The man enters the Wiener’s Circle, the hot-dog stand at Clark and Wrightwood, with more than just a hint of bravado. He opens both of the double doors in a wide, sweeping motion and plants himself firmly in the center of the doorway. After looking at the upper and lower perimeters of the doorway twice, he looks over either shoulder, as if to see if he was being followed. Finally, surveying the menu over the counter, he stands on his toes and squints several times, all the while holding one of the doors open with an elbow.
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The man is wearing a battered pair of brown Gucci loafers and no socks. His jeans, splattered with small clumps of dirt and spots of red ink, are too small, stopping three or four inches above the ankle. An oversized, white button-down shirt (with the monogram RJR on the breast pocket)–frayed around the collar but freshly laundered–is covered by a blue-and-white letterman’s jacket. That, too, is ill fitting and tearing in places. But what stands out more than anything is his hair: a full-grown Angela Davis Afro. Actually, it’s more like an unruly bush–uncombed and badly in need of a trim.
“Cold?” he repeats, in a singsong Caribbean accent. He scratches an ear and shakes his head in confusion. He slips his right foot out of his loafer to scratch his ankle, then replaces it in the shoe.
“Jesus,” she whispers, stepping back a foot or two. She clutches the arm of her companion. He clears his throat, pushes his girlfriend a foot or two back, and stands up next to the man. “Look here, buddy,” he says.
The man squints, pivots, and exhales deeply. “This, man, this is America. It’s a free country. I can smell what I want, when I want. You hear of a anti-sniffing or -smelling law? Huh?”
“Yeah, the Original Recipe,” he says, nodding, “not that other stuff.”
She reaches over the counter and points to his money. “You’ve got plenty,” she insists in a serious tone. “Now give me two dollars and you’ll get change back.”
