Page 37 of The Big Race
“Going up?” A voice called as the elevator doors were closing. The garbage collectors, George and Ernie, sprinted across the lobby toward us, followed by their cameraman. We held the doors for them—an instinctive courtesy that might cost us positions.
“Thanks,” George panted as the three of them squeezed in. “Thought we were goners on that paddleboarding challenge, but Ernie here is apparently part fish.”
“Unlike me,” I admitted.
“Rough day?” George asked, noting our wet clothes and grim faces.
“Just working out some kinks,” Ray said diplomatically.
The elevator ascended to the rooftop, opening to reveal a spectacular view of sparkling water. Julie stood on a mat at the far end, accompanied by a man in a naval uniform.
We all sprinted for the mat, the garbage collectors keeping pace. In the end, Ray and I stepped onto the mat just seconds before them.
“Ray and Jeffrey,” Julie announced, “you are team number three!”
Relief washed over me. Not first, but safely in the middle of the pack.
“Welcome to Panama, home of the Panama Canal,” the man in uniform said.
“George and Ernie,” Julie continued, “you are team number four.”
Over the next hour, the remaining teams checked in. The sorority sisters were fifth, followed by the male models. The second flight teams trickled in: the gay friends, the mother-son duo, the doctors, the NBA Wives, and the chefs.
We stood at the edge of the roof, looking out at the skyline, as Jenny and Carlos, the food truck owners joined us. “A lot like the Miami skyline,” Carlos said. I heard the remnants of a Spanish accent; he had probably come to the US from somewhere in Latin America as a kid. I'd noticed them at the starting line but hadn't had a chance to talk—they'd seemed focused and a bit tense even then.
Jenny was a petite Latina woman with intricate tattoos covering her forearms and her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Carlos was stockier, with salt-and-pepper stubble and the kind of permanent tan that came from working outdoors.
"You guys are from Miami too, right?" Ray asked, recognizing their team introduction from the first night.
"Our business is called Havana Dreams," Carlos confirmed, wiping sweat from his forehead with a bandana. "Been running our truck all over Dade and Broward for eight years."
"Havana Dreams," I said, the name clicking. "I've seen you at the food festival in Young Circle Park in Hollywood. Those Cuban sandwiches?"
Jenny's face lit up for the first time since I'd seen her. "That's us! You’ve been to our truck?"
"A few times," Ray said. "Your empanadas are incredible. I always get extra for lunch the next day."
"Those are my abuela's recipe," Jenny said proudly. "Carlos does the sandwiches, I handle the sweets and sides."
"Must be interesting, working together and being married," I observed, genuinely curious about their dynamic.
Carlos and Jenny exchanged a quick look—not the warm glance Ray and I had been sharing lately, but something more guarded.
"It has its challenges," Carlos said diplomatically.
"We've got different approaches," Jenny added, her tone carefully neutral. "Carlos likes to stick with the classics—Cubano, media noche, croquetas. I want to experiment more, add fusion elements."
"Fusion doesn't sell to our customers," Carlos said, and I caught the edge in his voice that suggested this was an ongoing argument. "They come for authentic Cuban food, not Korean-Cuban whatever."
"But we could expand our market," Jenny countered. "The younger crowd, the food bloggers. There's this truck in Wynwood doing Peruvian-Japanese that's killing it."
Ray and I watched this exchange with growing discomfort. It was like watching a familiar fight play out—the same kind of disagreement Ray and I used to have, where we'd dig into our positions instead of really listening to each other.
"How do you handle disagreements when you're working?" I asked, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere more constructive.
"We don't, usually," Jenny said with a bitter laugh. "He's the 'business manager,' so he gets final say on the menu."
"Because I handle the books," Carlos said defensively. "I know what sells and what doesn't. The food festivals are different. People there want to try new things. But our regular customers at the truck? They want consistency."
