The Magic Hotdog Man

Many people have commented on my almost supernatural addiction to hotdogs. Superficially, my relationship with the hotdog may seem like any other simple characteristic of a person with an obsessive-compulsive personality, but I assure you, the story goes much deeper.
I'm sure the gentleman who served me this pivotal hotdog was an unwashed, middle-aged, career carny who simply asked me if I wanted an available condiment, but my memory of the moment is much different. It is mystical and elusive and goes something like this.
It was a balmy summer evening in August back in 1983 when I was enjoying an evening at the Super-Ex in Ottawa; an annual exhibition that comes to Lansdowne Park and includes the requisite cattle and livestock exhibits and such. I, of course, was there for the midway: a cacophony of rides and games and lights and foods and smells and colours to delight all the senses. Everything was ridiculously priced but the excitement of such a summer night was too much to resist. After an evening of racing to the next ride, waiting in queu after queu to be hurtled through the air by life-threatening machines built by the lowest bidder and with the least of care, and losing in a litany of over-priced games which all seemed like sure-wins by the demo, I was exhausted . . . and very hungry.
Now I enjoyed a simple hot dog as much as the next average teenage boy, but I was by no means exclusive to them in my junk-food loyalties. They had no particularly special appeal to me at all. But that all changed.
As I scanned about my surroundings in search of any convenient fast food vendor, a hotdog stand caught my eye. It was abandoned by customers with no line-up and I could smell the sizzling onions on the grill from thirty feet away. More interesting was the fact that the vendor was looking right at me. He summoned me with a smile and a hand gesture and in my hunger, I happily complied. He wasn't pushy or ignorant. He had a friendly smile, and a soft, confident voice.
"Are you hungry son?"
"Yeah, actually I am."
"Would you like a hotdog? They're foot-long, you know."
"Uh, I don't think so. I'm thinkin' about pizza."
"Ohhhh, but this is no ordinary hotdog. It'll change your life. Try it out - half-price."
"Sold, mister. Give me a foot-long."
I watched the lengthy sausage sizzle on the greasy grill, sided by a mound of cooking, diced onions and tomatoes. Then with his tongs he gently, . . . ever so gently, tucked the meat into the lightly toasted bun and with another gentle smile and a twinkle in his eye, he whispered, "Do you want some onions and tomatoes with that?"
"To be sure, mister," I said. "I'm starving."
Using his long, flat spatula, he scooped a generous portion of the fried condiments from the grill and into the awaiting bun. By this time my hunger had reached leviathan proportions and as I sunk my teeth into the juicy meat and the onion-filled bun, I reached a state of satisfaction unparalleled even by those addicted to chocolate. It was a turning point in my life from which there would be no return, . . . and the hotdog had established itself in my heart for the rest of my days.
I devoured the entire thing in only moments to my utter delight. As I reeled around to thank the man for his generous offering, I was taken aback in fear and mystical amazement. The booth was gone, with the man and all his accoutrements having simply vanished into a whisp of mist. I asked my friends, "Did you see that?" Of course, they hadn't and I was left alone in my bewilderment and revelry. My life was changed forever.
I wonder who invented the hotdog. There's one for the internet.
See you in hell,
Shakes.