The GPS Incident

Chapter One: Funeral Potatoes

“Turn left in 200 feet,” my GPS announces with the same confidence it’s had all week, which is to say, absolutely none whatsoever.

I’m driving “Wheels of Fortune,” my food truck specializing in gourmet grilled cheese and artisanal mac and cheese. The name was my ex-wife’s idea, back when she thought my business plan was “adorable” instead of “financially irresponsible.” Now it’s just me, 2,000 pounds of cheese, and a GPS that apparently has a twisted sense of humor.

“Arriving at destination,” the GPS chirps as I pull into what looks like a church parking lot. “Food Truck Festival, Highland Park.”

Except there are no other food trucks. Just a lot of people in black clothes looking very, very somber.

I should leave. I really should. But I’ve already invested $50 in gas to get here, and there’s a line of people staring at my truck with what I can only describe as desperate hunger. When you’re running a food business, hungry people are hungry people.

“Excuse me,” says an elderly woman in a black dress, tapping on my service window. “Are you catering the reception?”

I look around at the gathering crowd. Everyone’s dressed for a funeral, but they’re looking at my menu board with the kind of hope usually reserved for lottery tickets.

“Well,” I say slowly, “I do have funeral potatoes mac and cheese?”

It’s a lie. I have regular mac and cheese that I can call whatever she wants.

“Oh, Harold would have loved that,” she says, eyes welling up. “He always said funerals should have better food.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m serving “Mourning Mac” and “Grief Grilled Cheese” to a line of surprisingly cheerful mourners. Turns out Harold was a notorious foodie who specifically requested in his will that his funeral have “none of that dry sandwich garbage.”

“This is exactly what Harold would have wanted,” his widow tells me, clutching a grilled cheese with tears streaming down her face. “He always said life’s too short for bad food.”

I make $400 and get invited to three more funerals.

Chapter Two: The Bachelor Party Intervention

The next day, my GPS confidently directs me to what should be the Riverside Food Truck Round-Up. Instead, I find myself in the parking lot of what appears to be a very upscale spa.

“Destination reached,” my GPS announces. “Food Truck Festival.”

There are no food trucks. There is, however, a group of extremely well-dressed men standing around looking lost and slightly panicked.

“Oh thank God,” one of them says, rushing toward my truck. “Are you the emergency catering?”

“Emergency catering?” I ask.

“The bachelor party,” he explains frantically. “We booked the spa’s restaurant for lunch, but apparently they don’t serve ‘real food.’ Just quinoa and sadness. Brad’s getting married tomorrow and he’s having a complete meltdown because all he wants is a decent grilled cheese.”

I look through my service window and see a grown man in a fluffy spa robe sitting on a meditation bench, crying.

“He’s been detoxing for a week for the wedding,” another guy explains. “His fiancée has him on some cleanse. This is his last meal as a free man, and he just wants comfort food.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m serving “Bachelor Mac” (extra bacon) and “Freedom Grilled Cheese” (with a side of waffle fries because sometimes men in spa robes need waffle fries) to twelve guys who keep taking pictures and texting them to their wives with captions like “BEST BACHELOR PARTY EVER.”

Brad stops crying and tells me I’ve saved his marriage before it even started.

I make $350 and get hired for two baby showers.

Chapter Three: The Yoga Studio Revolution

Day three. GPS says “Riverside Park Food Festival.” I end up at a yoga studio.

“Destination reached.”

This time I don’t even hesitate. I just set up and wait to see what happens.

What happens is a yoga instructor named Moonbeam (probably not her birth name) approaching my truck with a look of pure panic.

“Are you the mindful eating facilitator?” she asks.

“I’m… something,” I say.

“The retreat is supposed to include a mindful eating workshop, but our raw food chef just canceled because of mercury in retrograde. We have thirty people who paid $200 each for a weekend of enlightenment, and apparently enlightenment includes lunch.”

I look at the group of yoga enthusiasts stretching in the parking lot. They’re all wearing those pants that cost more than my truck payment and looking very zen, but also very hungry.

“I do have Enlightenment Grilled Cheese,” I offer.

“That’s perfect! What’s in it?”

I have no idea, but I’m committed now. “It’s… a journey of flavors that leads to… inner cheese?”

“Beautiful. We’ll take thirty.”

An hour later, I’m explaining to a group of very flexible people how grilled cheese is actually a metaphor for life transformation (“The bread represents your old self, the cheese is your authentic core, and the grilling process is the heat of personal growth”).

One woman starts crying during her sandwich because she’s “never really tasted cheese before, like REALLY tasted it.”

Another guy declares that my mac and cheese has helped him find his chakra.

I make $600 and get invited to lead a food meditation workshop.

Chapter Four: The Revelation

It’s been two weeks since my GPS started having its midlife crisis, and I’ve accidentally catered a divorce party (apparently “Freedom Grilled Cheese” works for that too), a dog’s birthday party (the owners tipped me in dog treats), and a book club meeting where they were reading a dystopian novel and my “Post-Apocalyptic Mac” perfectly captured the mood.

I’m starting to think my GPS isn’t broken. It’s just evolved.

Tonight, I’m parked outside the GPS repair shop, finally ready to get this fixed. But as I sit here looking at my bank account—which is healthier than it’s been in months—I’m having second thoughts.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Harold’s widow: “My grief support group wants to hire you for our monthly meeting. They say your ‘Comfort Food for Uncomfortable Times’ is therapeutic.”

Another text from Brad: “Dude, my wife wants to hire you for her book club. They’re reading something about cheese caves?”

And one from Moonbeam: “The studio wants to put you on retainer for our monthly workshops. You’ve revolutionized mindful eating.”

I look at the GPS repair shop, then at my phone full of bookings, then at my GPS, which is currently suggesting I drive to something called “Senior Center Bingo Night” even though I haven’t entered any destination.

“You know what?” I tell my GPS. “Let’s see where Senior Center Bingo Night takes us.”

“Route calculated,” it responds, and I swear there’s a hint of satisfaction in its electronic voice.

Forty minutes later, I’m serving “Lucky Number Mac” to a group of octogenarians who are thrilled to have “real food” instead of the usual cookies and punch.

Ethel wins $50 at bingo and spends it all on grilled cheese for the table.

I drive home with a truck full of money and a GPS that I’m pretty sure is the best business partner I’ve ever had.

Tomorrow, I’m going to let it choose our destination again.

I can’t wait to see where we end up.