Once Upon A Coney

“Five-fifty for a freakin’ hotdog? Why don’t you just reach in your pocket and stick a gun in my face… you’re robbin’ me either way!” The Gentlemen's Quarterly poster child reached into his pants pocket. A ten-spot emerged from a gold money-clip and disappeared just as quickly into the vendor’s meaty right hand.

Control came easy for Jamie these days, but it hadn’t always been so. It was an acquired skill, one honed over years of dealing with the denizens of New York. His cart, The Spirit of Pawtucket, rolled to its present position every Monday through Friday, come hell or high water.

“Yea? Well, give it back then, you cheapskate hump! Walk five blocks over and eat that garbage that Mohammed puts out. It'll give a whole new meaning to the word 'hotdog' when you bite down and it barks!” Jamie reached for the change in his pocket as he watched the impeccably dressed man slather mustard, onions, ketchup and relish onto the bun. A hint of a smile betrayed his mandatory New York toughness.

“Jesus God, take it easy on the condiments, fella’, or I’ll have to take it back and charge you by the pound! I sure as hell hope your secretary carries breath mints, or your afternoon will contain nothing more exotic than a three-hour nap.” A quick sleight-of-hand left four one-dollar bills tucked neatly under the napkin holder.

Christian Dior fastidiously bit into the huge sandwich, a bouquet of napkins secured in his hand. “You know, with your diplomatic skills, you should have become a lawyer instead of a hotdog vendor.”

Jamie continued to wipe down the small counter on his cart, never looking up. “Yea, I applied for law school, but they wouldn't accept me because I know who my father is. Besides, why would I want to take a cut in pay?”

Botany 500 shook his head and harrumphed. “Everyone’s a critic these days… next, you’ll be telling me you’re out of horseradish!” His right hand extended over the counter, reaching for the unmarked white plastic squeeze bottle. He began to apply a light-green paste onto his hot dog before stopping suddenly.

“Why is the horseradish green?” he said, biting into the concoction.

Arms folded over his apron, Jamie stared disdainfully at the man. “Well, if you’d had the common courtesy to ask for horseradish, perhaps you wouldn’t be asking stupid questions. It’s not horseradish, Einstein, it’s salsify.”

“It’s what?” He’d stopped chewing now, his face suddenly transformed into a grotesquely hideous mask. “It tastes like raw oysters, for Chris'sake!” Leaning forward fastidiously to avoid getting any on his suit, he spat small chunks of partially chewed sandwich into the gutter alongside the cart.

“Salsify. It ranks as one of the most salubrious of culinary vegetables; being antibilious, cooling, deobstruent and slightly aperient, should be used sparingly.” Jamie’s grin revealed his obvious satisfaction with his customer’s displeasure.

Wiping at his mouth, Bill Blass reached for Jamie’s lapel, snarling, “Gim’me my money back!”

“Ah-ah-ah! You wouldn’t want me to introduce you to Messieurs Smith & Wesson, now would you?”

Three-piece set the remainder of the hot dog on the counter and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, but put the horseradish back in the white bottle tomorrow, okay?”

Jamie held his hands up in front of him, mea culpa. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”

Oscar de la Renta started to walk away, but stopped when he heard Jamie’s voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He looked back and saw the vendor pointing at the counter where his change lay.

“Oh, yea…” he said, and reached for the bills. Jamie pushed the half-eaten hotdog in front of his hand and pointed at the trash container alongside the building.

Calvin Klein walked the four steps and tossed the refuse into the can. Once again, he glanced at the counter. The bills had mysteriously disappeared.

“I’d like my change, please.”

“Pardon me?”

There was little point in arguing. Pursing his lips, Giorgio Armani paused before pantomiming a pistol shot with his fingers. Whirling around, he started to walk away. “Don’t forget… horseradish tomorrow, Jamie.”

The hotdog vendor grinned yet again, “Say hi to Mom for me, little brother!” Kids, these days… you gotta love ‘em.