Diary of a Bad Boy(2)

“Oh, I can’t wait.” I chuckle.

Maddie elbows me in the side. “See, there you go, you’re getting into the spirit. Midnight hot dogs, what could go wrong?”

Famous last words.





Okay, this place is cute: white subway tile plastered on the walls, paper pineapples and bananas dangling from the ceiling, and mirrors hanging from the waist up so you can watch yourself enjoying your hot dogs at the tiny counters provided. It’s quaint and smells like heaven.

And if there was anything Maddie and I instantly bonded over, it was our love for hot dogs. We have no shame in buying one from a street vendor and eating it on our way to class. So even though I’m a little reserved, this is kind of fun.

“Look at all those wieners,” Maddie shouts as she steps up to the grill. “Thinner than I expected, but I’m not one to mock girth as long as they do the job. Am I right, Sutton?”

The guys behind the grill chuckle as my face heats up. I hold up my fingers and shyly say, “Two hot dogs, please. Mustard and onions.” I reach for my wallet when Maddie stops me.

“Two each please.” She turns to me and says, “It’s on me,” as if it’s no big deal, even though I’m the one who paid for her Broadway ticket.

I glance toward the dollar-fifty price tag and then back at her. “Are you sure you can handle that?”

“Hey now, don’t get sassy with me.” Muttering softly, she says, “I’m not the one with a father who plays professional football.”

True.

I put my wallet back in my purse and give her a side hug. “Thanks for the hot dogs.”

“Anything for my girl.”

Our hot dogs are delivered on rickety paper plates, which we take to the small counter in front of the mirror. Our drinks follow closely behind.

Inspecting the dog, I lift it up to my mouth right before Maddie stops me. “What are you doing? We need to document this. Hot dog selfie. Come on, Sutton.”

Maddie and her selfies . . .

Playing along, I hold up my dog with hers and smile into the mirror as she uses her phone to take a picture of our reflection.

The door blows open and in walk two guys: one wearing a suit and tie, the other in black jeans, white shirt, black jacket, and a beanie hanging loosely on his head. His green eyes connect with mine in the mirror as a small smirk pulls across his lips.

“What’s up, Miguel?” he says in an Irish lilt that quickly gains my attention. “Got some dogs for me, man?”

“No,” the guy behind the grill playfully says. “I don’t serve hot dogs to guys who put ketchup on them.”

The man in the tie eyes his friend. “You put ketchup on your hot dog?”

“It’s good.” The guy shrugs and pulls out a twenty. “Four hot dogs, two with ketchup, two with”—he gestures to his friend—“what do ya want?”

“Mustard and relish.”

From over her shoulder, Maddie scoffs. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to get mustard and onions on these beauties? Ketchup and relish are for heathens.”

Slowly, the Irishman turns toward us, a tilt to his head. “Who made you the hot dog police, lady?”

Proudly, Maddie says, “I did. If anything, I have experience. I know my wieners and how to make sure they taste good in my mouth.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. How can she come out with something so laced with sexual innuendo so easily? See? Yin to my yang. Although, I am mortified. I adjust my winter hat on my head and tug on Maddie’s arm just as more men filter into the small hot dog shop. Whispering, I say, “Don’t tell people how to eat their hot dogs.”

“I’m not telling them; I’m just letting them know they’re wrong.”

“Miguel, five dogs and coconut juice,” a man in a blue faux-fur jacket and droopy pants says, nodding at the grill master.

The space seems to be getting smaller and smaller, and for some reason the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise as Faux Fur—that’s what I’m calling him—eyes Irish up and down.

Miguel hands the ill-dressed hot dogs to Irish and the man in the tie, giving him a head nod before addressing Faux Fur and his friend.

Wanting to get out of this small space, I turn to take a bite of my hot dog when Maddie says, “I need to retake our picture. I look dead in the last one. This lighting is terrible. Maybe if I back up—”

“Maddie, watch out.”

But I’m too late. She bumps into the Irishman whose hot dog grazes the man in the faux-fur jacket. Jerking his arm to the side with disgust, Faux Fur glances in the mirror to check for stains. Out of sheer curiosity, I take a look as well only to find the tiniest fleck of ketchup on the jacket. A quick swipe of the finger would do the trick, but the guy in the jacket thinks otherwise. “You’re going to pay for this, you motherfucker,” he hisses. Frantically, the man searches his sleeve while Irish sits back and chews his hot dog, not a care in the world passing over his features.

“Are you fookin’ kiddin’ me?” he asks, his accent heavy. “It’s a fake, man. Here’s twenty bucks.” He reaches into his pocket. “Go buy another at the pagoda on the corner.”

Oh boy, that didn’t seem like the right move. I back up, a little nervous as Faux Fur spins—fire rolling from his eyes—and launches himself at the Irishman, who tosses his hot dogs in the air and powers forward as well. In a matter of seconds, all hell breaks loose and the two go at it, fists flying, shirts being torn, legs being kicked out from one another.