"Merv, move yuh tail! It's getting into muh hot dawgs!" Merv's cold black nose twitched angrily as I shoved his ten-pound body away from my goods. He snarled and grumpily plodded back to his cardboard box for another nap. Merv was really testy in the morning, but then again his breed is a grumpy sort. New York sewer rats are a testy bunch. Merv was lucky that I found him though. He was only five pounds then, chewing on the head of some baby left unattended near the Empire State Building. I had hit him with a crowbar that was lying near the curb, meaning to kill him of course. But when those soulful black eyes looked up at me, I fell in love. I'm such a damn softy. He's now been something of a son to me these last four years. Sometimes I wonder if I should just get myself a cat, but then again, there is no love like that of a mutated rodent.
The sun had just begun to rise over the City that Never Sleeps. I gently began to fold up my simple yet elegant house (actually it was a cardboard box that once held a refrigerator). No one really understands how great a cardboard box can be. Sure it doesn't withstand great downpours, but it's light, airy, mobile, and best of all, it's cheap! Yeah�my nights are spent in a good cardboard box; just Merv and I in Central Park curled under an old New York Times.
"Come on, Merv, time for work!" Now people greatly under estimate my line of work. I am a vender. I am that man who stands in the rain next to his little cart determined to sell you one of my hot dogs. I am a New York Hot Dog Vender, a truly noble profession. New York hotdogs are said to be some of the best in the country. If it weren't for loyal New Yorker's like me, the pride of our state would fall into the hands of New Jersey, the bums.
I pushed my cart out of its hidden spot behind one of the many trees located in Central Park. I began to push it towards the Upper East Side until I hit Fifth Avenue. My corner was located on 42nd Street right off of Fifth Avenue. I had a while to go. I suddenly heard the sound of running sneakers behind me. I reached into the inside flap located in the right side of my army surplus jacket. I pulled out my 9 mm and whipped around; ready to blow the suckers head off. I had already been mugged four times this week. I wasn't about to lose anymore hot dogs. "Yo, Willy, put that thing away, man! I just wanted a dawg!" The frightened eyes of Joe the Nacho Vender reflected off the satiny steel of my gun. Merv wagged his tail. "Aww�man, I'm so sowrry! I thawght yuh were anuther bum or somethin'!" I slipped my gun back into my coat. I traded Joe three dogs for a big Styrofoam cup of coffee. I then continued my way down the crowded, trash littered sidewalk of Fifth. Yellow cabbies streaked up and down the streets, honking and yelling profanities out their windows. In New York, there is no such thing as a true red light. Green meant go, yellow meant go faster, and red meant get ready to dodge oncoming traffic. Being a cabby was a special job. Only New York's finest attempted such a task. I continued to push my heavy cart down the walk and gazed at the people who passed by. The New Yorkers in the morning were the same as every other day; hundreds of expensive suits on cell phones talking away about the Stock Exchange and whom they were going to sue. I sometimes wonder why people would want such a life. They always seemed to be in some sort of damned hurry and never fully appreciated the beauty that was New York. I guess it takes a simple hot dog vender to truly take in the greatness of the Big Apple.
Grand Central Station met my eyes. Merv and I pulled our cart up away from the curb and opened our cart for business. Most people enjoyed eating the uppity, expensive hot dogs and food found in the Station. Sure you could eat at Michael Jordan's Steakhouse, but then you'd be missing out on the ambrosia of the world, Willy's New York Hot Dogs. About 426,000 people pass by my cart daily. If I'm lucky, I'll sell at least 100 hot dogs. That's $2.00 a piece with the works, which comes out to be around $200 a day. Not too bad for a 7th grade drop out, huh?
The day went along as usual. People came and went, bought hot dogs or a drink, and ran away at the sight of Merv. The only trouble I had was when Tito, another Hot Dog Vender, tried to set up his cart right in my spot! 42nd near Grand Central was my territory, everyone new that. There was a flashing of guns, a loud yelling match, and my territory was saved. Tito set up his stand near Times Square, the bum. The rest of the day went pretty smoothly. If a mounted cop showed up, Merv would scramble under my cart and wait until the danger passed. The last thing I wanted was for the little guy to get taken away by animal control. People just can't get past the idea that rats are mean and unsanitary. Sure he tried to take out a baby, but he was hungry, and the kid's parents should have taught him to respect local wildlife.
Merv and I worked until the glow of the skyscrapers began to light up the night sky. It was time to close. I carefully wiped down my cart with an old New York Yankee's jersey that I had "borrowed" from Mary the Shopping Cart Lady who lived on Houston Street. "Merv, whair do yuh wanna eat?" Merv was too busy chewing on some sort of garbage. I decided on some Italian.
Little Italy is THE center of good Italian food. The narrow streets are just crammed with little Italian Caf�s. I decided on Sambuca's Caf� located at 105 Mulberry Street. The familiar red neon sign greeted me as I parked my cart. "Say here, Merv. I'll be back with food." I ordered some cannoli and brought it out to Merv. We ate silently, listening to the sounds of the night.
"We should get back to da Park." Merv wagged his tail in agreement. We headed back up Fifth Avenue. I suddenly felt something pressed to my back. A deep voice hissed into my ear. "Give me your money, hot dog vender!" Damn, mugged again. Moving towards my 9mm would not be a smart choice. I decided to give up and give the guy my wallet. I handed it behind my back. My mugger snatched it with his gloved hand and sprinted down the walkway. I turned to catch the fleeing form of a teenage boy�a boy with my wallet and $2. Luckily I strapped all my earnings to Merv. What a stupid bum. I guess that makes five muggings in the last week.
"Well, Merv, goodnight." Merv and I were settled in our cardboard box underneath an old maple tree. The night breeze softly brought the sounds of car horns and gun shots to our sleepy ears. Merv pulled his head underneath an old issue of the Wall Street Journal. I took one last glance around Central Park before closing my eyes. God I love Manhattan.