We sell roasted corn on the cob at festivals and other events. We are set up in a small college town for a community food truck festival at the beginning of May. The school is in Pennsylvania. Tuition at this school is very expensive, and it is known for its liberal arts curriculum.

I group of young people approached us to purchase corn, and a member of the group asks:

Customer: “Is this locally-sourced corn?”

I smile, while my soul is slowly dying

Me: “The corn is from Southern Florida.”

Customer: “If you will not support local farmers, then I will not support you.”

I feel so bad for whoever is paying $80,000 a year for tuition for a child who does not know that crops do not grow year-round in the Northeastern section of the United States.

Customer: “Can I use my Texas Roadhouse gift card here?”

Me: “No, sir.”

Customer: “Why not?!”

Me: “We are a frozen banana truck.”

My parents own a food truck. It needs to be inspected two times every year. This year, they were getting a scheduled inspection at a food truck rally. This inspector was the one they’d known the longest, and they were very friendly with him.

In the middle of the inspection, the inspector stopped talking with my dad and looked over at a tent being set up nearby. A woman was setting out bottles of alcohol. He excused himself from my parents and went over to the woman.

Inspector: “Hello, I hope you’re doing well. Can you please tell me what you’re selling?”

Woman: “I’m going to be selling mixed drinks. I am a mixologist.”

Inspector: “Okay, can I please see [permit #1]?”

Woman: “I don’t have one.”

Inspector: “Do you have [permit #2]?”

Woman: “No.”

Inspector: “Are you a new business?”

Woman: *Very proudly* “Yes! I was just certified as a mixologist!”

Inspector: “That’s wonderful. But have you had your new business health inspection or gotten your liquor license?”

Woman: “No. I’m a mixologist.”

Inspector: “Right. Unfortunately, I cannot let you operate today. Here is some information on the permits and inspections you’ll need.”

Woman: “But I’m a mixologist!”

Eventually, he got the woman closed down and returned to my parents’ inspection. They passed with flying colors, as usual. It was definitely the most interesting inspection they’ve ever had.

When I am a teen, I am walking down the street, enjoying the summer sun, and sipping from a Gatorade bottle that I brought from my house. Set up in a parking lot along the street is a taco truck. I haven’t come within fifty feet of the truck.

A vendor leans out of the side of the truck and points at me.

Vendor: “Hey! Hey, you need to pay for that!”

Me: “Huh?”

Vendor: “You need to pay for that bottle!”

I shook my head at this and kept walking, but the guy actually climbed out of the truck and started chasing me. I ended up booking it down the street and outpacing him, but it was still one of the scariest events of my life at that point, and I ended up avoiding that stretch of street for a couple of years afterward.

(My friends and I have been to a nightclub in the city, and instead of getting the train, I offer to drive everyone. I am stone-cold sober as I don’t like to drink alcohol; I don’t like the taste. We exit the club and see a food truck on the curb. All of my friends are a bit too drunk to want food, but I go over and join the queue. There are a few people in front of me, and finally the queue thins and it’s just me and a man that is so drunk that he can’t stand. At one point, he hunches over and gags but luckily isn’t sick.)

Server: “Anyone not had their order taken yet?”

(The drunk man in front of me ignores him and continues to gag.)

Server: “Anyone?”

(This goes on for two minutes and in the end, I roll my eyes and step forward to order. The second I open my mouth…)

Server: “Get back in line! That man was in front of you.”

(I shrugged and decided to walk away, because I had already been in the queue for ten minutes and it didn’t look like I was going to get any food any time soon. The second I stepped out of line, the man vomited over the curb and up the side of the truck.)