Rollover and Die
A tasty solution to an unsavoury problem
There is little variety to the commotion that surrounds South Street. The screams are mostly piercing, the rants long and malicious and neither ever occur anytime before 3 a.m.
Hooligan jeers, and outcries about bad relationships are nothing new or exciting to this part of town. Only when the tasers come out to play will residents tilt the brow of their Sunday papers. South Street is the younger sibling to its more notorious brother up in St. Sidwell’s. It hasn’t grown through all same footsteps yet, but it’s on the right path.
And I blame it all on the Shop: A helpless convenience store stationed next to the central taxi rank, mere metres from the killing floor of a late night McDonald’s.
It’s banned from serving alcohol past 2 a.m. Though, for 24 hours, every day, the Shop is open. Even on New Years Eve.
You can walk into the Shop at 4 a.m. on New Years Day, as I did, and order a Rollover hotdog with crispy onions from the checkout clerk. You can ask why they’re open on an occasion like this and they’ll direct your attention to the luminous sign that beams how many hours a day they are open.
24.
There’s an even brighter one in the window. The glow isn’t a knightly comfort to the unease of night, but more a mosquito lamp whose prey have caught on to the fate of its temptation.
And so they lurk nearby. Around corners, stairs and in the alleyway connecting my road to the Shop’s, where I dodge flowing streams of piss — fresh off the squat — like Dora the Explorer at last faced with the grisly reality of the concrete jungle.
She followed me into the Shop one time and was told to leave immediately for stealing a Special Brew last week. She brushed past my shoulder as the clerk shovelled on my crispy onions that were as fit for a dog’s snout as the tub they were served from.
Make no mistake, these were good hotdogs.
Less than a couple quid for a snack not only tasty but available at any hour of the day? That’s smart business, whichever way you slice it. For that, I was a regular — until one night when things went too far.
A friend and I had a hotdog eating competition. By our fourth visit that night the clerk had become bitterly suspicious, eyeing us like maniacs when we loaded another five on top of the two we’d each put away already.
Some of the hotdogs were okay and some had grown white spots. So, we soaked the worst in a bath of mustard and left before making both an enemy and a mess. By the next morning, there were 13 cardboard trays on the coffee table.
Somehow, we both survived. Now, I hold my nose every time I walk by.
A few nights after our disgusting feat, there was a deranged lunatic barking at the shadows before sunrise. It marked a discernible end to the lull in disturbances. It seemed to me as if the more hotdogs I ate, the calmer things got.
It could have been the crippling stomach aches the hotdogs brought about that stole my attention. Or the pissed-up state I’m usually in when buying one, but you can’t deny supply and demand, and I have always liked to believe in the tale of Sweeney Todd.
Maybe I should buy more for, if nothing else, the sake of some quality peace and quiet. I’m sure every working resident of South Street would thank me.
