Page 29 of The Worst Possible Plan

The chef spotted me first. He uncrossed his arms, pushed away from the side of his truck, and fixed me with the sort of expression usually reserved for people who announced they were microwaving steak. “You the event planner?”

My smile arrived two seconds before my confidence did. “I am.”

He looked me up and down. “Good,” he said. “Tell him we’re not moving.”

“Tell who?” I looked behind me like an idiot. Nice.

“The inspector,” he growled, staring at me like I was a simpleton.

I glanced back at him. “Yes. Right.”

The blonde woman ended her phone call with an exaggerated sigh and marched over. “I’ve already rearranged my truck twice this morning,” she said without bothering to introduce herself. “First Helen wanted us one way. Then the inspector wanted us another way. I’ve already plugged into the electrical hookups.”

The chef pointed toward the pavement. “So have I.”

I looked. Sure enough, thick black power cables snaked across the asphalt toward each truck. Right. Electricity. Of course food trucks needed electricity. Why had I imagined they simply… showed up?

I opened Helen’s binder. Surely something in here would cover negotiating with angry chefs. Or electrical cables. Or conflict resolution. Instead I found a laminated page titled WASTE MANAGEMENT.

Helpful.

If one of them suddenly needed information about recycling bins, I was ready.

I closed the binder. “So…” I said brightly. “Let’s all take a breath.”

“I’ve already taken one,” the chef replied.

“I’ve taken several,” said the blonde.

I smiled, even though their expressions at the moment looked like they both wanted to strangle me. “I understand everyone’s frustrated. But I’m sure we can figure something out.”

The blonde folded her arms. “The inspector says we need twelve feet between trucks.”

“The fire department regulations changed,” the chef added.

“But if I move twelve feet,” the blonde shot back, “I’m blocking the dessert truck.”

“The dessert truck isn’t even here,” growled the chef.

“It will be,” pressed the woman.

The chef furrowed his brow. “When?”

The blonde woman paused for a second. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” answered the chef.

I watched them argue for another thirty seconds, which felt oddly like watching tennis. My head kept turning left. Then right. Then left again. At some point I became reasonably certain they’d forgotten I was standing there.

I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

The chef was now explaining something about propane tanks. The blonde countered with customer flow. He replied with generator clearance. She came back with foot traffic.

I didn’t understand a single word. Not one. This was like listening to two surgeons debate spleens.

Eventually I raised both hands. “Okay! We all want the same thing. Right? A successful festival,” I continued. “Happy customers. Am I right? Yes?”