- Atlanta ------ 1
- Washington -- 5
Another night of vending hotdogs, just to keep warm. Not a bad call, since everyone's sales were at rock bottom and a couple of loads of dogs were enough to keep up.
"How much?" asked the girl in the outfield seats.
$6.25 per, I said.
She was apalled. "Are you kidding? That's expensive! How big are they?"
Big enough to satisfy, I told her. I held one up with tongs for inspection. This is a good icebreaker for slow times; there's something about a hotdog being held aloft -- nude without its bun -- that the audience finds amusing. Even a large hotdog proves a poor specimen of beef.
But the girl in the cheap seats was impressed enough to buy one. "That's long," she said. Her friends guffawed around her. "No, I mean it's a big hotdog!" Still more chuckling. Hotdogs inspire an adolescent sense of humor in adults, enough to possesses them to ask hey, how big is your weiner? when a guy selling franks comes around.
The girl let go and joined in: "All right, I'll take one of your big hotdogs." The guy next to her smirked through the whole thing, looking straight ahead at the outfield.
Hey, I told her. Don't say that to me right in front of this guy right here!
The guy continued to smile and say nothing. Does it bug you when she engages in such suggestive repartee with a vendor? I asked.
"Nope," he said.
I'm not even a threat?
"Nope," he said.
That's the problem! I called out. No one takes the hotdog guy seriously!
And it's true, the beerman is sort of your buddy the bartender. Food vendors are nothing of the sort. So I served up the dog -- with mustard and relish -- and kept going down the row with my bruised ego and a head full of dreams of it actually being warm enough to get back to vending beer.
"How much?" asked the girl in the outfield seats.
$6.25 per, I said.
She was apalled. "Are you kidding? That's expensive! How big are they?"
Big enough to satisfy, I told her. I held one up with tongs for inspection. This is a good icebreaker for slow times; there's something about a hotdog being held aloft -- nude without its bun -- that the audience finds amusing. Even a large hotdog proves a poor specimen of beef.
But the girl in the cheap seats was impressed enough to buy one. "That's long," she said. Her friends guffawed around her. "No, I mean it's a big hotdog!" Still more chuckling. Hotdogs inspire an adolescent sense of humor in adults, enough to possesses them to ask hey, how big is your weiner? when a guy selling franks comes around.
The girl let go and joined in: "All right, I'll take one of your big hotdogs." The guy next to her smirked through the whole thing, looking straight ahead at the outfield.
Hey, I told her. Don't say that to me right in front of this guy right here!
The guy continued to smile and say nothing. Does it bug you when she engages in such suggestive repartee with a vendor? I asked.
"Nope," he said.
I'm not even a threat?
"Nope," he said.
That's the problem! I called out. No one takes the hotdog guy seriously!
And it's true, the beerman is sort of your buddy the bartender. Food vendors are nothing of the sort. So I served up the dog -- with mustard and relish -- and kept going down the row with my bruised ego and a head full of dreams of it actually being warm enough to get back to vending beer.
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