They Regretted for Accusing Me of Clout

A phone rang the moment I drove my food truck into the alleyway behind Central Hospital.

"Mr. Curtis, someone reported you to the authorities," Larry Gunther, who manned the sandwich truck opposite mine, informed me grimly while clutching his phone. "The call was from the Department of Consumer Affairs. They want to investigate you because someone reported you for driving up prices for patients at the hospital."

I looked up at my pricing board. A meat dish, a side dish, and a soup for $2.

Dozens of people were already lining up in front of my food truck. Two dollars could not even buy anyone a hot dog, but I was reported for profiting off sick people.

I closed the lid of the soup container. "Let them come."

Larry sighed. "You shouldn't be so hard-headed with them. There are a lot of people online targeting you."

I said nothing as I filled the last scoop of pulled pork into the takeaway box. The young woman at the front of the line took the box from me as she went through her pockets in a fluster. "I've only got $1.50 today, Brody. Can I pay you back the rest tomorrow?"

"It's fine. Just take the food."

I was in her shoes ten years ago. My father was hospitalized for cancer, and I was 26 then. I made delivery runs during the day, and stayed by my father's bedside at night. The cheapest set meal at the hospital cafeteria was $12, but I could never bear to pay for it.

My father would always share his meal with me. "You're still growing. You should have more food."

He had no idea that I was left with only $28 in my pocket.

My father did not make it past winter. On the day of his funeral, I crouched in the back alley of the hospital and saw a man leaning against the wall at the corner with a sandwich in his hand, waiting for the hospital results.

The sandwich had gotten soggy, and he had not even taken a bite of it.

I started thinking then that if I had money, I would take care of the people waiting in this alleyway and make sure all of them were fed with hot meals.

Last year, Laney Lint and I used the profits of our shop to buy this second-hand food truck. I started with only 40 portions a day, telling her that I would be done every day after the portions were sold out. She nodded and said, "Be careful not to compromise yourself."

However, after finishing all 40 portions on the first day, seven people were left waiting in the queue. An elderly man was holding a container and asked me in a small voice, "Do you still have any food left, young man? My wife is still in the hospital with tubes all over her. I don't want to be far away from her."

That day, I gave him my lunch. The next day, I prepared 60 portions, and on the third day, I prepared 80 portions. Eventually, I started making 160 portions a day.

The takeout meal was $2, which included a meat dish, a side dish, soup, and gas for my truck. I was not earning anything from this at all.

Laney kept complaining to me while she did the accounts. "Are you manning a food truck or running a charity, Brody?"

I smiled. "It won’t bankrupt us."

Someone suggested I start a livestream for what I did. "You can shoot yourself cooking, and stream the queue. Once you have followers, you can make up for some of the loss with funds from them or even get sponsors."

When I showed her my accounts, I said, "I won't profit from the patients, but I'll try to make some from the livestream."

My livestream started with only a dozen or so people until a popular influencer took a video of an old lady holding a bowl of soup from my truck and shared it with her followers. "There is a food truck in the back alley of the hospital selling a meal for $2."

That video gained millions of views that night. I was able to change an item on my menu from baked beans to fried chicken, and I made double portions of the soup I usually prepared.

When the authorities arrived, my stream was still playing live. They were polite and said, "Someone has lodged a report against you. We'd like your cooperation to assist us with the investigation."

"No problem."

I placed my phone on the table and took out a plastic box from below the truck, inside which contained my purchase receipts and food hygiene certification, my daily menu, and accounting books.

The authorities flipped through them for more than ten minutes. "Where did you source your meat from?"

"East City Market. The butcher's phone is right there in my books."

"How did you decide to price your product at $2?"

I flipped the accounting book to the last page. "A normal takeout is about $4.70 to $5.20. I was the one who decided to sell my meals for $2. I'm not making any money from it."

The younger officer was taken aback. "That means you're making quite a loss every month."

"I don't keep close tabs on it."

Laney was standing at the side when she suddenly spoke up, "You made a loss of $9,600 last month."

I glanced at her.

When the authorities were done, they informed me there was nothing wrong with the ingredients I was using. Before they left, one of the officers lowered his voice. "Be careful with your streaming. It's easy to get into trouble if you capture the face of the patient."

"Thanks for the warning."

My phone buzzed when I parked my truck back in its original spot. A follower had commented: [He's selling $2 meals and livestreaming it? He's smart, isn't he? Making a good name for himself while making money online.]

"It's disgusting that he's trying to get views by exploiting patients who are already suffering."

The comments section blew up quickly.

I stared at the comments, feeling my heart tighten in my chest.

Laney snatched the phone from my hand. "Stop reading them."

The next morning, the complaint hotline from the Department of Consumer Affairs called me again. "Someone reported that your truck is always blocking the alley outside the hospital, disrupting traffic flow. Please make a trip down here in the afternoon."

I looked at the alley, which was big enough for only one car, and replied, "All right."