Hotdog
With the end of the day ahead of us, the city streets have finally burned off the stale urine smell from the night before. This time of a day is a good time of day for New Yorkers. They browse the parks and storefronts. Families share milkshakes, dogs strain at the end of their leashes to get to the dog run, and the denizens of Tompkins Square let their hair down. One of the more famous of them, a short, fat black gal everyone calls Hotdog, is running down the path in a lavender prom dress that is entirely unzipped. Her hair stands straight up on her head like Don King and she is double fisted with booze and cigarettes. Sometimes when you see her, she is laughing and friendly, other times she is like a fighting pit-bull. Today, she seems happy even though she is out of her mind. Hotdog plops down next to two drunk Indians who are fighting over a butt. One of them grabs the pack out of her hand and takes three cigarettes out of the rumpled pack. At first, Hotdog doesn't seem to care, but a slow reckoning comes over her and it rises in her like a rogue wave. Her dress falls away from her body. She bolts up, her saggy brown boobs hang in front of her like two baseball bats. She smashes the bottle down onto the side of the thieving drunk Indian's head and there is soon a bloody gash where before there had been a hat. "Hooooooooooooowl," the Indian cries out as he grabs his head. "Ah shit," says the other. "You know better than that man, that's fuckin' Hotdog man!" Hotdog stands over him, defiant as ever, waiting for the outcome I suppose. When nothing happens, she sits back down between them and hands the injured Indian a cigarette and says "Here ya go". And there they sit. They share the bottle, the lighter and are silent. Another man who often spends his time in the park and who looks like a pimp daddy Colonel Sanders, walks over to the three and snaps, "Pull that goddamn dress up Hotdog! I don't want to see yer mammies out like that!" Hotdog lets out a laugh that turns into a hacking cough. She does nothing to fix the dress and the Colonel walks away. I leave the area and head north side where the Barnyard Playboys are setting up to play at the Lakeside Lounge. I see the boys loading equipment into the bar and I tell them about Hotdog.
Everyone has a Hotdog story. One dude saw Hotdog beat the shit out of Lisa Brown on Ave. A all because L.B. said "Hi Hotdog". Another dude said he saw Hotdog when he was on acid and she followed him down the street saying "mmmmmmmmmm I wanna hold you baby mmmmmmmm.....I wanna do that with you honey." He said she morphed into a blob-like creature and he ran from her and got away somehow. It was about time to go on stage. The crowd had grown to be a packed house. Nicely drunk and on other things.....we played music and we danced. Funny songs like "My Blue Denim Diaper" and "Liquor Heaven". The music causes folks to laugh and throw empty beer cans at our heads. By 3am, I am ready to go. I want to escape the hot stinky room and make my way home through the cooling Tompkins Square air. I head back home the same way I came, I have an odd desire to see Hotdog again....or see if the Indian is dead from a serious head injury, or if the Colonel is getting a hand-job from one of the many runaways he seems to attract. I get to the benches of infamy, and the area is unusually empty. I see Hotdog though. Still in her prom dress, though it is pulled up now and somewhat zipped. She is sitting on a bench. On the ground, at her feet, is a wacked out crusty kid who is rocking back and forth. He has got Hotdog's filthy feet in his hands and he is giving her a rockin' foot rub. I don't quite believe what I am seeing. Her eyes are shut, he is humming some strange song, kinda sounds like "I Never Wanna Dance Again" by George Michael. He brushes her rotted feet across his cheek and I feel my beer coming back up into my mouth. I am surprised by the throw up in my mouth. I spit. And Hotdog's eyes dart open. We catch eyes for a second and then her eyes close again. I hurry on home.
- Amanda Pollock
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