I am a word wizard.

I mount the stump of justice and spew forth mighty isms that profound the weak and uninitiated.

Come gasp at my sayings.

Become dumbfounded by my utterances.

You mule.

You lowbrow.

Do you not see the might of my brain pulsing behind my temples?

Only importance is drafted on my pages.

And if you do not find it thus, you are a simpleton.

I am the Prince of Phrases!

Read on in amazement and shudder in the cloud of my contempt.

For I am a topical genius.

South across 9th St, a four lane road cluttered in heavy California traffic, a family of seven Mexican immigrants are working a hot grill; catering to an insanely long line. Curious, and more than a little hungry, I position myself at the crosswalk and wait for my light to turn.

It’s hard for me to stand still without letting my knees bend a little. My feet beg me to sit down, worn out from roughly 5 miles of walking all around the show floor. I’m weary of the large crowds, the flashing lights and heavy techno music of the exposition. Beyond my hunger, I’m looking for rest. The heat of the afternoon intensifies my discomforts, causing beads of sweat to appear on my brow.

The cars stop, the light turns from STOP to WALK, and I cross the street to the adjacent sidewalk where I catch my first glimpse of what the Mexicans are cooking. Large hot dogs lay in rows along the griddle – meaty, horizontal cylinders wrapped in strips of fatty bacon. The street chef taps one on its side with his tongs, and it rolls over lazily, like a log floating down a river, exposing the crisper red bacon that had just a moment ago been pressed tightly to the heat.  Small beads of hot grease pop up like excited jumping beans, enjoying the bustling cocktail party of the grill, complete with its own sizzling orchestra. On the opposite end of the griddle, rows of onion slices and green bell papers enjoy the show of protein from their vantage point, caramelizing at their ends. The smell is intoxicating.

The food line moves quickly, and I as get closer to the grill I can hear the broken communication between the vendor and his customers. First the customer says, “One dog please.” The vendor then asks, “Water?” “Sure,” the customer responds. The street chef then turns to his daughter – at best guess 9 years old – who is guarding a large gray garbage can full of ice and bottled waters, and gestures for her to give one to the patron. The customer smiles, pays $2.50 for his food, and the transaction is over. Simple. Fast. No hassle. I smile to myself; it’s a brilliantly run operation.

Finally, it’s my turn. I follow the customs I have just witnessed, asking for one dog. I say yes to the water, and watch the vendor speak in Spanish to his daughter. He then takes one of the bacon-wrapped hot dogs with his tongs, lays it in a bun with hot onions and bell peppers, and squeezes from a plastic bottle a thick beige colored sauce, laying it in a perfect line straight down the center of the hot dog. I hand him my $2.50, take my hot dog and water, and head back across the street where I can enjoy my newfound delicacy.

I sit under the shade of a small, leafy tree, set my bottle of water down between my feet, and, grasping the bun with both hands, direct the hot dog towards my mouth, taking a generous bite. I don’t know for sure if it’s my fatigue, my hunger, or a combination of the two, but it tastes so good, and I don’t know how to say it better than that. The meat of the dog isn’t overpowering, the bacon adds subtle hints of flavor instead of that all-too-familiar gristle-like taste. The peppers and onions work to neutralize the heaviness of the meat, and the sauce adds a perfect touch of tangy sweetness.

As I turn to wave to the Hispanic family, thanking them for their wonderful product which is still making my cheeks bulge, my eyes catch the sad story of how L.A. works. A police car slows and stops at the curb next to the hot dog grill. I can see through the driver’s window the passenger window roll down. The driver’s partner sticks his head out. He doesn’t speak a word; he simply stares at the vendor and his family. The policemen have no intentions of arrest, they are simply looking to scare them away, and it works. The Mexican street chef shouts a few orders in Spanish to his family. They quickly throw a lid on the can of water, throw their supplies in a white plastic bag, and hurriedly scoot everything around the corner, down the street, and out of site. The police officer ducks his head back into his cruiser, rolls up the window, and they drive off in the opposite direction, content in their display of power.

I finish my food with a fresh sense of guilt, washing it down with the ice cold water. Finding a trash can among the maze of geeks, I throw my garbage away and head back into the Convention Center. My spirits had just been raised with the witness of close family and great food, and dashed only moments later by a badge and a gun. As I flash my ID to the security guard standing outside the show floor, I wonder how often the Mexican street chef and his family set up shop each day, on some empty street corner, only to be chased away by law enforcers with no intention of enforcing any laws at all.

That night, in the hotel room, my father and I discussed the events of the hot dog grill. It turned into a gripe session about power, government, and cocky police officers who loved throwing their weight around. With no appreciation for the heart in the struggle of life, and no intention of standing for any laws, these egotistical, lazy “jock-cops” simply throw their weight around, creating fear in innocent people trying to make an honest living, and not solving any problems at all.

The next day, as I stepped out of the Convention Center once more, looking south across 9th St I saw the Hispanic family selling their wonderful food. I smiled, gave them a big way-to-go cheer in my mind, looked both ways, and jay-walked towards my new favorite restaurant: the 9th St Grill, home of the world famous Mexican Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog.

This letter is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with Slav Putnik, our little shrimp of a broiler cook. I’ve spoken to him on several occasions about his behavior while on the clock, and he has failed to acquiesce to my requests. He is guilty of repeatedly making the following infractions:

• Smoking on the line.
• Scratching himself with his hand and/or keys.
• Spitting just about anywhere.
• Smelling like 2 week old chili mixed with old spice.
• Speaking in a language comprised entirely of cuss words from the English, German, and Spanish languages.
• Applying the 3-second rule to food items that have been on the floor for more than 3 seconds.

I have spoken to him on 3 separate occasions about his gross misconduct. His answer is always something like, “damn die flitzerkacke puta!” I’m not sure what any of that means, and I’m afraid to look it up, but it can’t be good.

I’m not sure we’ll be able to work things out. I gave him a great grammar and vocabulary book on the English language that I discovered the next day deep fried and plated in the hot food window with a side of sautéed toenails, skin flakes; tossed in what I can only hope to have been a white wine and cream sauce.

I’ve told him personally that he has 1 more chance to correct his behavior. Any more infractions will result in his termination.