Look. Before anyone emails me about the use of the word nazi, I’m going to claim Seinfeld influence on the whole thing. So, please, don’t even bother.
I’m writing this, you’ll see, to warn Toronto about a douchebag that you A) Don’t want near your kids; B) Don’t want to buy a hot dog from, ever, because he’s an asshole and C) Should make fun of, in general, because, see A and B.
Now, the reason I know A and B above are all because of last Saturday.
High Park was the best place to enjoy the good weather that finally (FINALLY) bestowed itself on Toronto. And because of the sun, perfect breeze and weekend, the park was packed: young families, couples, singles, runners, hobos, you name it – all enjoying the park as one.
So, my husband and I start to get hungry. We notice the only hot dog stand in the vicinity on our way into the park. Later, we make our way over to that same hot dog stand on our way out to buy a couple of dogs.
Now this is where it turns into a shitshow.
As I’m squirting yet another wad of ketchup on my food, husband says, “Here” and points a fork my way with a slice of pickle on the end – it came from the container of pickles on the nearby table for patrons of the hot dog stand – the condiments table. He knows I love pickles, so he handed me a slice. That’s it, just one slice. We both know better than to turn the condiments table into a buffet.
I notice right away the deathstare from the old lady – the hot dog nazi’s mom – sitting behind the stand, watching. Just watching. She’s a tiger mom about these fucking pickles. So I notice this and mumble something under my breath to my husband about the stare down action happening right under his nose. I file the thought away: these people aren’t very generous, possibly hate their customers.
Call it a gut feeling.
As I’m having the thoughts and the gut feelings, a yelling match hits my ears: one of the dad’s in the park – a hot dog customer – is holding his messy, ketchup’d kid. The kid who just ate a hot dog at the very stand, where her dad is now asking for a second napkin, please, from the Hot Dog Nazi.
Hot Dog Nazi flips out, yelling about “fucking napkins” and if he gives a second napkin (a fraction of fraction of a cent’s worth) to this guy, when does it end? Does he have to give a napkin to everyone?! And why does a lazy, bad, shitty dad who doesn’t bring wet wipes to the park deserve a napkin?! He says this all, in front of everyone.
I am fuming. I am stunned. I am suddenly very focused on this situation that is making my stomach turn.
It takes everything inside of me not to:
1. Throw my hot dog at the stand
2. Run off with the tub of pickles, just to make a point
3. Drop dead, right there, from the shock of this hot dog guy’s amazing rudeness
Mustard is now going on my hot dog, just as all this is going down. I’m amused by this sort of exchange – I always am fascinated with idiot human behavior – and so I stay out of it, against my better judgement for a minute, throwing my husband a look of “what the fuck is going on here”.
Then I hear the thing come out of Hot Dog Nazi’s mouth that sets me off for good, the trigger: he starts saying this dad is a bad parent, a shitty human being for not having wet wipes for his kid on hand; that we’re all “fucking hipsters” and should just get out of here, and fuck you for not bringing wet wipes. And YOU DON’T EVEN DESERVE CHILDREN, YOU SHITTY DAD.
The hot dog nazi has a thing for wet wipes. Noted.
I have the sensation in my bones I always get when I am compelled to get involved. In science it’s called adrenaline. In my world it’s called gut instinct.
“Woah, woah, woah”, I say to the Hot Dog Nazi, “You don’t even know what the fuck a wet wipe is, let’s be serious. And if it wasn’t for us fucking hipsters, you’d have no food to feed your own kids. LEAVE THAT DAD ALONE”.
I ask Hot Dog Nazi if he has kids. He yells back, YES. I cringe. Poor kids: a cheap, mean sonovabitch for a dad.
I have no idea what has set me off at this point, I am not a martyr, but I’m making total sense, I know it. So I keep going for a few more minutes, engaging this asshole – the hot dog nazi – before I decide to save my breath and walk away.
In the end, everyone around us watched him accost two customers, shame a parent for wanting a single napkin (after buying a hot dog from him), judge his customer’s life skills in front of his children and demean “the hipsters” who so loyally buy hot dogs from him every weekend.
In a word: thanks.
By letting him go on, he eventually just shot himself in the foot, as people of his nature often do. People like him probably fuck up a lot, I gather, so really, the revenge lies in just letting him be himself: an asshole hot dog nazi with a creepy mom who has a pickle fetish.
So the lesson here, I guess, is to keep your cool, even when the feelings rise up in you to act, and know when to walk away from a situation, because the pay-off is usually greater. But also, and more importantly, standing up for people is always okay, specifically when your guts tell you it’s time, and especially when there are huge assholes selling hot dogs to unsuspecting parents in the park.
-sandy.
update: according to some reader emails this morning, this is a hot topic. Two questions that came up: 1. “Where is his cart located in the park?” Answer: between the duck pond and the petting zoo; 2. How will we know it’s him? Answer: ask for a napkin..
She Works Alone. 