by Marc Alexander Valle
Some lady came from behind me when I was in line at Yacoo’s Hot Dogs, holding her tray in her hands, and I knew she was going to cause a problem. She told the cashier that she had an issue and proceeded to hold up a wet piece of paper that she said was attached to her food. She said it out loud for the entire restaurant to hear. She said that she’d been there all the time and that never happened, and then she said that her daughter, who was not present at all, could have choked on it. The cashier apologized and the lady said that it’s okay, and she walked out of the restaurant and into the crowd.
And once again I sat with Yvonne and the kids and thought about how there is no limit to what people will do in the pursuit of feeling power and control. We do it to each other everyday, king of the hill pushing and shoving like we did when we were little. Human pile up one on top of the other and the person on the bottom slips out from underneath only to climb on top again, all in the most infinitesimal micro-transactions. All under the guise of just doing and saying what’s right and rightful. I ask myself if this is the world or if this is just America, and the answer is that it’s a little bit of both.
But it’s almost Christmas and the hot dog with everything on it is good and Emile seems to like his grilled chicken and I see no wet paper in sight. I am a man in the middle of his life’s journey and although I haven’t seen it all, I have seen enough to know that I’ve seen enough. All that’s left is to find joy, to squeeze it out of the toothpaste tube of gratitude and try my damndest to not let my rage seduce me.
Some days I win that war, and I just might be getting good at it. Some days I just want a hot dog.
Until then I have America. American, America. Northeastern urban America. The only place I’ve known. Although I don’t sing to you. I scream into your abyss and hear no echo in return. Just the high-pitched whine of angry customers scraping a nice morsel off the hopes and dreams of working-class people. It ain’t pretty, but its home. And we all need a home.
Mavthewriter 