Last week, I noticed on my way home that someone in the neighbourhood has acquired their own little food truck.
I suppose it’s more of a food trailer than a food truck, seeing as how it looks like it fits on the back of a regular truck to be towed around, but still. There’s no mistaking the flashy red paint job and “BBQ & Grill” emblazoned on the side with a picture of some sort of savoury food next to it.
Normally it’s quite easy to tune out the background imagery of the neighbourhood, seeing as how I can pretty much put myself on autopilot to take the familiar drive home from work, but it’s rather hard to miss a bright red food trailer.
The few times since then I’ve driven past the trailer, I’ve been nosily trying to see who owns it and what it looks like on the inside. A couple times I’ve seen the back doors open and someone working away inside, but I’ve never really got a good glimpse of the owner or the kitchen space. Still, it’s a little point of interest to break up the monotony of the daily commute.
And it’s really fun to imagine.
Imagining the proud new owner of the food trailer making plans, babbling on about menu and locations, eagerly setting to work getting the trailer set up for business as the summer creeps closer. Imagining what the summer will be like, the very first season of this new culinary adventure, with people lined up and smoke billowing out the top and the smell of barbecued meat wafting through the hot, sunny afternoon. Imagining what sorts of stories this food trailer owner will soon be able to tell.
It almost burns, the curiosity and accompanying desire to know more, to know what’s true, to know what’s going to happen.
But it’s funny that we humans with our big, imaginative brains, seem to do that. Make stories out of the things we see, weave them into our lives.
A few days ago, as my coworker and I were just getting out of work, I was standing by the door waiting for her when I looked over towards the shipping centre next door and saw a man and woman hauling a big box into their car. The picture on the box indicated it was a child’s stroller, and a big one too. Once they got it in the car, they exchanged a high five before climbing inside.
It made me smile a bit, the little high five, and I wondered if this was their first kid. Was it still just a baby or was it a toddler now, big enough to warrant a bigger stroller? Where were they going to go with that stroller? The park, Disneyland, the zoo? Was the kid actually going to want to be in the stroller or would they at some point demand to go up on dad’s shoulders, to get a better lay of the land?
Just today, I noticed on my way to work a young man taking pictures of the back of his flame-orange pickup truck, which was obviously crumpled from some sort of collision. I only got a glimpse of him, not even enough to see the expression on his face, and I wondered how upset he was. He looked pretty young–was it his first car? Was it his first accident? Was it even an accident, or was it a hit and run in a parking lot, the kind of surprise you really don’t want to find when you get out of the store?
And what possessed him to get such a bright orange truck?
I mean, it’s amazing, but wow. Not many people go for bright orange.
I wonder if it’s his prized possession, that tropical orange truck. Maybe he’s absurdly proud of how unique that colour is, how it makes him so strikingly different from everyone else on the road.
Sometimes it really is just so much fun to wonder these things, to imagine what the answers might be, even if you’ll never find out if you’re right or not.
And I think it’s neat to notice these things, to give them the time of day. Like I said, it’s so easy to slip into the monotony of the day, of routine, and just completely block out all the familiar things around you. But once you actually start to notice things, once you actually pay attention to them and treat them as significant, it seems to fill your day with so much more colour and life.
I mean, you’ve heard me say it before: life is the greatest adventure.
And what a many-layered adventure it can be.
Because if you think about it, even though I don’t own the food trailer or the stroller or the orange pickup truck, even though I could never see any of those things again in my life, they have irretrievably become a small part of my life. They’ve been written into the daily story I’m telling, and the story I’ve chosen to share here.
In a way, they have become a part of my adventure, landmarks to celebrate particular moments along the journey.
If you wanted, you could dive into those little threads of story, you could follow the food trailer and the stroller and the orange pickup truck and you could see all the places they go, all the things they witness. You could take the small part they play in my story and expand it, dig into it like a little pocket of space in the timeline of infinity, and the overall story would become larger.
Let’s say the person with the food trailer serves food to a couple of girls with neon-dyed hair. You could then choose to follow their story, watch them fall in love and get a dog and move to Europe. You could dig into their lives, expand a new pocket of space, and make the story even larger.
You could do that an infinite number of times, opening up pockets, unravelling stories, crafting the overall narrative into something as immense and limitless as the universe itself.
You could take something as simple and linear as my life story and transform it into something massive and boundless.
Just by noticing things, just by imagining things, just by following stories.
I suppose I’ll never actually know the stories of the food trailer or the stroller or the orange pickup truck, and I’ll never get to see the universe-sized story that could be woven together from all the small individual strands, but it doesn’t change that I’m still a part of it. I’m woven into it just like everyone else.
Part of something bigger. Part of something magnificent.
Part of an adventure that’s bigger than anything I could even imagine.
It’s kind of amazing.