Stacy Clark Fiction workshop It smelled like fucking hot dogs. Her hands stank like hot dogs, stank like a sweaty sock steaming in the sun. Her hair, soft and restrained in a low bun, brown waves coated with little beads of hot dog water. That hot diggity dog steam pushing into her face, nostrils filled with the stench, tasting it in the air, on her tongue. Goddamn eyeballs so sick of the sight they were kept half shut, reverse-blinks in the steamy kitchen that she had spent every day of the summer hating, the thought of work again the next morning nearly enough to make her vomit. But her throat was too full of that raw meaty air and malicious words unsaid, so she didn’t puke, and kept on working. Well now. You like hot dogs? You’re at the amusement park, just got off the loopy water slide, that swirly black one that scrapes your thighs and pinches your back fat but ya ride it anyway cause your five-year old son just can’t get enough. Or maybe you’re with some new broad at the wave pool, and you’re trying to impress by her riding those machine-generated waves. Whatever. The point is, you’re getting fucking hungry between carrying those foam rafts around and your angsty preteen brother ragging on your friends more than usual so you know he’s hungry too. Oh nice, is that a building shaped like a… hot dog? Ketchup and mustard on top even, the front window peeking out from below the seeded bun. Score. So you get in line behind that wide load mother with a screechy 8 year old daughter, after the man in too short green running shorts and grey leg hair, waiting, sweat seeping down your inner thighs and your man parts are itchy and you’re just getting plain impatient. Finally you’re at the window, underneath the breaded canopy, and this girl asks, “What can I get for you today?” Her nametag says Ellen or Erica; it’s hard to read against the bright red and yellow uniform. One flap of the collar is tucked in against her neck and her bright cheeks are forced into spheres, but her smile is shy and tired. She wipes her wrist against her temple, latex gloves sticking to her little pale hand. You can suddenly guess she probably spent ten minutes trying to tie her hair back neatly, and it’s endearing how it springs away, unruly in the hot air. “Uh, yeah. Three dogs please, sauerkraut on two.” “You can add all your toppings at the toppings station on the left side of the building.” Her tone is polite but you can tell she’s said that same line three hundred times. She tells some bro with bulgy show muscles your order, and he tips his hat down at her. They’re not friends, like they’re civil but you can tell he already tried to flirt and she didn’t even notice. It’s not that she’s oblivious, it’s just that she seems innocent, sheltered. The way she tucks her chin down after she speaks, how she works with the other kids, three beater wearing chumps and a skinny, snotty looking chick with straightened fake blonde hair and a hoarse screechy laugh. This girl behind the counter isn’t in their cool dog click, her thoughts are far from this cheesy building with paint peeling and that residual wet sock stench hanging over the place. From a distance, that smell was seductive and desirable but now it reminds you of dirty dishes forgotten in the drying rack, of hockey equipment in a college dorm. And you realize, when she hands you your change and tells you to pick up your order at the far window, when for that half a second her green gold eyes really look right into yours, that you’re in love. You’re in love with Ellen, that secret sweet girl, the cutest chick you’ve ever seen, Ellen at the hot dog stand. Your stomach grumbles as you stumble away, blushing and muttering “Thank you” and you look back for one more quick glance. Ellen’s helping the next customer, she’s grimacing as steam wafts into her face. Wouldn’t even remember what you looked like in five minutes. Such a goddamn waste, a pretty girl like that working such a crap job. I bet she smells like a damn hot dog.
Stacy Clark
ReplyDeleteFiction workshop
It smelled like fucking hot dogs. Her hands stank like hot dogs, stank like a sweaty sock steaming in the sun. Her hair, soft and restrained in a low bun, brown waves coated with little beads of hot dog water. That hot diggity dog steam pushing into her face, nostrils filled with the stench, tasting it in the air, on her tongue. Goddamn eyeballs so sick of the sight they were kept half shut, reverse-blinks in the steamy kitchen that she had spent every day of the summer hating, the thought of work again the next morning nearly enough to make her vomit. But her throat was too full of that raw meaty air and malicious words unsaid, so she didn’t puke, and kept on working.
Well now. You like hot dogs? You’re at the amusement park, just got off the loopy water slide, that swirly black one that scrapes your thighs and pinches your back fat but ya ride it anyway cause your five-year old son just can’t get enough. Or maybe you’re with some new broad at the wave pool, and you’re trying to impress by her riding those machine-generated waves. Whatever. The point is, you’re getting fucking hungry between carrying those foam rafts around and your angsty preteen brother ragging on your friends more than usual so you know he’s hungry too.
Oh nice, is that a building shaped like a… hot dog? Ketchup and mustard on top even, the front window peeking out from below the seeded bun. Score.
So you get in line behind that wide load mother with a screechy 8 year old daughter, after the man in too short green running shorts and grey leg hair, waiting, sweat seeping down your inner thighs and your man parts are itchy and you’re just getting plain impatient.
Finally you’re at the window, underneath the breaded canopy, and this girl asks, “What can I get for you today?” Her nametag says Ellen or Erica; it’s hard to read against the bright red and yellow uniform. One flap of the collar is tucked in against her neck and her bright cheeks are forced into spheres, but her smile is shy and tired. She wipes her wrist against her temple, latex gloves sticking to her little pale hand. You can suddenly guess she probably spent ten minutes trying to tie her hair back neatly, and it’s endearing how it springs away, unruly in the hot air.
“Uh, yeah. Three dogs please, sauerkraut on two.”
“You can add all your toppings at the toppings station on the left side of the building.” Her tone is polite but you can tell she’s said that same line three hundred times. She tells some bro with bulgy show muscles your order, and he tips his hat down at her. They’re not friends, like they’re civil but you can tell he already tried to flirt and she didn’t even notice.
It’s not that she’s oblivious, it’s just that she seems innocent, sheltered. The way she tucks her chin down after she speaks, how she works with the other kids, three beater wearing chumps and a skinny, snotty looking chick with straightened fake blonde hair and a hoarse screechy laugh. This girl behind the counter isn’t in their cool dog click, her thoughts are far from this cheesy building with paint peeling and that residual wet sock stench hanging over the place. From a distance, that smell was seductive and desirable but now it reminds you of dirty dishes forgotten in the drying rack, of hockey equipment in a college dorm.
And you realize, when she hands you your change and tells you to pick up your order at the far window, when for that half a second her green gold eyes really look right into yours, that you’re in love. You’re in love with Ellen, that secret sweet girl, the cutest chick you’ve ever seen, Ellen at the hot dog stand.
Your stomach grumbles as you stumble away, blushing and muttering “Thank you” and you look back for one more quick glance. Ellen’s helping the next customer, she’s grimacing as steam wafts into her face. Wouldn’t even remember what you looked like in five minutes. Such a goddamn waste, a pretty girl like that working such a crap job. I bet she smells like a damn hot dog.