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A Dollar Seventy-Five and a Hot DogThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by M Marquardt | |
| Monday, 14 July 2008 | |
Martin Dimwitski wobbled from the Old Faithful Tavern into a fuzzy neon night that was colder than he knew. The fresh air on his face was cool and reinvigorating in contrast to the suffocating cloud that loomed over the patrons heads back in the Old Faithful. It was a cloud that permeated everything. His hair and clothes reeked of sweat and cigarettes and his breath was rank and sweet. His confidence was high though, and resolution sound. He wanted a hot dog, and he wanted one now. The long night had nearly depleted his cash but he still had a Lincoln crumpled up in the corner of his sport coat, next to a receipt for Ben’s Big Burger which showed that he had purchased a double cheese burger on Wednesday, and that the total had been four dollars and fifty-seven cents. Martin surveyed the buzzing city street, looking for signs of an active wiener cart. There were people walking in pairs or groups and their voices and laughter carried and mingled with the traffic lumbering down First Ave. Across the street there was a sidewalk coffee stand open. The electric red lettering over the awning read: Migaleochacha. He tried for about 3 minutes to read the sign while he balanced in place but he couldn’t read it or even make out what they were selling. Determined, he made for the stand, Godzilla style through a flower bed of innocent tulips and then into traffic against the don’t walk light that was a blur of deep orange tracers. A large black truck emitting thumping base sounds came to a sudden stop, the grill of the angry beast was level with Martin’s face and it seemed to snarl at him and then scream loudly, its eyes became white hot flares as it yelled “Get the **** out of the god damn street you ******* moron!” Martin slurred something bravely in return at the black dragon while still in forward motion but tripped on the curb and went down. He heard cheers and laughter and as he climbed to his feet he held his hands up and took a bow but lost his balance and went down again. When he pulled himself back up using the newsstand and looked around, his fans had moved on already. Oh well he thought, lets get some ******’ hot dogs. The barista was a nice looking woman, maybe in her mid twenties. She had tattoos on both her arms and was clad entirely in black. She smiled an ‘oh ****’ smile at Martin as he approached the stand and grabbed onto the counter to keep from falling over. Besides coffee they had some cellophane protected muffins, a few magazines, smokes and soda. Nothing else. The stand was barely big enough for the woman to work and it was clear that she had nothing else to offer, not up her short sleeves nor behind the high counter. Looking up at her from his drunken cocoon he earnestly looked into her eyes and asked “Ya gawt any hawt dawgs back there?” “We sell coffee dude, not hot dogs” the woman kindly explained. “You want some coffee? Looks like you need it.” “I wan a haw-dawg.” “Well, we don’t have hot dogs here man so its coffee or a muffin. We have good muffins.” “You gawd some good muffins all right” He said looking at her breasts. “ **** you buddy, there’s a hot dog stand on 3rd, why don’t you go swallow one whole.” Martin wanted to retaliate but he was so enthralled by the idea of a hot dog stand on 3rd that he forgot her completely and stupidly wobbled into the yellow night, tethered to the prospect of a shiny dog smothered in relish and yellow mustard.
His sweaty fist clenched Lincoln into a tight wad. His stomach churned and his mouth thought only of the hot dog. Grabbing hold of the street sign for 2nd and Hemingway Martin Dimwitski bent his entire body to look up and read it but his knees went all helter-skelter and before he knew it he was lying on his back, looking up at the street sign. While he was down there he turned and threw up. His face, just inches from the pavement caught some of the back splash that he wiped away with his arm. Then he grabbed hold of the sign post again and tried to hoist himself up. Once vertical, and hugging the pole he tried again to see what street he was on but from that impossible angle he learned nothing. He felt the only thing to do was climb the pole and have a closer look. About that time a couple came walking by and giggled when they saw him trying to climb the pole. Martin heard them and asked the man “Hey yew dude, help me up this pole man would ja? I cand read it.” The man told him what the sign said and then the couple quickly fled for their car. Martin cursed and let go of the pole. He looked like he was going to go down again but with amazing skill righted himself, balanced and then with one heavy foot over the other, he moved on toward his ultimate destination.
The hot dog stand was like the holy Jesus outpost of food carts in a land of starving men. It exploded in a rainbow of shimmering color that splashed off the wet pavement and twinkled like a magnificent Crayola galaxy. The promised land. It’s warm glow coaxed him and reeled him in. The smell of the rotating dogs erased all of the nights short-comings and absolved him of his sins. He had never in his life felt so alive as he did at that moment. There was a line of at least ten people and his craving burned a hole through his stomach and then his blue button up shirt. Damn he was hungry. Damn he wanted a hot dog. Damn all these people and- “What are you having sir?” A young man with kind eyes and long brown hair asked him from the cart. “I wan a ****** hawt dawg man” Martin slurred. “Will do. You want the works?” “I wan everyting you fuggin got man.” “Wonderful, that’s gunna be $3.25 even.” The young man selected a prime wiener from the carousel inside a glass sarcophagus of other slowly-roasting wieners and laid it gently into a bun like he was putting his sunglasses in their case. From the condiment bin he scooped up a heaping spoon of bright green relish and slopped it into the bun. Then came the onions and artfully designed zigzags of bright yellow and red. “Here ya are buddy” he said leaning out and placing the beautiful hot dog into Martin’s outstretched hands. Martin handed the balled-up Lincoln over the counter and the young man took it reluctantly, uncrumpled it enough to confirm it was real and then handed back one dollar and seventy five cents. He left the stand and immediately took a huge bite from the dog. It was one of those bites that is so big its nearly impossible to chew without loosing some of it. He was working on it though and kind of just trying to let it dissolve enough that he could start to chew it. All of his attention was on the dog, the light of his life.
The man came from the alleyway suddenly and grabbed Martin’s coat collar and pulled him into the darkness. Though he held onto the dog, he lost his footing and was drug on his heels several yards into the narrow alley. He would have screamed if his mouth wasn’t full and though he probably could have spit it out he tried to swallow but only made matters worse for himself as the wad became stuck in his throat. Another short man appeared beside him and said “I’ll take that” as he snatched the hot dog from his hand. Again Martin tried to scream and was kicking and thrashing around now and trying to get air. The man that was holding him from behind said “I think he’s choking, what do we do?” “Search him” the short man replied. They dug through his pockets and found the $1.75 which one of them pocketed, and then searched his wallet but found nothing but a Costco card, a social security card and his ID, which the little guy read aloud “Martin Dimwitski. What the hell Martin? You make us mug you and all you got is a dollar and seventy five god-damn cents?” “Martin tried to respond but was turning blue now and becoming even more frantic. One of the men hit him hard in the stomach. There was a pop and a huge wad of hot dog flew from his mouth like a softball at little leagues. He gasped heavy and coughed, almost sober now. “I don’t have anymore money, don’t hurt me” he pleaded. “God-damn this little punk” the short man said producing a wooden club. He swung and hit Martin in the head with a dull crack. He went limp and the other man let him fall to the filthy alley floor littered with garbage. “Hit him once more to make sure” the taller man said. The one with the club hit him again while the other took a bite from the hot dog. “Hey that’s pretty ******* good man, here try this.” The men traded club for dog and Martin Dimwitski found himself awash in warm healing light at the gates of the grandest hog dog stand of them all.
Copyright 2008 M Marquardt |
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| Last Updated ( Friday, 18 July 2008 ) |
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