Well, this is one of those unsubbable, unpublishable type of things. I've been playing with this for a year or so. It's one of those stories without meaning, without purpose, without a universal truth. A simple "day in the life of" story, it's an exercise in characterization and contradiction. And since I'm sure no one will have it, I thought I'd post it here.

Inspired by "A Confederacy of Dunces" by John Kennedy Toole, and a hotdog vendor I met a few years back at a party. Enjoy!

Of Hotdogs and Strippers

Peleke “Frederick” Fenbrook trudged behind the silver hotdog cart, beefy arms having little trouble guiding it along the sidewalk. It was three o’clock and he had a few hours before he needed to set up at his regular spot, The Uptown Cabaret.

As he walked, he flashed his broad smile and nodded at fellow pedestrians. Atop the bald patch centered by long, curly black hair, sat his trademark beaver top-hat, a tribute to his white-bread father. To everyone else, he passed the hat off as his gimmick, downplaying the sentimental value.

“You never forget a six foot five, 300 pound Hawaiian dude wearing a bright flowered shirt and a top-hat. Man, that’s how customers find me.” He’d tell the others.

Turning off of Tryon, Peleke yearned for peace and serenity in the park a few blocks down. He passed few pedestrians this time of day while he strolled away from the heart of the city. As Spring air touched his face, he chose to ignore traffic zipping beside him and forming like a wall cloud to eventually become the rush-hour tornado.

When he arrived at the path marking the park’s entrance, he meandered a few hundred yards. Setting his cart next to a concrete footbridge that crossed over a fountain pool, he thought it the perfect spot.

He opened the umbrella of orange and yellow, far too short for his height. He set out his relishes and condiments, ducking under the umbrella, careful not to poke out his eye but occasionally knocking his tall hat to the ground. Since he had awhile, he unhooked the lawn chair strapped to the cart’s side. His Uncle Robert, who owned the fleet, disapproved of the chair, but he needed his rest; tonight was Friday, and the sexually frustrated men from the Cabaret were his best customers. After the horn-dogs spent several hours sucking down five-bucks-a-pop well drinks and shoving hundreds of dollars in GiGi’s g-string, they appreciated a cheap hotdog before heading home to their frigid Suzy Homemakers.

He pulled out his Scientific American, looking forward to the article on cold fusion and he read for almost an hour, enjoying the solitude. He liked this park in the shadow of towering skyscrapers and even though his uncle would be pissed, Peleke welcomed the break. Besides, he’d done a better than average lunch business over on the corner of Trade and Tryon. It would be at least an hour before the working stiffs were paroled for the evening from their dreary office cells.

His reasoning was interrupted when a little bald man pushing a cart came down the path, and set it down across the sidewalk from Peleke.

Peleke jumped to his feet, his magazine falling to the ground. “What’re you doing, man?”

“This is my spot for the evening crowd, buddy.” The small man pushed his glasses up his nose, and planted hands on hips, determined.

“But I was here first.”

“I come here everyday.” The little vendor began pulling out condiments, glancing sideways at Peleke. He stopped a moment and looked at him hard. “Say…aren’t you the Cabaret guy?”

Peleke smoothed his green apron over his round belly. “Yeah, that’s me. Listen, I’ll make you a deal. Whoever gets the next customer, gets to stay. Whadda ya say? Huh?”

Eyes to the sky for a moment, the man scratched his chin, then glared back at Peleke. “Why should I, when it’s my regular spot?”

Peleke adjusted his top-hat and smiled, both arms opening at his sides. “Cause I’m not leaving any other way.”

The vendor rolled his eyes. “Well, ok. Next customer. It’s a deal.”

Peleke retrieved his magazine and sat down, a sly smile crossing his face. Within ten minutes, an immaculate young mother, holding the hand of her tiny daughter, came over the bridge. Immediately, the little girl spied food.

“Mommy, mommy. I wanna hotdog,” she whined.

The woman stopped in between carts, stuck her nose in the air and sniffed first Peleke’s way and then the other. She jerked the little girl’s hand, her nose still in the air, and turned her head with a huff. She walked away dragging the girl behind her. “They’re filled with preservatives, honey. Hotdogs aren’t good for you. Come along, Hannah, mommy will buy you some yogurt.”

Peleke shook his head from side to side and tsked. “Damn Junior Leaguer.” The other vendor glared at him from behind wire rims.

“What, man? Wha’d I say?” Peleke hoisted his shoulders. “If you ask me, woman needs a good dog. Someone to pry those legs apart for purposes other than having two-point-five-kids.” He winked at the guy.

The man went about his business, fussing at meaningless tasks.

Peleke sat down in his chair. “People awful uptight. Sheesh.” He opened his magazine and flipped to the article on DNA.

Several quiet minutes later, with spandex shorts clinging to massive thighs, a helmeted man pedaled up between the two carts and stopped. Peleke jumped from his seat. “Why Officer Otto, how good to see you.”

The officer climbed off his bike, removing his sunglasses “Fenbrook.” He gave a quick nod. “What are you doing here? I thought your spot was by the Cabaret?”

Peleke could see the little vendor across from him wringing his hands in anticipation, so he opened one side of his cart, took a bun out of the warmer, then retrieved a wiener to plop inside. “Here you go, officer. I needed a change of scenery is all.” Peleke motioned for Otto to lean in. “I’ll be there shortly,” he whispered, giving a wink.

The officer munched his free dog, careful to wipe the mustard from the edges of his mouth. As he shoveled in the last bite, a call came over his radio. “Officers, be on the look out for a young white male, 16 to 20 years old, white t-shirt, blue jeans, carrying a Food Lion plastic bag full of cash. Last seen on Third and Brevard. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous. Proceed with caution.”

Officer Otto threw his trash into a nearby can. “Gotta run.” He mounted his bike and pedaled toward Third Street.

“Bye, officer.” Peleke waved and smiled a wide grin, his white teeth a contrast against dark skin. “There. I had a customer, so you can leave.”

The little man jumped up, his cheeks bright red. “That wasn’t a customer. You gave it away. That doesn’t count.” He stomped to the middle of the walkway. “He didn’t even ask for it,” he screeched, arms shooting straight up into the air.

Peleke considered this for a second as he adjusted his hat. Technically, the little guy was right. “Ok, next customer.” Peleke sat down and the little man went back to fussing.

It was nearly an hour before anyone else came their way and when they finally did, Peleke saw easy marks. Two large women, wearing loose dresses and sneakers, their chubby arms pumping at their sides, walked briskly over the bridge towards the men. When they reached the carts, the doughy red head stopped short in between the two.

“Mary, I’ve just gotta have a hotdog.”

The barely thinner blonde grabbed her friend by the arm. “No Denise. You don’t need one.”

Peleke swore drool spilled from Denise’s mouth like a wild dog. He stood beside his cart and gave Barker’s Beauties’ waves, shamelessly tempting her more. “juicy hotdog, steamed to perfection, nestled in a soft golden bun, your choice of onions, relish, mustard, katsup, why for a few cents more, I even have chili…mmmm..is so good”

Mary shot Peleke a death glare.

“I just gotta, Mary. I can’t help myself. I’m not as strong as you.” Denise looked at Peleke, then at the other vendor. Proximity the deciding factor, she walked Peleke’s direction.

“A dollar fifty.” The other vendor’s squeaky little voice rang out.

“What?” Denise turned her gaze his direction.

The little man pushed his glasses up his nose and stammered, “I’ll s-s-sell you a hotdog f-f-for a dollar f-fifty.”

Denise looked at the $2.00 sign on Peleke’s cart. She turned and began walking across the path towards the other man.

“Why that little prick,“ Peleke fumed. “A dollar,” he blurted. The woman turned toward him.

The little man narrowed his eyes and grimaced. “Fifty cents,” he shouted. Denise turned back like a shooting gallery duck.

“A quarter!”

“Ten cents!”

Peleke couldn’t believe this guy’s balls. He clinched his fists at his sides, knowing his uncle would kill him. “Two dogs for ten cents.”

Two hotdogs must have been more than poor Denise could bear; she chugged to Peleke’s cart. She dug a change purse from her pocket, plopped a dime in Fenbrook’s calloused palm then grabbed her two hotdogs. Shoving one into her large mouth and clinching the other in her left hand, the women power-walked away.

The little man glared at Peleke. Without a word, he put away his supplies, picked up his cart and walked off with head hung low.

Peleke chuckled, and sat down in his chair, hands behind his head. Sucker. Alone once again, he reached for his magazine. Let’s see, wasn’t there an article on the real life Eve? They’ve traced her back to Africa…ah here it is.

He read for several minutes but as he turned the page, his watch caught his attention “Shit! It’s time to go.”

Moving as fast as the 300 lb man he was, Peleke put away his supplies, strapped his chair to the side, and folded down the umbrella. He picked up the cart and he began humming “Dream Weaver,” pushing the silver beast along the sidewalk and out of the park.

He strolled two blocks, continuing his song and thinking about those leggy strippers. That Monica sure looks good enough to eat. But thoughts of Monica were shattered when out of the alley emerged a skinny white guy. Carrying a Food Lion bag, the boy streaked by, nearly knocking over Peleke’s cart.

“Sorry, man,” he mumbled, eyes darting around like a retro cat clock.

As the kid sped away, a hundred dollar bill floated to Peleke’s feet. He looked around then leaned down, snatched it up, and shoved it into his shirt pocket. He smiled and shook his head from side to side. Picking up his cart, Peleke resumed humming.

When he’d walked another block, Officer Otto slid to a stop beside him.

“Did you see anyone, Fenbrook? A kid carrying a grocery bag?”

Peleke crossed his heart, “No, Officer, no one came by here.”

“Dammit!” Otto spat before pedaling away.

Peleke resumed strolling, switching his hum to “Welcome to the Jungle.” As he dodged traffic along city streets on his way to the Uptown Cabaret, one persistent question kept running through his head.

“Hmmmm…I wonder if that fine-ass Monica will give me a free lap dance?”