Hot Dogs and Kisses

Hot Dogs and Kisses By J.D. Walker “What’s another word for rancid—four letters, starts with an S?” I asked my best friend and sometime co-worker Ricky as we took a breather after the lunch hour rush had finally ended. It was the last word in a puzzle I’d been working on for five long, frustrating days. “Sour, maybe?” he replied after thinking about it for ten seconds. “Perfect, thank you!” I penciled in the word. “God, that was painful,” I complained as I crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash can next to my stool. “Why do these things when you hate them so much?” Ricky asked before finishing off a can of root beer while he leaned against the metal counter of our food truck. He stared at the passersby in the small park where I always set up shop. “Keeps my brain sharp. And every once in a while, it comes in handy in a verbal smackdown with some dumbass who thinks I’m stupid just because I work in a food truck. No one ever gives me credit for remembering their orders day in and day out, no matter how complicated. I never forget a face. And these morons stand next to my truck, eating their hot dog with everything on it, and discuss the stock market or whatever and act all superior like I don’t even know what they’re talking about. Hello? I run a successful, twenty-truck business all over the city. I have an MBA. I don’t get it.” I could feel my blood pressure rising. “Calm the f**k down, Dare. You take stuff like this way too seriously. It’s like college all over again. Who cares what they think anyway? What you need to do is get laid.” I scoffed. “That’s your answer for everything.” I looked at my watch to see it was almost two in the afternoon. “Time to start shutting things down. You’re meeting D’Andre later, right?” D’Andre Carver was Ricky’s longtime boyfriend. The man was a dark chocolate hot piece of ass I wouldn’t have minded tasting a time or two, but Ricky had gotten to him first. Still, it had been for the best. They suited each other, with their matching McMansions. Ricky gave me the sappy smile he always did when his lover was mentioned. “Yup. Anniversary dinner, then a f**k marathon. You should try it sometime. s*x, you know? Might get that stick out of your butt and plug it with something much more fun and interesting.” “Whatever.” I wiped down the already clean counter again. “Listen, thanks for coming to help me out at the last minute. I owe you one.” Ricky didn’t have to work to earn a living, but he always found time to help me out if I needed him. That was why we had friends, according to Dionne Warwick. “You always owe me one. Don’t worry about it.” Ricky removed his dirty apron and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Think about what I said. You’re in your late thirties, and you work nonstop, rarely taking any time off. It makes you cranky and gives you frown lines. Live a little, would you?” “We weren’t all born with a silver spoon, you know,” I said as he left the truck out the side door and walked around the front to the open window. Ricky rolled his eyes. “Please. You make enough money from your trucks that you live quite comfortably, if you ever stayed longer than ten minutes at your trendy, ultra-sterile loft. You’re just a stubborn workaholic.” “Meh. Later, dude.” I waved at him and watched as he sauntered away, cell phone already in hand and probably texting the love of his life. There were times that I envied Ricky his effortless happiness, but I didn’t see it happening for me anytime soon. We’d met as freshmen in college, he the rich kid, I the full scholarship upstart with a chip on his shoulder. It had been a match made in heaven, and we’d clicked from day one. Too bad he was more like a brother to me than anything else. Ricky was a beautiful man, but he wasn’t into me that way. I had high standards and wouldn’t settle for anything less than what I wanted. Perhaps I was just a fussy queen waiting for Prince Charming to give a damn.