I remember his hotdogs like it was yesterday. I was aimlessly walking around after class at around half past two when my stomach churned and grumbled for reasons unapparent to me. Usually, to ease such digestive uprisings I would simply eat a quick snack. However, on that cool-grey afternoon I saw him—I saw the man they call the “Hotdog Man.” If you believe in an all-loving God, then you might call this run-in providence. If you don’t, you call it a coincidence. If you’re me, you call this an opportunity. Thanks, God.
Unfortunately, one of God’s biggest detractors has always been that little problem of evil. Herein lies my first upset. To simply enjoy one of Hotdog Man’s commodities, the cost is… $6! (Plus tax!) What God would allow this? I hesitated at such a price, but nevertheless, I paid my dues—I’m a sucker for a story. Feeling cheated, I gluttonously slathered my dog in condiments: peppers, sauerkraut, ketchup, and mustard—dare I call this the works?
Before I go on to describe the dog, I really must emphasize that I am not over the cost. Think about it my dear reader. Consider the volume, the process, the schematics, and the system. $6 revenue from a regular, albeit Jumbo, hotdog is exorbitant. Over the course of a day: hundreds of students. Over a week? It doesn’t take a Desautels Degree in International Business Relations or Financial Analytics to guess he’s doing alright. “So, his revenue is high, sure” they say, “but what about the costs?” (“They” are the people who doubt my genius). To that measly question, I say we mustn’t take this too seriously. A pack of Schneider Jumbo Dogs (the cat’s meow) costs $9 at the nearest Walmart—and this is a cost offered to consumers like you and me, not wholesalers. I know damn well that if Hotdog Man is a businessman (and you bet your bottom dollar he is), he is not shopping at Walmart. The cart itself is only a one-time cost; he inherited a family business; and the expense of condiments is pennies on the dollar compared to what this guy’s making. Notice how I haven’t even mentioned the Polish dog (retailing for $9)? Yet for all these woes, of course I paid the man his price. For these are not the economics of Hotdog Man.
Another apparent consideration is that the man who I thought to be McGill’s own Martin Shkreli doesn’t have any competitors. It’s heartless to raise the price of life saving medication over 5,000%, but it’s downright villainous to gauge for a hotdog simply because no one else can stop you. It’s a ******** hotdog. Dear God, I yearn for the days that the “Hamburger Man” comes to town or when “Pizza Pal” will say his hellos. To be frank, I don’t know why our ‘anti-hero’ has no competition, but I suppose the answer is cryptic and diluted. (The Tribune does theorize this themselves, and gives a half-baked response; unlike me, I don’t belong to a cabal of know-it-alls). Occasionally, Aveeno will set up shop. But it’s not my skin that needs recourse. Sometimes, the Beavertail cart reaches town, and I for one think that’s beautiful, but a beavertail is no proper meal. For all my dreams and prayers, I am stuck with this nightmare—one lonely, monopolistic, wholesome, hotdog cart. Don’t be fooled, this is the greatest objection to God’s existence.
Yet never mind God and never mind all of this! Because I was there, and nowhere else. I wrapped up my portion of the preparation ($6 and it’s still self-serve, by the way) and I left to go find the place that I would indulge. I found a spot, I placed my bag to the side, I sat down, and finally, I was ready.
I took that first bite, and then a second. I had to confirm what I and so many others already knew. For all my attitudes and for all my antagonism, I finally conceded: the man knows his craft. It’s not even as if it’s a culinary masterpiece, or a wonder of modern cooking. No, it’s a processed meat slab (condemned by Satan and his disciples, and Martin Shkreli [probably]), on an industrious hotdog bun with so many ingredients it can never die. Hell! I’m the one who laid the peppers, and I’m the one who lathered the damn thing in ketchup!
But it’s not me, its him… Hotdog Man is the maestro. And his hotdog is the symphony.
The economics of Hotdog Man are not in the exchange of wieners and cash. It’s the value of your experience. Consider that Schneider Jumbo Wiener as a vessel for the potential of something beyond the physical. For the cost of $6 I wasn’t simply having a meal; I was having a moment. The best way to get your money’s worth isn’t in the excess of condiments, or the savouring of the sausage. No, it is in the potential for you to make it a mundane experience worth remembering. Twice I’ve had his meal, and twice I remember these moments that would’ve otherwise been forgotten. It reminds me that every moment of my life, no matter how small, is priceless. The economics of Hotdog Man could never be fiscal. No matter how you savour his smoky sabers, it’s a financial losing game. Think of it as a LeJames bookstore souvenir: profoundly silly and overpriced, but only a waste if you see it as such.
Now, as the snow falls, I miss him. I miss the Hotdog Man.
