Yesterday was one of those really nice, warm February days that make you think “Spring is here!” until you realize there actually is no spring in the Bay Area. There are simply:
- Beach Days (about two a year)
- Fog Days (about 300 a year)
- Gay Pride (462 days a year)
Since it was neither a beach, nor fog day, I concluded it must be time to celebrate early gay pride by eating a hot dog in the park and ogling gym queens with well-sculpted buns. Fortunately my friend Hungrypants is always game for hotdogs and buns. I could tell it was going to be a special day because I saw ADULT BOY SCOUTS walking out of the subway, into the mission!!
When I met Hungrypants at Dolores park, I looked around with confusion, and asked where the hot dog carts are today.
“There aren’t any.”
“But…what happened? Are they on strike?”
“Mama. There never were any.”
“What?! Yes, there’s always a hotdog cart in the park.”
“When was the last time you saw one?”
“Wasn’t there one last time we were here? Yes! I remember it! that hot dog was really big and juicy-must have been super jumbo kosher. ”
“That was just a sunburned gym queen lying on a bread-colored beach towel and you were high on a weed truffle.”
“Oh. But what about the time….dang.”
……
Apparently I live in a magical world, where there’s a hot dog cart on every corner. Do you remember in the 90’s when all those people were having false satanic ritual memories? I think I might have false hot-dog cart memories. And this has happened to me mutliple times, in other locations, and it is my cross to bear.
I see hotdog carts.
Hungrypants said there’s a fancy artisan hotdog place nearby we could go to. What I really wanted was a plain old ground up lips and assholes hot-dog with radioactive green relish….But, I settled for the organic dog bcause it was the only option and I was getting very hungry.
Unfortunately, even with my big appetite, I couldn’t finish my dog and fries. Hungrypants couldn’t finish hers either. So, we decided the best thing to do was wrap everything up, and give our leftovers to a homeless person.
I grabbed some condiments, a few napkins, and some plastic forks and spoons, and carefully arranged my leftovers into a martha stewartesque display, sure to delight the homeless person of my choosing, and make his or her day special. I fanned the condiment packets. I even added some salt and pepper. I wrapped the plastic fork and knife in a napkin to make a little “cocoon.” I was ready.
We set out on a walk to Dolores Park, with our take-out boxes in hand. After a few blocks of walking, I spotted him! my homeless man! He was standing on the corner, selling street sheets (san franciscos homeless newspaper) . As I began to mentally rehearse what I was going to say to him, Hungrypants stepped forward and offered him her leftovers. What the!!!!
“What the hell was that?!! YOU STOLE MY HOMELESS!!” I yelled.
“He wasn’t YOUR homeless. Why didn’t you speak up?”
“Because I was rehearsing my approach–I wanted it to be direct, plainspoken, but not patronizing. But you…you stole him away.”
“Relax, there’s plenty of homeless people in this city to give your hotdog to.”
But I was not so sure. As I looked around, a darkness and confusion filled my mind. Everyone I saw looked to be of dubious planetary origin and economic status. There’s something strange that happens on warm san francisco days in the Mission. It’s as if every child whoever tried to build a time machine in their parents garage using macaroni and tinfoil, actually succeeded and unknowingly beamed an assortment of people from every planet, place, and time, to the outer fringes of Dolores park, all at once.
Incidentally, this is one of the reasons I love san francisco so much. But I didn’t have time for whimsical reflection on san francisco’s diversity….Remember! We were on a mission. A special homeless hotdog mission!
“How about give your hot dog to someone there?” suggested Hungrypants. “All those people look homeless. Just pick one.”
“No! Those people are Vegan Dumpster divers. They’d probably beat the shit out of me and throw my hotdog away. Or…worse…..”
“Okay Okay,” Said Hungrypants. “What about him? that guy is totally homeless.”
“You know, I don’t think you can afford to be picky,” Scolded hungry pants. Okay. What about him?”
“Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. ” That’s a trust fund hipster, and he’s eating food already!”
“He dug those olives ouf of the garbage, mama. Why are you being so picky?”
“ I wanna make sure it’s the RIGHT one,” I say.
“Oh Jesus. Whats the RIGHT one?”
“Welllllllllll……”
“Look I don’t know if we’re talking about homeless people or your love life now,” scolded Hungrypants. ….” but I’m giving you to the count of 10 to give that fucking hotdog to someone or I’m going home. Look at the top of that little hill. There he is. Go get ‘em.”
I looked into the horizon, and saw a ruddy-faced man in a beat-up trenchcoat, sitting with his knees pressed up against his face, with his eyes closed.
“Okay damnit.” I said to myself, advancing up the hill. “Here goes. Nothing ventured nothing gained.”
Suddenly the man snapped to life, bared his fangs, shot lasers from his eyes, sprouted a wolfman beard, and began to rock back and forth, groaning and clawing at the air as I got closer.
With one deft swipe of his talons, he took the box away from me and proceeded to consume the entire package,as I ran away in terror.
Stories are really no good unless there’s a lesson. What I learned is, even though sometimes friends will steal your homeless man, they will–after wetting themselves laughing at you—offer their support. Which is why they are the best friends ever.
Arlene Shirlee's Humorous Universe 