All the way in America, Biju had spent his early days standing at a counter along with a row of men.
"Would you like a big one?" asked Biju's fellow server, Romy, lifting a sausage with his tongs, waving it full and fleshy, boing-boinging it against the side of the metal pan, whacking it up and down, elastic, before a sweet-faced girl, brought up to treat dark people like anyone else.
Gray's Papaya. Hot dogs, hot dogs, two and a soda for $1.95.
The spirit of these men he worked with amazed Biju, terrified him, overjoyed him, then terrified him again.
"Onions, mustard, pickles, ketchup?"
Dull thump thump.
"Chili dog?"
Thump Thump Wiggle Waggle. Like a pervert jumping from behind a tree—waggling the appropriate area of his anatomy—
"Big one? Small one?"
"Big one," said the sweet-faced girl.
"Orange drink? Pineapple drink?"
The shop had a festive air with paper chains, plastic oranges and bananas, but it was well over one hundred degrees in there and sweat dripped off their noses and splashed on their toes.
"You like Indian hot dog? You like American hot dog? You like special one hot dog?"
"Sir," said a lady from Bangladesh visiting her son in a New York university, "you run a very fine establishment. It is the best frankfurter I have ever tasted, but you should change the name. It is very strange—makes no sense at all!"
Biju waved his hot dog with the others, but he demurred when, after work, they visited the Dominican women in Washington Heights—only thirty-five dollars!
He covered his timidity with manufactured disgust: "How can you? Those, those women are dirty," he said primly. "Stinking bitches," sounding awkward. "Fucking bitches, fucking cheap women you'll get some disease … smell bad … hubshi … all black and ugly … they make me sick… ."
"By now," said Romy, "I could do it with a DOG!—Aaaargh!—" he howled, theatrically holding back his head. "ArrrrghaAAAA …"
The other men laughed.
They were men; he was a baby. He was nineteen, he looked and felt several years younger.
"Too hot," he said at the next occasion.
Then: "Too tired."
The season progressed: "Too cold."
Out of his depth, he was almost relieved when the manager of their branch received a memo instructing him to do a green card check on his employees.
"Nothing I can do," the manager said, pink from having to dole out humiliation to these men. A kind man. His name was Frank—funny for a man who managed frankfurters all day. "Just disappear quietly is my advice… ."
So they disappeared.
