BIG BILL'S HOT DOG STAND
BY DELL FRANKLIN
Note to reader: "Big Bill's Hot Dog Stand" is best enjoyed by reading its prequel: "The Gout" first.
Happy Hour in Happy Jack’s…
I’m about 30 minutes into my shift when I realize Estelle and Eugene are missing from Happy Hour. Also, the local cops, from three squad cars, are congregating across the street in the parking lot of Big Bill’s Hotdog stand in SWAT mode. This is high drama in Morro Bay, like a bank robbery. But the hotdog stand? With Eugene and Estelle missing? And Estelle having worked today? It takes hospitalization to keep either of these two from Happy Jack’s Happy Hour. Estelle closes the stand at 5:15 and comes in here minutes later.
I stand outside the back door on the sidewalk with Dirk, Sally, Maggie, Sheila, Homer Carp, a few local deckhands from the pool room, a couple carpenters, and Sadie, a baggie-titted, stork-legged woman in crotch-tight cutoffs who’s divorced two fishermen and claims she’s been to the White House and met Bill Clinton because one of her exes is a Viet Nam war hero and guest of honor. Remaining inside on a barstool is Hubie, who has no interest in anything other than talking to himself in the back bar mirror.
One officer, rifle poised, tries to peek through a crack in the boarded up front of the hotdog stand, while another knocks on the door off to the side, shotgun held military style.
Dee, a waitress from Connie’s Country Kitchen, a diner abutting the hotdog stand and facing the main drag, hurries over, disengaging from a few patrons standing on the corner who are obviously in Connie’s for the early bird chicken-fried steak special. On the corner, across the main drag, a handful of regulars from Flanagan’s stand looking on, having a big time.
“We hadda call the cops,” Dee confesses guiltily. “We felt like there was a break-in with all the racket goin’ on in Bill’s. It sounded like somebody was ransackin’ the place.”
“Did you try calling Bill’s on the phone?” I ask.
She nods. “No answer.”
Dirk says gravely, “Eugene’s missing, Estelle’s missing, Ed Stone’s back up north, probly shackin’ up with that queer buried his queer piece, Snively…”
“Somethin’s fishy,” says his wife, Sally. “I wouldn’t put nothin’ past Eugene.” She rolls her eyes in a manner indicating evil intent.
The phone’s ringing in the bar. I hurry in, pick it up, and hear Estelle’s breathless, frantic voice. “Dell, honey, it’s Estelle!”
“Estelle, what the hell’s going on in that fucking hotdog stand, for crying out loud?”
“I’m in here with Eugene. We been smokin’ pot. Eugene, he’s got warrants, honey. He’s been in jail in Tex-uss. We’re scared, honey. Them cops got guns. You got to help us. We’re scared.”
“Calm down, dear.”
“Don’t tell nobody we’re in here, honey.”
”Everybody but the cops know you’re in there, Estelle, and tell me—what caused you two to make so much noise they had to call the cops next door? Dee from Connie’s says it sounded like you’re ransackin’ the place.”
“Well…like…well, one of the real estate guys who comes in here, Jason, he loves me, comes in here for the sauerkraut dog twice a week, well, he gimme come cocaine, and I just got some really strong pot, and Eugene and me started doin’ it, and we got…naked, honey, and we’re really, really stoned, and the little biddy place, it smells like pot honey, and there’s smoke everywhere, and poor Eugene, he’s been drinkin’ in Happy’s since it opened at nine, he’s so drunk and stoned he can’t get his pants on, he’s sittin’ against the wall, dear me, honey, I wish I had a beer, we’re soooo thirsty…”
“Estelle! Listen to me closely. Are YOU dressed?”
“I’m almost dressed, yes, honey.”
“Then you got to dress Eugene and get him up. I’ll go out and talk to that fucking goon squad, reason with ‘em, try and stall ‘em. In the mean time, try and swat away as much of that smoke as you can, and flush all your drugs down the toilet. Understand?”
“Oh yes, sweetie, I do. I’m so glad you’re helping me. I love you Dell. You know I do.”
“I know you do. I love you, too, Estelle, but do as I say. Get that dumb goddam galoot dressed and on his feet.”
“I will, honey. I promise. I love you.”
I go back outside. Everybody on the block lingers around, even Connie’s cook, with his toque and smock, and Al, bartender across the street. Drivers are pulling over to gawk. The cops have cordoned off the area. I know all these cops. They make rounds in Happy Jack’s every weekend night when we have bands and I’ve called them only when the bar was so out of control I couldn’t handle it.
I walk across the street to the parking lot. Big Bill, a police booster, half in the bag from ducking in and out of the bar all day boozing, is there, too, with his hard-bitten, pitiless wife in her National Guard fatigues and boots, looking peevish, hands on hips.
I approach the man in charge, sergeant Vann, who knows me and seems to respect me somewhat in that I’m seldom drunk behind the bar and take charge of the worst mayhem and don’t display a hateful attitude toward the police and am always direct and articulate when they approach me.
“Sergeant Vann,” I say. “May I have a word with you?”
“What’s on your mind, Dell?” He motions me a few yards over for privacy. We settle under a tree. A female cop accompanies us.
“Look, nobody’s holding up the hotdog stand. You know Estelle, who works there? Real sweet and friendly, waits on you guys.”
“Right. I’ve had Bill’s dogs. I know Estelle.”
“Well, her boy friend, Ed Stone, the mope you see scrounging around collecting bottles and cans, he’s turned gay, he’s shacking up in the Bay area with a gay lover who was the lover of another gay guy who died of AIDS. So poor Estelle, you can’t blame her for shacking up with Eugene, cuz he hasn’t been laid in years, believe me, I watch him in action.”
“Eugene…?”
“You know Eugene--the big oaf works the sport fishing boat out of Virgil’s Landing down on the embarcadero. I think the racket in the hotdog stand was them going at it. I don’t think you’re gonna need to shoot them.” Then I whisper. “They’re probably drunk and scared.”
To her credit, the lady cop, eschewing their image of robotic stoicism, starts laughing. Sergeant Vann, however, is all business. “Thank you, Dell. We’ll take it from here.”
He walks over to Big Bill and his wife. Big Bill takes a quick, nervous puff from his cigarette and nods while the sergeant explains the predicament occurring in his place of business. Surely this is not good for business, but then again, any kind of notoriety brings out the curious, especially if the event is reported in the county daily and Bay weekly police log, which it undoubtedly will be, along with all break-ins, domestic incidents, drunk driving, drunk in public (Happy Jack’s supplies 95% of these), and various malicious mischief.
Sergeant Vann has instructed his troops to put away their weapons. They stand around while the female cop goes to the door and begins talking to Estelle through a cracked door. After a minute or so, Estelle emerges, a little wobbly, and the police woman does not cuff her, just confers with her briefly, and then out comes Eugene, looking like he’s survived a day long range war, totally disheveled, his flattened, salt-and-sweat stained Virgil’s Landing cap on sideways, a wreck. By this time the cops are trying to restrain their laughter as those along the street do laugh at the sight of Estelle, head bowed, hands held meekly at her ample breasts, mincing along looking neither right nor left, in a beeline toward Happy Jack’s, while behind her is Eugene, weaving and lurching at the same time, his baggy pants threatening to droop down past his ass and trip him as his belt hangs down below his crotch.
Meanwhile, sergeant Vann discusses the situation with Big Bill and tries to avoid his breath as he nods and nods, the wife’s flinty eyes aiming a laser of ill will toward Estelle as she skulks across the street, Eugene clumping along behind her.
The troops scatter as Estelle and Eugene pass me and disappear into the dark caverns of Happy Jack’s, where the jukebox blasts out at deafening levels “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Big Bill’s wife is letting him have it good as he lowers his head and takes another quick drag of his cigarette. She will probably fail to get Estelle fired or Eugene banned from the hotdog stand, for she is his best, most popular employee while Eugene might be their best customer.
Back behind the bar, Hubie, who never left his stool, signals for another beer by holding up his empty mug, and points to the two miscreants as they settle on stools with great relief and begin the onerous task of explaining this exciting incident to all their associates.
“Dell,” Hubie says. “Give Estelle and the young Pitlock boy a drink, too, thank you very much.”
After I get everybody served and settled down, I walk out the back door and see Big Bill sitting in his monster Ford pickup in the parking lot while his wife continues to chew his ass out.
Note to reader: "Big Bill's Hot Dog Stand" is best enjoyed by reading its prequel: "The Gout" first.
Happy Hour in Happy Jack’s…
I’m about 30 minutes into my shift when I realize Estelle and Eugene are missing from Happy Hour. Also, the local cops, from three squad cars, are congregating across the street in the parking lot of Big Bill’s Hotdog stand in SWAT mode. This is high drama in Morro Bay, like a bank robbery. But the hotdog stand? With Eugene and Estelle missing? And Estelle having worked today? It takes hospitalization to keep either of these two from Happy Jack’s Happy Hour. Estelle closes the stand at 5:15 and comes in here minutes later.
I stand outside the back door on the sidewalk with Dirk, Sally, Maggie, Sheila, Homer Carp, a few local deckhands from the pool room, a couple carpenters, and Sadie, a baggie-titted, stork-legged woman in crotch-tight cutoffs who’s divorced two fishermen and claims she’s been to the White House and met Bill Clinton because one of her exes is a Viet Nam war hero and guest of honor. Remaining inside on a barstool is Hubie, who has no interest in anything other than talking to himself in the back bar mirror.
One officer, rifle poised, tries to peek through a crack in the boarded up front of the hotdog stand, while another knocks on the door off to the side, shotgun held military style.
Dee, a waitress from Connie’s Country Kitchen, a diner abutting the hotdog stand and facing the main drag, hurries over, disengaging from a few patrons standing on the corner who are obviously in Connie’s for the early bird chicken-fried steak special. On the corner, across the main drag, a handful of regulars from Flanagan’s stand looking on, having a big time.
“We hadda call the cops,” Dee confesses guiltily. “We felt like there was a break-in with all the racket goin’ on in Bill’s. It sounded like somebody was ransackin’ the place.”
“Did you try calling Bill’s on the phone?” I ask.
She nods. “No answer.”
Dirk says gravely, “Eugene’s missing, Estelle’s missing, Ed Stone’s back up north, probly shackin’ up with that queer buried his queer piece, Snively…”
“Somethin’s fishy,” says his wife, Sally. “I wouldn’t put nothin’ past Eugene.” She rolls her eyes in a manner indicating evil intent.
The phone’s ringing in the bar. I hurry in, pick it up, and hear Estelle’s breathless, frantic voice. “Dell, honey, it’s Estelle!”
“Estelle, what the hell’s going on in that fucking hotdog stand, for crying out loud?”
“I’m in here with Eugene. We been smokin’ pot. Eugene, he’s got warrants, honey. He’s been in jail in Tex-uss. We’re scared, honey. Them cops got guns. You got to help us. We’re scared.”
“Calm down, dear.”
“Don’t tell nobody we’re in here, honey.”
”Everybody but the cops know you’re in there, Estelle, and tell me—what caused you two to make so much noise they had to call the cops next door? Dee from Connie’s says it sounded like you’re ransackin’ the place.”
“Well…like…well, one of the real estate guys who comes in here, Jason, he loves me, comes in here for the sauerkraut dog twice a week, well, he gimme come cocaine, and I just got some really strong pot, and Eugene and me started doin’ it, and we got…naked, honey, and we’re really, really stoned, and the little biddy place, it smells like pot honey, and there’s smoke everywhere, and poor Eugene, he’s been drinkin’ in Happy’s since it opened at nine, he’s so drunk and stoned he can’t get his pants on, he’s sittin’ against the wall, dear me, honey, I wish I had a beer, we’re soooo thirsty…”
“Estelle! Listen to me closely. Are YOU dressed?”
“I’m almost dressed, yes, honey.”
“Then you got to dress Eugene and get him up. I’ll go out and talk to that fucking goon squad, reason with ‘em, try and stall ‘em. In the mean time, try and swat away as much of that smoke as you can, and flush all your drugs down the toilet. Understand?”
“Oh yes, sweetie, I do. I’m so glad you’re helping me. I love you Dell. You know I do.”
“I know you do. I love you, too, Estelle, but do as I say. Get that dumb goddam galoot dressed and on his feet.”
“I will, honey. I promise. I love you.”
I go back outside. Everybody on the block lingers around, even Connie’s cook, with his toque and smock, and Al, bartender across the street. Drivers are pulling over to gawk. The cops have cordoned off the area. I know all these cops. They make rounds in Happy Jack’s every weekend night when we have bands and I’ve called them only when the bar was so out of control I couldn’t handle it.
I walk across the street to the parking lot. Big Bill, a police booster, half in the bag from ducking in and out of the bar all day boozing, is there, too, with his hard-bitten, pitiless wife in her National Guard fatigues and boots, looking peevish, hands on hips.
I approach the man in charge, sergeant Vann, who knows me and seems to respect me somewhat in that I’m seldom drunk behind the bar and take charge of the worst mayhem and don’t display a hateful attitude toward the police and am always direct and articulate when they approach me.
“Sergeant Vann,” I say. “May I have a word with you?”
“What’s on your mind, Dell?” He motions me a few yards over for privacy. We settle under a tree. A female cop accompanies us.
“Look, nobody’s holding up the hotdog stand. You know Estelle, who works there? Real sweet and friendly, waits on you guys.”
“Right. I’ve had Bill’s dogs. I know Estelle.”
“Well, her boy friend, Ed Stone, the mope you see scrounging around collecting bottles and cans, he’s turned gay, he’s shacking up in the Bay area with a gay lover who was the lover of another gay guy who died of AIDS. So poor Estelle, you can’t blame her for shacking up with Eugene, cuz he hasn’t been laid in years, believe me, I watch him in action.”
“Eugene…?”
“You know Eugene--the big oaf works the sport fishing boat out of Virgil’s Landing down on the embarcadero. I think the racket in the hotdog stand was them going at it. I don’t think you’re gonna need to shoot them.” Then I whisper. “They’re probably drunk and scared.”
To her credit, the lady cop, eschewing their image of robotic stoicism, starts laughing. Sergeant Vann, however, is all business. “Thank you, Dell. We’ll take it from here.”
He walks over to Big Bill and his wife. Big Bill takes a quick, nervous puff from his cigarette and nods while the sergeant explains the predicament occurring in his place of business. Surely this is not good for business, but then again, any kind of notoriety brings out the curious, especially if the event is reported in the county daily and Bay weekly police log, which it undoubtedly will be, along with all break-ins, domestic incidents, drunk driving, drunk in public (Happy Jack’s supplies 95% of these), and various malicious mischief.
Sergeant Vann has instructed his troops to put away their weapons. They stand around while the female cop goes to the door and begins talking to Estelle through a cracked door. After a minute or so, Estelle emerges, a little wobbly, and the police woman does not cuff her, just confers with her briefly, and then out comes Eugene, looking like he’s survived a day long range war, totally disheveled, his flattened, salt-and-sweat stained Virgil’s Landing cap on sideways, a wreck. By this time the cops are trying to restrain their laughter as those along the street do laugh at the sight of Estelle, head bowed, hands held meekly at her ample breasts, mincing along looking neither right nor left, in a beeline toward Happy Jack’s, while behind her is Eugene, weaving and lurching at the same time, his baggy pants threatening to droop down past his ass and trip him as his belt hangs down below his crotch.
Meanwhile, sergeant Vann discusses the situation with Big Bill and tries to avoid his breath as he nods and nods, the wife’s flinty eyes aiming a laser of ill will toward Estelle as she skulks across the street, Eugene clumping along behind her.
The troops scatter as Estelle and Eugene pass me and disappear into the dark caverns of Happy Jack’s, where the jukebox blasts out at deafening levels “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. Big Bill’s wife is letting him have it good as he lowers his head and takes another quick drag of his cigarette. She will probably fail to get Estelle fired or Eugene banned from the hotdog stand, for she is his best, most popular employee while Eugene might be their best customer.
Back behind the bar, Hubie, who never left his stool, signals for another beer by holding up his empty mug, and points to the two miscreants as they settle on stools with great relief and begin the onerous task of explaining this exciting incident to all their associates.
“Dell,” Hubie says. “Give Estelle and the young Pitlock boy a drink, too, thank you very much.”
After I get everybody served and settled down, I walk out the back door and see Big Bill sitting in his monster Ford pickup in the parking lot while his wife continues to chew his ass out.
