauce,” he muttered.

Frankie froze mid-chew. “You serious?”

Jake didn’t answer. He was already somewhere else in his mind, pulling on a thread that he couldn't stop unraveling.

Frankie took another bite. Slower this time. Not for the taste—he was thinking but not ready to say it out loud yet.

Jake didn’t speak. Just kept staring across the lot. Roy’s line hadn’t moved fast, but it hadn’t stopped either.

Frankie finally spoke through his chew. “So let’s say it is a sauce. Big deal. You gonna walk over there and ask for a sample?”

Jake stayed quiet. There was a certain resolve in his face.

Frankie stopped chewing. “Don’t tell me you’re serious.”

Jake turned back to the grill. Scraped it harder than he needed to. Bits of char curling up like ash. “He’s got something,” he muttered. “You feel it?”

“I feel full,” Frankie said. “And maybe regretting this second burger.”

Jake didn’t laugh.

“He’s not just busy,” he went on. “It’s like he knew this whole damn festival was built for him, somehow."

Out across the lot, it appeared as if nobody looked at Roy's menu. They stepped up, ordered, smiled. It was easy. Too easy.

Jake wiped his hands off on a rag. “I'll find it. Whatever it is. Where it comes from. And I take it.”

Frankie narrowed his eyes. “What? Like asking him?"

Jake didn’t blink.

Frankie leaned in. Dropped his voice. “You talking about breaking in? Jake, don’t be stupid.”

Jake didn't respond.

LATER THAT NIGHT...

Jake stood in the dark of his truck, arms folded, still as the grill behind him. He watched as Roy wiped down his counter, shut the counter window, and tossed a few final bags in the back of his car. The engine turned over. Tail lights flared, then vanished down the road.

Two days left of the festival. Whatever secret Roy was sitting on, Jake had to find it. Tonight.

The lot was quiet now, blanketed in the type of solitude Jake needed to move on his plan. He stepped out of his truck with the gait of a calculated spy that would make James Bond proud.

He approached the back door of Roy's truck, examining it carefully. With a soft pull of the handle, he tested his luck. Locked. Of course.

Then he tried the side doors. Locked as well. Figures. That kind of easy only happens in the movies.

Apparently, he’d reached the extent of his master plan. Anything beyond this would leave evidence—and he couldn’t afford that. Literally.

Before turning away in defeat, he made his way to the counter window and gave it a half-hearted push. To his surprise, it budged. Eyes wide, Jake glanced once more around the lot. Still empty.

He lunged up toward the narrow counter space and crawled inside, dragging his legs through just before he settled the window shut behind him. He turned on the flashlight on his phone, he didn't dare turn on the light in the overhead. Too risky.

Now, to find the secret that had eaten at him for four days straight, he’d need to be thorough.

Scrounging through the counter, he looked for anything out of the ordinary. The problem is that nothing stood out ...only the ordinary.

Bottles of ketchup and mustard on the cutting board, along with knives next to bread loaves on the shelf. Looking through the cabinets, he found jars of peanut butter and jelly, plates and utensils. No little black book that read My Secret Recipes to be found anywhere.

He tried the fridge. Same story—deli meats, vegetables, cheeses, bottled drinks. Nothing strange. Nothing special.

No jar labeled Secret Sauce.

Jake felt that frustration coming back now with a bit of a vengeance. All this covert stuff was for nothing. He couldn't believe it. Taking a deep breath, Jake aborted his mission and turned to leave. Then, he heard it.

"He-he..."

A laugh? A small voice that seemed to be coming from one of the cabinets. He figured he was tired and imagining things. After all, it had been a long day. Dismissing the notion, Jake attempted to leave again

"Hee hee hee.."

Wait, that was a different laugh. This voice was clearer with a unique flair in its jesting. The kind of thing you may hear coming from a dark alleyway from some stranger asking you to get closer right before they mug...or gut you.

Jake couldn't resist his curiosity. He walked closer to the cabinet with the voices inside it. The door creaked open.

Two dreadfully slices of sandwich bread, grinning wide—little arms, legs, stubby fingers. Eyes. Teeth. They laughed while smearing peanut butter and jelly across their own faces, delighted with the mess.

"What the..." Jake's shock was an understatement.

The little creatures noticed his gaping mouth, and one of them flung a glob of peanut butter into it, almost making him gag as he slammed the cabinet door shut in fright. Behind him on the counter, other strange things began to happen.

Knives that had been dormant seconds ago began to stir. The fridge he had just closed now hung open again. An onion, round and unmistakable, jumped out and onto the counter. It strutted forward on tiny arms and legs, stopping in front of a large, imposing knife.

It sprawled out revealing a grin on its body that broke through the outer layer of its shell. The kind of grin a baby has right after its diaper’s been changed. Then, the knife swung down like a guillotine would on its intended victim. Only thing is, victims don't usually laugh at a guillotine.

Jake couldn't believe what he was seeing. As he looked around, more cabinet doors swung open. Slices of bread marched out of the shadows like soldiers heading to war, lining up in front of several PB and J jars. The lids twisted off on their own. Without warning, a butter knife shot past his head with a wild war cry—somewhere between a banshee and a cat that got stepped on. It dove straight into the jelly, sending a splash of grape flying across Jake’s face.

He staggered back, stunned. All around him, breads, deli meats, cheeses, and utensils sprang to life—moving in eerie synchronization. Tomatoes rolled into position beside lettuce heads, while mayo and ketchup bottles bickered over who got to hit the bun first.

Roy's secret wasn't recipes or special sauces. It was chaos, perfectly choreographed and yet...delivering a terrifying efficiency.

In the moment, an idea took hold in Jake's mind. It was a flash of genius. As a food fight commenced between the creatures, Jake scrambled out through the counter window again. But this time, he grabbed the ketchup and mayo bottles along with a jar of peanut butter and jelly and a few slices of the laughing bread. With all the items in hand, he ran to back to his truck in anticipation, eager to put his plan into motion.

Entering his truck feverishly, he set the items on the counter hoping to see them in action again within the privacy and safety of his personal space. The bottles of ketchup and mayo were silent. The tiny little arms and legs were gone. The bread and jars of PB and J were the same. No more laughing either. Jake tapped on the items slightly with his finger hoping they would spring back to life. But there was nothing—as would be expected from ordinary items. Jake scratched his head trying to decipher the problem. There had to be a way to get them to move. If he could get them going, his issues would be over. He could whip up his food in record time and finally give Roy some competition. Jake rubbed his eyes, leaned back, almost laughed. Maybe I’ve finally lost it, he thought. With a heavy sigh and resignation, he left his truck, got in his car and went home. The spy games were over and so was his livelihood apparently.

The next morning...

Jake made his way back to the parking lot chalking up last night's activities to an overactive imagination and desperation. He parked in the lot and walked by the space that should've housed Roy's truck, but it was empty now. A different food truck was in its place. That's odd, he thought. Why would Roy leave now with two days still left for the festival. He was making a killing. Jake's curiosity was short lived when he noticed a line of people standing in front of his truck. With Roy gone, he might finally make some money. As he approached the line of people, he noticed his counter window open and the lights on. He knew he had shut down last night. What was going on?

"Sorry for the delay, folks. I'll start taking orders right away."

One customer looked at him oddly with a burger and fries in their hands and asked:

"What delay? And who are you?"

Jake noticed the food was being delivered off the counter one after the other and into the customers' hands almost immediately.

As he walked towards the door, he noticed a taped note on the handle. It was from Roy and read: "Hey Jake, be careful what you wish for and thank you. Roy"

Inside, the chaos was alive and thriving. Burgers flipped themselves, ketchup and mayo bottles were running around, lettuce, tomatoes and cheeses were catapulting themselves onto buns with precision. The kitchen had become a self-sufficient circus. It looked like an organized food fight with spices and other items flying off the shelves and onto plates...literally. All of it being done without Jake's involvement. No direction was needed. A couple of hot dogs were even taking the orders.

It was in that moment he saw it clearly: the customers weren’t coming back for flavor. It wasn’t the food. It wasn’t the speed. They were here to watch. They were here for the miracle. For the show. They came for the ordinary turned extraordinary. And just like that, Jake realized what Roy had already known—

The cook had been replaced.