HOT DOG, I’M RICH

HOT DOG, I’M RICH

© 2009 by David Wainland

One of the things you learn as a kid in the Bronx is where to look for lost things. Sewers for a Spaldeen, curbs for forgotten marbles, under the seats in movie theatres and beneath staircases were our prime sources for lost and forgotten fortunes. The stairwells were a particularly good source. Mothers parked their baby carriages there as well as their shopping wagons. Bikes and trikes often found their way to those dark corners along with the occasional coin dropped by a child, the item left behind in a cart and sometimes, purses or wallets forgotten in the huge baby coaches of the forties.

I was ten the day I found my biggest treasure.

“Hey Mike that looks like a wallet in the corner.”

 “Where?” He pressed forward and now there were three of us in the cramped stairwell.

“I can’t see anything.”

 “The red thing, way back there.” I pointed and Little Ira squeezed past, slithering into the dust that accumulated in dark and hidden corners. He managed to get one arm in the cramped area under the bottom step and flicked the mysterious item backwards. It slid across the yellowed tiles and I snagged it.

Sure enough, it was a wallet, red with a brass snap. I stepped into the light of the doorway and clicked the tab open. Michael and dirt covered Ira hung over my shoulder as I rummaged through the compartments.

I skipped the pictures, papers and receipts and went straight to the bill fold area, it was empty. So was the “Secret compartment.” Disappointed, I snapped open the little change compartment. “Hooray, we’re rich.” I wanted to yell but whispered instead. In the tight pouch was a neatly folded dollar bill and two quarters.  A dollar fifty, more money than I ever had at any one time. My daily allowance in 1950 was a nickel, just enough for a Hershey candy bar or fountain drink for lunch break at school.

“Fifty cents a piece, wow. I can get five comics.” Ira was our budding entrepreneur. And would probably read the books and then resell them for a nickel a piece. I sat on mine and never parted with them.

“Maybe we should go to the movies.” Michael chimed in, “It’s only twenty five cents each and we would still have seventy five cents left over for candy.”

“How about some toys, I need a new Duncan yoyo?” I greedily queried.

Returning the wallet never crossed our minds. We lived by the street code, “Finder’s keepers, loser’s weepers.”

I pulled out the identification cards, pictures and papers then tore them into shreds and jammed the bits in my pocket until I could get to a garbage can.

We drifted into the courtyard and sat on the steps debating what to do with the money.

Candy, movie, toys, and food it was and exercise in frustration. Each of us held tight to an idea of what to do with our new found riches, We all had our own concept of the perfect happy ending for a money strapped Bronx kid. 

“I’m hungry,” Michael broke in. “I think I’ll go home for lunch. We can do this later.”

“That’s it,” Ira exclaimed, “We can go over to Hyme’s deli and buy a sandwich or, or a knish. Maybe even some stuffed derma.”

“Yeah, or we can get hot dogs, they’re only fifteen cents and we can a whole bunch. How many is that Ira?’ Math was not my strong suit.

“Ten, yeah we can get ten hotdogs. That’s three for each of us and we can split the last one.

Michael’s eyes lit up as did mine. Three kosher hot dogs, I’d never before had more than one.

“I got an even better idea,” Ira was almost dancing, “We can go down to Claremont Park. There is a Sabrett umbrella wagon there. Their hotdogs are only a dime and we can get onions or sauerkraut plus at a nickel each we can get Cokes.”

I started counting on my fingers and finally arrived at the right number.

“Or even fifteen hotdogs, “That’s five each” My stomach began a slow rumble and my mouth started watering.

“Let’s go,” Michael tugged at my arm. He was hooked as was Ira.

We headed out onto Walton Avenue and the ten block walk to the park. I suppose we must have looked as guiltier than we felt because my mother suddenly appeared in front of us.

“Where are you boys headed?”

“To the park,” I said.

“Which park?”

“Claremont.”

“That’s a long walk. Why not hang around, it’s almost lunch time.”

“We’re going to the park for lunch,” blurted Michael.

“And what will you eat at the park?”

“Hotdogs, a bunch of them.”

I wanted to kick him in the shin. The next question was all too obvious.

“Oh, and where did you get the money for that?”

Michael realized he had made a big mistake. We hung our heads and tried to avoid her blazing blue eyes.

“David, I said where did the money come from?” It was over and I knew it, and I fesssed up.

“Found a wallet,” I mumbled sullenly.

“Where?”

“In the street,” I was not going to compound my problem by telling her the truth.

“Let me see it.’

I handed over our red prize and the money inside.

‘There’s no identification. Did you remove it?”

I felt the pieces burning a hole in my corduroy pants.

“No Ma, that’s the way we found it.”

She looked at me the way only mothers can and I knew she knew.

“Alright boys, here is what I will do. I will hold onto the wallet, ask around and if somebody does not claim it I will give you the money back”

I had a gut feeling I would never see the cash again and my dream of five hotdogs would die with that line. I was so right.

These days I cannot pass and orange and blue Sabrette umbrella without thinking of our almost, hotdog orgy.

The same feast would run almost thirty dollars today so I use this story as a yardstick. I call it the, ten times plus, hotdog rule, a way to measure inflation. My dad used to tell me how cheap things were during the Depression and I would always sneer.

Now it is my turn.

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