Edge Play by Paul Lewellan

‍ ‍Carla Blankenship spotted Nick’s Carnita Cravings in the city park by the fountain. The  food truck had drawn a crowd. When she finally reached the

window she was greeted by a man with muscular arms and prisons tattoos: a clock with no hands, a spider web around one elbow, a laughing Sigmund

Freud. Working the grill was a young man in a spotless white oxford shirt and a paper hat.

“What do you recommend?” 

The counter man suggested, “One of everything.” 

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Take food back to your friends in the office.”

“Another day, perhaps, assuming I can find you again.” Carla tilted her head. “You need to let people know where your food truck will be….” 

“And how would I do that?”

“Build a website. Facebook. Or X, you know, what used to be Twitter. Anything on social media.” 

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.” He wore a black apron over a Flying Dog t-shirt and chinos. She was in a conservative business suit, with a modest

hemline and sensible shoes. 

“Some day when the line is small, I’ll give you a marketing lesson for the price of a nacho grande. My name’s Carla.” She handed him her business card.

Carla Blankenship, Miracle Marketing.

“I’m Nick.” He handed her a menu he’d photocopied on his parents’ printer. He circled the phone number. “The take out number is my cell phone.”

“Handy,” she said as she folded it up and put it in her purse.

“What will it be today?” 

“What’s today’s special?”

“Shredded beef enchiladas.”

“Then I’ll go with that.”

“Grab that park bench that just opened up. I’ll bring your order out. Oscar can handle the window for a few minutes.” 

Oscar McCaskey was the wiry young man dishing out chilaquiles, machacas, burritos, and flautas. He was 5’2”, with long arms and delicate hands that

flew over the prep counter accompanied by the Charlie Pride music coming from the ancient boom box on the floor. 

By the time Nick joined her at the table the line at the food truck was down to a scattering. He brought her enchiladas and set down a paper plate filled

with nachos and a Styrofoam cup of salsa. “Try the mild salsa made with fresh tomatoes. They were in my garden yesterday.”

After the first tentative bite, she proclaimed, “Wonderful!” 

He nodded, then scooped a chip in the salsa and popped it in his mouth. Finally Carla pushed the paper plate back and wiped her hands on the paper

towels he’d brought. She’d eaten methodically, careful not to stain the pale blue blouse she’d worn under the summer weight suit jacket now folded neatly

on the bench beside her. 

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

“Menard.”

She shook her head. “Is that a local restaurant? A cooking school? I haven’t heard of it.”

“It’s a maximum security prison in southern Illinois.” When her face grimaced, he added, “I worked there.” But before she could relax, he added, “As an

inmate. Most people around here know.”

“Why would they?”

“In my prior life I was Dr. Nicolas Brouillette.” There was no recognition on her face. “Google ‘Dr. Nick;’ see what you find. Next time you come for an

enchilada, I’ll throw in a order of gorditas and we can talk marketing.” 

Ten days later Nick pulled into the Lowe’s parking lot at 10:50. That meant it was Thursday. He would have to hurry to open up by 11:00. 

Stiffly he stepped out of the cab of the Chevy P30. Wednesday evening there’d been a free concert in the park overlooking the Mississippi. At the last

minute one of the scheduled food carts had cancelled, and he’d been allowed to set up. Sales were modest, but the extra income would help when the

Honda generator gave out. He’d cleaned up while Oscar did prep work at the commercial kitchen where he rented space. It made for a short night. He

limped to the side of the truck and cranked out the awning.

“What’s the special today?”

Nick didn’t have to turn around. He recognized Carla’s voice and the hint of sarcasm. 

“Shrimp enchiladas.” He’d gotten a deal on the shrimp. They were at the end of their shelf life, but they’d be consumed before it was a problem. Folks

loved his shrimp enchiladas.

“Are they fresh?”

“Would I serve them if they weren’t?” She left the question hanging in the air, choosing instead, to help him with the awning. “You’re taking lunch a little

early….”

“Actually, this is a sales call.”

With the awning deployed, he motioned her into the vehicle. “This is a 1998 Chevy P30 diesel step van, a former Wonder Bread truck. It’s got a manual

transmission with 464,173 miles on it, and a barely used kitchen built in 2017. The former owners dreamed big but folded quickly when they cut quality.”

He opened the serving window. Folks had already begun to gather. Nick lit the grill. “Explain again why you’re here.”

“I own a mom and pop marketing shop. We put together campaigns and make ads. We buy spots on local media….”

“I’ve got no money for that.” He washed his hands before pulling out the stainless steel pans full of his fresh ingredients.

“I assumed as much, but….”

“If you want to finish the pitch, you need to scrub up and help. Oscar is running late.” He pointed. “There are clean aprons in the cupboard.”

Carla donned an apron. “We do websites, social media, and internet marketing. For a surprisingly small cost, we could double your business.”

“I couldn’t handle double the business.”

“Then maybe the goal should be a predictable money stream. Ensure that anyone searching for enchiladas can find your truck. Generate a catering

business.”

“I’m listening….” 

She looked at the diagram that identified where ingredients went. “I’ll finish the prep table. You do what you need with the customers and the grill. We

can talk pricing and services once your assistant arrives and the crowd out front is fed.”

They worked well together. Carla knew her way around a kitchen. He suggested she take the orders and handle the money while he handled the food.

She continued to work the window, even after Oscar arrived. The shrimp enchiladas sold out before she could taste one. When the rush was over, they ate

sitting in the truck’s front seats while Oscar handled the thinning crowd.

“Go ahead, ask.” 

“You murdered a woman. Now you run a food truck. How does that work?”

“I was sentenced to fifty years. Eligible for parole after 25. Time off for good behavior.”

“Good behavior?”

“I was an Psychology professor at the liberal arts college across the river. My Dr. title was from a PhD, not a medical degree. Students called me Dr. Nick

because I was a likable guy. Once the trial started, Dr. Nick morphed into a slasher reference because the victim had dozens of tiny cuts on her body from

cut play.”

“So, not quite as likable…. Good behavior?”

“I taught GED classes. The number passing the test doubled after I started. It tripled when they put me in charge of the program. When COVID closed the

classes down, I got a job in the kitchen. Turned out I have a knack for seasonings that translated well for a limited spice budget and bulk food prep.”

“A good candidate for owning a food truck.”

“Technically, my parents own the truck. They’re leasing it to me for ten dollars a month.”

“Generous of them.”

“I live in the apartment above their carriage house, and am their caretaker on the days their home healthcare worker has off.”

“They got the better end of that bargain.”

“I’m comfortable with the arrangement. My trial took a toll on them.”

“I still don’t understand, even with good behavior, how you could get out after only twenty years.”

“Only someone who’s never spent a night in jail would use the qualifier only in a statement like that.” His voice had an edge she hadn’t heard before. “I had

all the time in the world. I studied the law and helped with appeals. I started a therapy dog program. I stopped a riot once.”

“The murderer with the heart of gold.”

“A lot of very bad men and women are in prison. Others inside are just people who did bad things. Nobody should be defined by their crimes.” He made

eye contact and held it. “You know a little about that, don’t you?”

“I assume you found my crime.” 

“I’m lousy with technology. Oscar helped me with the internet search.” 

“That’s fair.” Carla waited, then finally said, “Aren’t you going to ask me about the boy?”

“No. None of my business. Maybe someday, I’ll need to know.” He picked up the remains of their meals. “Oscar says you can’t believe everything you read

online.”

“Can we talk about your victim?”

“Nope. Or at least not today.”

“Well, I’ll be back. You still owe me a free gordita

“Then it’s settled….” But, of course, nothing was.

A week later Carla found the truck in the K & K Hardware Store parking lot. He smiled when she came to the window. “When do you close up?” she

asked.

“Not until three o’clock. Then I have to restock and move the truck to the craft beer competition in LeClaire tonight, five until midnight.”

“I’ll be back around three so we can talk.” 

“And get your gordita.”

“Exactly.”

She returned as he was closing. Over fish tacos and gorditas, eaten in the privacy of the truck’s cab, they talked. 

“I read your clippings. A professor of psychology, involved in an affair with a grad student, strangled her when she threatened to expose the relationship.

Rumors of kinky sex practices, cutting, bondage, etc. You taught a class in it.” 

“It wasn’t that simple”

“I don’t think anything I just said was simple.” Carla studied him. She was good at reading people. He was struggling. “Explain it to me.”

He waved her off as if to dismiss her. “Why are you even here?”

“Free Gordita, remember….”

It wasn’t much of a joke, but he smiled. “The college offered a degree in law enforcement. I was asked to teach a graduate seminar in Aberrant Sexual

Behavior and Investigation, a special victims unit prep class. There was a unit on edge play.”

“Edge play? Explain that term.”

“Sexual practices with the potential for short or long-term harm.”

“Give an example.”

“Wax play, erotic asphyxiation, fear play, consensual non-consent….” Carla ate and listened. “The class introducing edge play led to an especially spirited

discussion. After class, the conversation moved to a local bar. Gwen and I closed down the bar. Nothing happened. The next day she appeared in my office,

locked the door, pulled out her kit of knives. She explained bloodplay to me. Things escalated.”

“How did that turn into first degree murder?”

“Breath play.”

“You choked her to increase the intensity of the orgasm….”

“Basically, yes.”

“But she died from your choking. Clearly not your objective. Why wasn’t it accidental death or manslaughter? Doesn’t first degree murder require intent?”

“Gwen liked danger. She fed on fear. She pushed me to dominate, to test limits, reinforcing aggression, punishing hesitation. Eventually I went too far.”

“But….” 

“Her friends testified she was going to the Dean; said she’d threatened to tell my wife. I knew none of this. The County Attorney suggested to the jury I

did. She explained that first degree murder required premeditation, but intent could be as simple as recognizing my actions could kill but continuing.”

“The definition of edge play….” 

“The cutting testimony didn’t help.” 

“Or the press calling you Dr. Nick.”

“My wife was always in court, frequently with our infant. I didn’t present a sympathetic character.”

“Your devoted wife carried your baby while you fucked your students.” Carla wiped her hands on a paper towel. “It’s all about the optics. The prosecutor

knew that.”

“Actually the baby wasn’t mine. A DNA test identified it as my best friend’s. She admitted the affair and filed for divorce after the verdict. She knew I’d be

gone for a long time. Her daughter needed a father.”

  “A murder on your resume might make it difficult to market your tacos.” There was no hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Welcome to my world.”

“I’m curious, was there premeditation?”

“A jury of my peers said there was.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get. If you can’t accept it, you need to find yourself another food truck.” There was a knock on the door to the cab.

“Oscar’s done with cleanup. Got to go if we’re going to be ready for tonight.” 

The next Monday Carla called with a catering order for delivery. She gave him directions to her shop.

“So this is where the magic happens?” Nick asked as he entered her office. He’d practiced the line until it sounded impromptu and spontaneous. Still it

lacked the energy he’d hoped. 

“It used to be a bakery and café. Covid closed it. We got a deal on the lease if we kept the kitchen intact. When we started we didn’t have desks; we each

had a booth.”

“Really?” He looked around. A reception area featured recent campaigns and displayed the awards they’d won. There was a glass enclosed conference

room and beyond that three offices. “It booming now.”

Nick rolled in a cart with trays of tacos, burritos, and enchiladas. On the lower shelf were nachos, sour cream, guacamole, and assorted fixings. “You

ordered food for an army.”

“The high school business club is coming for lunch and to learn about marketing.”

“The food is a bribe?”

“The advisors learned about my teaching days. They needed convincing.”

“You were never convicted of anything.”

“That’s not a strong recommendation.”

Nick smiled. “I’ll leave some sauces, extra cheese, and onions. I’ll come back for them.” He finished unloading the cart. “My sales are up because of the

new website. I’ve hired another assistant, someone I knew from Menard. You have another success story to share with the club.” When Carla didn’t say

anything, he added, “Or maybe you want to keep some clients to yourself?”

“It might be too soon.” She glanced at the clock.

He got the message. “I’ll go. There are plates, plastic silverware, napkins in the bag.”

Carla motioned for him to wait. She walked over and lowered her voice. “Would you like to go out to a movie? Theaters have changed since you last went.

They’ve got recliners now.”

“That would be dangerous. If you put me in a recliner, I’d be asleep in a blink.”

“Then how about this. Stop by when you can. I’ll be working late. We’ll get coffee or a drink so we can talk.”

When Nick returned hours later, he was met at the front door by a man in suit carrying a tennis racket and duffel bag. “I’m sorry, but the office is closed.” 

“I’m the caterer. Stopping by to pick up a few things.”

The suit beamed. “You’re Nick.” He reached out a hand to shake. “Terrific food. Great burritos. I’d love to talk, but I’ve got a court reserved with my son.

Maybe another time.” 

Carla appeared and ushered him into the reception area. “You look exhausted.” 

“We worked a block party. There were two other food trucks, but we were the only one to sell out.”

“You might need to revise your business plan.”

“What business plan?”

“The one we’re going to write tonight.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

He framed her head and with large hands, and drew her lips to his. When they finally parted he asked, “Know anything about commercial rentals?”

“What?” 

“I’ve been renting space in a commercial kitchen. Today the owner raised my rate by 30% because I am ‘a security risk’.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s been getting threatening calls. There was graffiti. Vandalism in back.”

“We have a kitchen you could rent.” She hooked his arm and drew him further into the office. Carla opened the sliding doors that led to the back. She

turned on the lights. Nick entered and took inventory before gravitating toward the Garland Sunfire 6-Burner gas range and 60” griddle. “Take your time,”

she said, but she doubted he heard.

Nick found her in the reception area twenty minutes later. “Sorry,” he said. “I got distracted.”

“No problem.” She motioned to her work spread across six feet of the former café’s counter. “We’ve got a potential client. I’ve put together our greatest

hits so I can wow her.” 

“Why do you still have a commercial grade kitchen?”

“When they closed the kitchen because of covid, their intention was always to reopen. Then they leased the rest of the space to us….”

“Planning to kick you out when they wanted the space back.”

“Exactly. Then he had a heart attack. Their daughter and grandchildren moved to Atlanta. They decided to sell the equipment and give us a deal on the

building.”

“It’s all top of the line.”

“But it’s five years older than when they bought it.”

“They were offered pennies on the dollar and refused. When we bought the building, we got the kitchen equipment. Never got around to doing anything

about it. Sometimes we make canned soup when we work late.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Can you make money with it?”

“You’d need a license….”

“Not what I asked. Can you make us money with it?”

“Absolutely. I know others who’d want in.”

“Then let’s make a business plan to share with my partners. I’ll order pizza.”

Nick smiled. “So, the first date since my release I spend it in an office eating takeout pizza and talking business?”

Carla struck a pose. “I might think of something to sweeten the mix….” 

Over pepperoni pizza with jalapeño peppers and onions she crunched the numbers. Finally she looked up from her laptop. “Did the graffiti at the kitchen

surprise you?”

“No. My truck has been vandalized repeatedly. The spray paint murals on the side cover up the hate messages. Sometimes friends of my victim come to

picket the stand.”

“That must be tough.

“Ironically, it stirs sales. People stop to see what the demonstration is about, and stay for the tacos.”

She reached for another slice of pizza. “That’s interesting. The JA students raved about the food. I mentioned your food truck, and they knew the story.

They wanted to meet you.”

“Because I killed someone?”

“Because you were imprisoned under curious circumstances and you’d put your life back together.”

“My life is far from together…. I was a tenured college professor. Now I make tacos.”

“Are you happy?”

“I suppose I am. Life is more simple. I like what I do. I have freedom of movement. I can be creative. And as the business grows, I can help others. I’ll only

hire ex-cons.”

“I’d get claustrophobic in the truck all day.”

“My cell was less than 50 square feet. Actual walking space was 21" by 6'10". Now, if I want space, I can just step out the rear door.” He hesitated. “What

about you? Tell me about the boy.” 

“There’s nothing to tell. I’d been tutoring him after school. He made an improper overture. I made an improper response. My marriage was already in the

crapper. My husband had lost interest. Suddenly I was fucking a sixteen-year-old, and then some of his friends, and eventually his father.” 

“How did that work?”

“Shane’s father appeared at our door one evening. Explained to my husband what had transpired between his son and me. Then he said, ‘I can go to the

school board, or I can make it all go away.’ To make it go away, all I had to do is fuck him. My husband thought that was a great deal.”

“How did it end?”

“I stopped having sex with the boys and resigned at the end of the school year.” 

“And the father?”

“The coercive relationship morphed into a consensual one. Both marriages fell apart. Then he got a business opportunity out of town. He invited me to

join in the venture. You just missed him.”

“The guy playing tennis with his son?”

“The sexual relationship ended when the partnership took off,” she said carefully. “Now it’s just business. His fiancé knows nothing about what happened.

The tennis playing son is his eldest, Frank. Very discrete. He’s asked me out, but I declined.”

After pizza, they worked the business plan. Nick would begin using the kitchen once the appliances were up and running and Carla secured the

necessary licenses. “I know some other who would be interested.”

“We could use the old drive-up window for a carry out business. If my firm continues at its current growth, we’ll need more office space. It will be more

cost effective to find it elsewhere. After that, you can restore the café.”

“I like the truck.”

“No reason you can’t do both with more help.” She pushed the pizza box aside. “Tell me about edge play.”

“I don’t want to go there….”

“I’m not suggesting it as a way to close out our evening. I have other ideas for that.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“That we make an ad campaign around your Dr. Nick persona. It’s following you around anyway. Let’s use it to make enchiladas edgy, even sexy.”

“Why?”

“To socialize people into the consumer culture.”

“Speak English,”

“Sex is basic, needed for the survival of the species. Both sexes exhibit sexual behaviors so that’s the starting line for advertisers. Always begin with the

basics.” 

“Food and sex.”

“Companies hire firms to sell tires, soap, shoes, and used cars, none of which are sexy. The advertisers must ‘teach’ consumers what they need to know.”

“What is that?”

  “That sexual attraction demands good grooming, cosmetics, and consumption noted by the oppose sex.” She shrugged  “Contrary to tens of thousands

of years of lust and procreation, I will tell you that it’s the brand of car you drive rather than the size of your dick that makes you desirable.” 

Nick smiled broadly. “Is that true?”

“Hell no. But it’s what the consumer has to be taught is true. What chance do common sense and empirical evidence stand in the face of the 5000

commercial messages every fucking day?” She pointed her finger at him. “We’ll put Dr. Nick in ads holding knives, plastered on billboards and the sides of

busses. Your enchiladas will look ethereal, and you will look dangerous. Consumers will be unable to resist.”

   Nick laughed a hearty laugh. It was the first time Carla had heard him laugh. She liked it. “And what’s in it for me?”

“You can partner with someone like yourself who is flawed, but refuses to let prior crimes define them. There is a lot we can teach each other, once

there’s trust.”

“Where do we start?”

“Another kiss would be nice.”

Now retired after fifty years of teaching, Paul Lewellan lives, writes, and gardens on the banks of the Mississippi River. He shares his cottage with his wife Pamela, who is also his best friend and accountant. They are raising a rescue called Caitlin Cat and an ancient Maltese named Buddy. Find archives of his work at paullewellan.com or follow him on Substack.