SS-TheHotDogMan

November 4, 1996

As boys, my brother and I often accompanied my father on his Saturday half-days at work. While he caught up on
paperwork and attended meetings, we performed odd jobs and looked forward to getting a special snack when we
left.

The way home took us past St. Michael’s cemetery, an endless field of gravestones and mausoleums, surrounded
by a spiked iron fence. At the corner, just approaching the on-ramp, was the Hot Dog Man. Even on the coldest
days, the burly old proprietor stood behind his stainless steel pushcart, stationed just to the side of the tall iron
gates that marked the entrance to St. Michael’s Cemetery in Queens. His standard winter uniform was a Navy pea
jacket and a white apron.

We could hardly wait to stop for lunch at the yellow and blue Sabrette umbrella. We would see our friend (who
really didn’t talk much) and order a couple of steamed hot dogs, the kind you can only get in the city and can’t
duplicate at home.

My father would park the car curbside and, being careful to avoid oncoming traffic, we would approach the stand
as a threesome. On cold days, steam poured out of the boxes where the long, skinny Sabrettes stewed in boiling
water.

There were limited choices. One could get a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut, a hot dog with cooked onions
and with or without sauerkraut, or a hot dog with mustard only. The Hot Dog Man didn’t ask what you wanted on your
hot dog; in a heavy Italian accent, he would ask only how many you wanted. We always told him how to prepare our
sandwiches, but I imagine that if you just said “two,” they would be served with mustard only.

The old man’s hands fascinated me. They were huge and strong, as if he’d been a bricklayer for fifty years. I
thought that he was probably one of the guys who worked on the Empire State Building or the Brooklyn Bridge.

The cooking steam from the boxes would blast us in the face as the old man opened the small, stainless steel door
of the container. He used the same, long-pronged fork for stabbing the hot dog, nudging open the fresh bun, and
lathering on the mustard, messy onions, and stringy sauerkraut. The hot dogs were wrapped in a plain white napkin,
since plates would only blow away, particularly in the winter winds.

If it wasn’t too cold, we’d use the hood of the car as a picnic table, wolfing down the delicious hotdogs - which
snapped when you bit into them - and slugging down our sodas.

St. Michael’s Cemetery made a strange backdrop for lunch. It wasn’t well kept. The grassy apron between the
curbside and the cemetery fence was lined with trash. I could tell that the grass beyond the fence, even though it
was dormant and dry, was not tended in the warmer weather. St. Michael’s was obviously unmanicured and
untended, unlike most cemeteries.

Knowing that my grandparents were buried somewhere in Queens, I always imagined that they were interred in St.
Michael’s. I hoped they were somewhere in the middle of the cemetery, far from the street, away from where people
threw trash, the bushes were uncut, and big trucks roared by day and night. I felt bad for those who happened to
end up in plots on the outskirts of the place: there was no privacy, yet it seemed a lonely place to spend eternity.

Whenever I pass a modern-day hot dog vendor, I remember the real Hot Dog Man, who claimed the spot in front of
St. Michael’s Cemetery to serve lunch, and I think about my father, my brother, my grandfather, and my
grandmother.

The Hot Dog Man of St. Michael

by Michael Domino

Short Stories Page 1