Although he wasn't tall, the aura he had cultivated on the streets of the South Side (mainly due to his skin color) made the crowd, which was about to burst the stall, retreat half a step.
"You." The black vendor raised his hand and pointed at the suit-wearing man at the front of the line who kept checking his watch. "What do you want? Speak up."
"Ham-hamburger combo, add a cup of coffee..."
"Three dollars thirty-nine cents. Give me the money." The black vendor snatched the bills and slapped them next to Shane's hand. "Just give him the stuff."
Then he turned to the line and roared again:
"Listen up! Line up, one by one! When the one in front finishes ordering, the next one comes up. Whoever squeezes forward again won't get to eat such a substantial breakfast today!"
A few people who wanted to inch forward immediately shrank back.
The black vendor scanned around again, his gaze locking on a skinny kid sneaking his hand toward a sandwich at the edge of the stall.
"You. Where's your hand going? Either line up or get lost."
The kid resentfully withdrew his hand, glared at the two of them, and slipped away through a gap in the crowd in a flash.
Order stabilized slightly.
Shane glanced at the black vendor, who just jerked his chin at him: "Keep working. I'll watch for you."
In the following time, some "order" finally emerged from the chaos.
The black vendor was like a human gate, helping Shane control the flow of people, shouting occasionally to maintain order, and glaring back a few potential thieves.
He even started helping Shane collect money. That rough hand took the bills, glanced at the denomination, and threw them deep into the cash box.
It was almost 8:30, but the line hadn't shortened much.
When Shane moved the fourth bucket of coffee onto the table, the black vendor had already helped him sell a few portions, then turned and said: "Kid, are you planning to cover breakfast for the whole street today?"
He grinned, revealing white teeth.
"Can't help it, who asked it to be Monday?"
The two quickly formed a tacit understanding.
Shane was responsible for serving food, while the black vendor was responsible for blocking people, preventing theft, and shouting at people, occasionally moonlighting as a "cashier."
Occasionally, regular customers greeted the black vendor, and he would casually promote: "Try this kid's chicken roll; it's really better than McDonald's."
It was approaching nine o'clock, and there were few customers left in front of the stall.
When Shane stuffed the last slightly squashed sandwich into a paper bag and handed it to a female student who ran up panting, the insulated box was completely empty, and only dregs remained in the coffee bucket.
Shane leaned on the table and let out a long breath.
Not the kind of collapse from being drained, but more like the feeling after finishing an unsatisfying actual combat—physically excited, but mentally fatigued.
The T-shirt under his clothes was soaked with sweat on his back, sticking to his skin.
The black vendor returned to his own stall, poured a cup of hot cocoa, brought it over, and placed it casually by Shane's hand.
"Drink up. You look like you just fought a war on this street."
Shane wasn't polite and downed it in one gulp.
The sickly sweet hot cocoa slid down his throat, bringing out a rare sense of relaxation instead.
"Thanks, brother."
He looked at this black vendor he had only known for two days and said sincerely, "Without you, it might have really been a mess just now."
"Don't mention it."
The black vendor waved his hand, took out a cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag, and the exhaled smoke slowly dispersed in the morning air.
"Hanging in the South Side, we have to look out for each other. Besides, you helped me sell out all my goods, I helped you hold down the fort, very fair."
"Also, I've been setting up a stall here for five years, never seen anyone explode like this on the second day. You kid got something."
As he spoke, he extended his hand to Shane.
Shane paused for a moment, then reached out and shook it.
The black vendor squeezed hard. "By the way, what's your name?"
"Shane. Shane Gallagher."
"Gallagher?" The black vendor raised an eyebrow. "That Gallagher family from the South Side? That piece of shit Frank is your..."
"Can't help it, this is the trial God arranged for me."
Shane's tone was full of helplessness.
The black vendor nodded knowingly. No human being would want to be stuck with such a father.
As everyone knows, in the South Side, Frank Gallagher is like stinking dog shit on the street—everyone knows him, but no one wants to step on him.
"I'm Marcus." He added casually, "Just remember it, kid."
He paused, glancing at Shane's stall again: "But, kid, you really should consider finding a helper. If it's still like this tomorrow..."
The black vendor shook his head.
Shane nodded.
Chatted a few more sentences with Marcus, urging him to prepare more stock tomorrow, "Let's make more money together."
After that, Shane turned around and began to pack up his stall, moving things back to the car one by one.
Before long, Shane pulled the car door shut and sat back in the driver's seat.
He took his metal cash box, opened it. The originally empty metal box was now stuffed with bills of various denominations and loose coins.
With a slight thought.
The money in the box vanished instantly.
On the System interface visible only to Shane, the personal balance number jumped rapidly, finally stopping... wiping off the fraction, he earned $640 this morning.
Subtracting that bit of cost, that meant he netted $544 this morning.
Shane blinked and confirmed again.
Nearly $160 more than yesterday.
He leaned back in the seat, fished out a cigarette pack, shook one out, and lit it.
Shane suddenly remembered the bullshit he had seen somewhere before.
Something about Americans living "exquisite" lives, breakfast must be avocado with whole wheat bread, even ordinary people never "greedy for petty gain," and the lowest class also pursues healthy food...
Bullshit!
In the South Side, organic ingredients, exquisite life concepts, are all fcking bullshit!
For those blue-collar workers who have to squeeze into the subway before dawn; for those students calculating every penny; for those workers hurrying in the cold wind with their necks shrunk, substantial portions, low prices, filling stomachs, and preferably tasting a bit better.
That is the best breakfast in the world.
And the stuff Shane sold happened to match all of these.
The explosive scene this morning was half due to portion size, and the other half was definitely due to price.
Between puffing, the cigarette burned to the end quickly. Shane flicked the butt out the window casually, preparing to start the car.
The morning battle was over, but the noon battle was still waiting for him.
At the construction site, workers generally ate in shifts between 11:30 and 1:00.
Shane had to prepare everything before eleven and set up the stall at the street corner he had scouted long ago.
Lighting another cigarette, he shifted into reverse with one hand.
The van chugged out of the alley, preparing to meet the noon battle.