I’m cranky. Cranky and hungry. When I arrive at the end of the line, my crankiness has been elevated beyond DEFCON levels. All I want are three tater-tots. Not the whole side order; that would be gluttonous. I want the three extra ones that come with the California dog, gratis.
My agita is not because the hot dog costs $12 (basil aioli is expensive for all I know, although the junky truck that it’s being served from can’t be that much). It’s because of number 72. Seventy-two is one man, but today he represents an entire fucking office. And I, unlucky number 73, hate him and his co-workers who, given their order, are fat persnickety little pigs that want three dogs apiece. Each with its own outrageous permutation of toppings. They must all be pregnant. He, however, is pencil thin. And tall. He tries very hard to be so, otherwise he wouldn’t fit into his ridiculously skinny jeans. And the absurd mustache. The giant handle-bar mustache. It grows out his stupid face and wouldn’t have the same impact if it were covered chubby cheeks.
He’s finally done ordering (so much that he’s creating a dangerous situation in which there might not be tater-tots left for me) and I step up to order my one lone weiner. Which is a very reasonable share of all the dogs available to everyone standing on this particular sidewalk.
I’ve been at this truck before and one needn’t specify, “with the three, free tater-tots.” It’s a given each hot dog comes with them. Assuming there are enough, and Zachariah (that’s probably his name, at 12 he was preppy and Zach, at 23 he’s a super-hipster Zachariah) hasn’t bogarted the entire truck full of my favorite childhood food, I will get them.
Now the interminable waiting begins and I pray my head doesn’t explode. It’s like being at some surreal bingo game where random numbers are called out, but the stakes are much higher. If your number isn’t called, you could starve to death.
I hear them call out “68 is up.” Getting closer.
Shit, the guy in the truck looks new, it’s possible he doesn’t know he’s required, by law, to give extra tots for every order. Sixty-seven is next, and I want to scream back, “How can you possibly not go in the proper order you {bleeping} idiots, and don’t forget my three tater-{bleeping}-tots.” Next is … 75? How the hell did he get in front of me? I shoot daggers at Zachariah. He looks nervous. He clearly realizes he ordered more food than they have and now we’re going to have to wait for the backup hot dog truck.
“Seventy-one … Seventy-one …” Silence.
What the hell is wrong with 71? Where on God’s green earth could 71 be? 71 is dead to me. Then I hear, unbelievably, “72 and 73 are ready, 72 and 73 are up.” All hell is about to break loose. There is a sea of hot dogs and tater-tots swimming on the horizon. I see a hairy handlebar in my peripheral vision, so I grab for the California dog. Zachariah goes for his mountain of food. As I liberate my California dog from the truck, I feel a bony arm jostle me and watch my precious three crispy golden brown tater tots float above me like space-tots. Gravity kicks in and they plummet to the ground. Homicidal, I turn to Zachariah to exact my revenge.
“Dude, sorry about that, want some of mine?”
I raise my hand to punch him in the face but, instead, grab three of his tater-tots and shove them in my mouth all at once.
“Fthan fu Zacharia.”
Then I turn around, victoriously chomping on my tots with such vigor that I almost choke to death.
An homage to the Dogtown Dogs Food Truck By Guest Writer Brad Suter from my Creative Non-Fiction Humor Writing Class. Thank you, Brad!!
