They say what's in a hot dog can kill you.
But down here in the Gutter, it ain't the ingredients we're worried about.
But down here in the Gutter, it ain't the ingredients we're worried about.
Fudge Factor by Bruce Harris
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Two
things: hot dogs and music. Loud music.
My
son Aaron’s twelve. Dealt a rough hand at birth, Down’s syndrome. Some pity
him. We’ll have nothing of it. Aaron’s a great kid with an enthusiasm for life
unequaled by any other twelve-year old. The kid can pack away hot dogs. I think
he ate his first the same week he cut teeth. Who knows, in a couple of years,
Aaron may earn his 15 minutes of fame winning Nathan’s July 4th
hot dog eating contest. He’s happiest, though with earphones affixed and heavy
metal music blaring so that the pounding bass sets off car alarms a block away.
Some
pity my wife and me. You play the cards you are dealt, though every now and
then I grab one from up my sleeve. I don’t have time for regrets. I make time
for life lessons. Aaron comes home from school, his smile nearly stretches to
his ears, tells me as only he could that he’s learning to add and subtract. His
homework assignment is to spend some money, get change, count it and record it.
The
hot dog vendor at the corner of Madison and Clark is Aaron’s favorite. The guy
blasts Metallica, Twisted Sister, and a myriad of heavy metal groups from a
decades-old looking boom box. Aaron and I watch (and listen) in awe as the man
pulls a bun from a clear bag, spears a hot dog with a long fork, and then squeezes
the bun around the dog. With the precision of the US Naval Observatory Master Clock, he yanks a 12-inch stainless
steel rod immersed in a tub of spicy mustard, swipes a perfectly straight brownish-yellow
line the exact length of the hot dog, wraps the dog in a napkin and presents it
with a flourish to an eager customer. The guy is an efficient one-man assembly
line that would have made Henry Ford proud.
“You
hungry?” I ask Aaron, as if I don’t know the answer. He nods excitedly. “Okay,
good. Let’s work on your homework assignment. Here’s a $10 bill. Go get
yourself a hot dog and bring back the change. A few minutes later, he came back
with a mouthful, a mustard mustache, and a grin larger than the national debt.
He hands me the change.
“I
did it,” he says proudly between chews.
He
sure did. Only problem, he received change for a $5 bill, not $10. I didn’t
have the heart to tell him. I chalk it up to experience. “You did it, buddy!
Nice going. We’ll do it again tomorrow, okay? And, we’ll make sure to keep
track of the change you receive each time you buy a hot dog. Then you’ll turn in
the report to Mrs. Sachs.”
“Yes!”
he shouts.
What
are the odds? Fifty-fifty, of course, that a vendor making change errs on the
side of giving too little versus too much. So, Aaron and I repeat the scenario.
Again I give Aaron a $10 bill for a hot dog, and again the hot dog man returns
change for an Abe Lincoln. Coincidence? Could be. We try it once more. Aaron
couldn’t be happier. He’s hearing his favorite music, eating hot dogs regularly,
and proud to be acting independently. Same result.
The
fourth and fifth times, I change it up a bit. I hand Aaron a $20 bill, but each
time, he is given change for a five-dollar bill. “Okay,” I think, “let’s give
the music man vendor the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he can’t add? Or subtract?
If he is short-changing Aaron unintentionally, the odds are 31 to 1 against it.
Still possible. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to make change?” To be certain, I
purchase a couple of hot dogs myself. Besides a splitting headache and
heartburn, he returns the correct change each and every time. One assignment
over, another begins.
At
closing time I follow the bastard. He drags his cart into a warehouse on
Harvard Avenue. Ironic. Here is a stupid scumbag on Harvard Avenue. I wait for
him one late morning when he pulls his hot dog cart out onto the street. I yank
a .38 from my waistband and aim it at him. I pull the 12-inch condiment rod
from its receptacle. My stance resembles that of a demented Zorro, 12-inch rod
serving as my sword and surgical instrument in one hand, gun in the other. I
hope you like mustard,” I say. Instant colonoscopy.
I
review the correct ways to receive and give change with Aaron. After some number
fudging, Aaron turns in his spreadsheet and earns an, “A.”
Lessons
learned.
