Franks, Fists, and Felons
They say that when the food of a city dies, the heart of that city dies with it. As a boy, I could remember a hot dog vendor on virtually every corner, each with their own theme and shtick, their colorful umbrellas, and their lines of regulars at lunch time. From eleven o'clock to one, every weekday, the working men and women, pencil pushers and keyboard crunchers, secretaries and executives alike, would all pour out of their offices and high-rises like termites from a colony to feast upon pork or beef-based delicacies nestled between steamed, split buns.
Toppings defined cultures, and rival stands would compete, pitting flavor against flavor, method against method, as they pitched culinary gladiatorial combat with each other from opposite ends of crosswalks. Chopped white onion battled against sauerkraut, the pickle war raged between wedges or relish, while tomatoes, peppers, garlic and green onions fought to be heard. Even the simple face-off of ketchup versus mustard divided office pools to their unique vendors, while the lesser war of sausage versus frank played out, hidden beneath a camouflage of fixins, beguiling the tastebuds of connoisseurs regardless of their topping preference.
But then came the burger invasion. Middle America crept in, with their beef patties and their slices of cheese, their simple lettuce and the gall to apply mayonnaise to a meat-based lunch food. Burgers were simple, tasteless, mass-produced, and assembled by know-nothing teenagers with more pimples than brain cells. No craft, no art, but one by one, the hot dog vendors vanished, fading into the folds of time as Big Bellys and Lexburgers opened up in storefronts that used to house independent businesses. The chains moved in, using their meat-driven muscle to squeeze the life out of the honest frank man, until the simple cart with its signature umbrella became but a thing of the past. Those office drones who once dined upon artisan franks gave up their individuality to shovel fast food schlock down their gullets, only to then complain about getting fat and needing a gym membership. You don't need to hit the treadmill after a proper hot dog, folks; it's the lifeblood of nutrition, itself.
So I walk down the grimy streets, filthy with the discarded promise Gotham once held, and Big Belly wrappers. My brown Oxfords stick to the pavement momentarily, ripping away from it with each following step like the protest of velcro, a dark sheen of soot, chewed gum, sick, and God knows what else darkening the cracked sidewalk on Third Avenue. I can still see the footprint of Lawson's franks on the corner, that telltale scar etched forever into the city's history by the brake spike of his lopsided cart. A glance down the alley reveals nothing of interes; I'm still too far uptown for the petty thugs to have to cling to such footholds, though you'd never know it from all the closed and boarded shop windows. Across the street, the sickly neon glow of a Big Belly pours out onto the sidewalk like a cancer, sucking the life from those foolish enough to pass by its doors. I stick to the other side, valuing my soul. When you've been in the grave, once, you begin to value such things even more, for some odd reason.
These days, though, folks don't seem to value much of anything. The shining tower on a hill that Gotham had once been had fallen to crime and jealousy, to wickedness and hardened hearts, to scum and villainy. What good people were left knew to stay off the streets after dark, or to stay out of the Narrows in general, but I had my reasons for going there, even under the cloudy skies of night.
Bojack's Franks.
Nothing in the world could cap an evening like a hot, kosher Czech frank on a split toasted onion bun, loaded with a garlic dill pickle wedge, fresh-cut white onions, deli mustard and a dash of black sesame seeds, and in all of Gotham, there remained only one stand to get one: Bojack's Franks.
Old Bojack had held down the corner of Wesson and Third since the days of Moses, it was said, and from the lines in the old man's face, I believed it. His cart seemed something left over from the Industrial Revolution, his umbrella could have sheltered Cleopatra, but his food... oh his food was surely a gift worthy of the gods of Olympus, themselves. I could see Zeus pushing Hera and her ambrosia away for a single bite of a Bojack frank.
The trek from uptown to the Narrows didn't take long, as evil has a way of creeping up on you before you realize it, and I pulled my blue trenchcoat tigher, fighting the reeking wind that fled from an alley even the rats avoided. Rats. I remember when they were what you worried about most in the seediest parts of the Narrows, but these days it seemed to be Crows. Crows were plentiful, but not too smart, I'd found, and most were pathetic fighters. Too much Street Fighter and Grand Theft Auto, not enough discipline. Oh, but for the worthwhile brawlers and boxers of yesteryear; those could try my talents in the ring, where I fancied myself to possess a PHD in the sweet science. But they were all on films, these days, in black and white celluloid which seemed to age as badly as Gotham itself.
"The works," I say to old Bojack, and the ancient Czech jew's face lights up in a smile which shifted the craggy continents of his face.
"You got it, Spirit," he answers. His tip jar is looking light, this evening, so I push in a pair of twenties.
"Notice any bird migrations, today?" I ask. It's a clever way of masking what I really mean, implying the Crows, and their movements. Or at least I thought it was clever, but Bojack didn't as I had to explain it to him the first time that I'd asked that question, thus nullifying any effect of either subterfuge or jocularity I'd attempted. I only repeated it as sometimes dead things can come back to life.
Bojack's gnarled hands worked like the steely claws of a steam shovel, operating mechanically as he never broke eye contact. "A bit," he says. "Few vans down at the old paint warehouse. One or two holed up in the radio shop across the way, likely lookouts. Hungry boys, tonight, but lousy tippers."
"I saw. Hope I made up for it. They give you any trouble?"
At that, Bojack stopped, an avalanche of wrinkles falling down his face as his glared at me from under those wild, bushy eyebrows. "Son, no one gives old Bojack trouble. Some have tried, but I'm still here. This city will crumble before I give up my corner."
To this, I lay a gloved hand over my heart and bow in apology, "Bojack, I believe it. And as long as you're still here, there's hope for the stomachs of Gotham."
He hands me my frank, wrapped in that silvery paper, and I toss another twenty into his tip jar.
"I wouldn't go down there, tonight, Spirit," he warns. "Don't want to see you ruin another suit. You're not the Batman, you know."
I've already unwrapped my frank, shoving a mouthful of heaven into my face, and I speak around it. "Exshactly. Don't need no gimmicks, I got these fists."
"And they have guns, Denny."
I twitch as he uses my real name. For a moment it sounds strange upon my ears, as I haven't gone by that name since I woke up in my coffin five years ago. Since then I've been The Spirit; a crimefighter in suit, tie and a mask, working hand in hand with the GCPD. When you're living on borrowed time, you realize what's important, after all. Forcing down that mouthful sooner than I would have preferred, I clear my throat.
"In that case, I'll check them for permits. Thanks for the dinner, Bojack. See you 'round."
He doesn't bid me good night; Bojack never says goodbye to anyone, it makes them feel like they never left, and need more. At least that's what he told me. Sounded good, so I went with it.
A quarter pound of frank, with all the fixins, blessed my tastebuds for two blocks as I headed straight for the old paint warehouse. If the Crows were setting up shop, well, I wanted to see what they were selling.