In my dim and distant but mildy entertaining past, I once held the much cherished position of ‘hot dog vendor to the drunken masses’. This was in Sydney, and my shift would normally start at about 9pm. And I would stand vigilantly behind my mobile hot dog cart and watch the world stagger by until 4am. It was about this time in the morning that I would be rescued from the grim attrition of the streets by the hardnosed Chinese entrepreneur for whom I worked. At this point, the stream of rowdy lager-soaked clients had diminished, and the reheated offal tubes were past their best. There’s a theory that says that the fresher hotdog could be sold to the more discerning and sober punter, while the early morning burnt offerings were best delivered in disguise to the more inebriate customer. The disguise would not hold up in the cold light of day to close scrutiny no doubt, for it consisted solely of a thin veneer of unrealistic ketchup and ultrabright mustard, with whatever onions could be saved from the grabbing hands of the earlier hordes.
After a settling in period, I was given a cherished daytime shift – serving relatively sober fans on their ways to and from sporting events in Sydney’s stadia. The danger here came from rival hotdog cart operators. Everything was fine in the flurry of over demand, when each hot dogger could sell the gristle pockets as fast as he could wrap them in bread. But when the flow of eager sports and pork fans dried up, the competition would hot up. Oh yes, it was every man for himself. It was the sort of time when you suddenly realise that most of the competition were burly men, no stranger to threatening each other both physically and verbally. The only thing that stopped the cauldron of competition from boiling over was the threat of mutually assured destruction: we were each armed with bread knives to slice open the rolls. These were our trump card, our weapon of messy destruction. None of us would have got far, trying to carve up a bigger share of the prospective buyers by slicing our oponents. Not in broad daylight. I’m a very non-violent person, so I was pleased that I could retire at the end of the shift from the field of battle, outside the field of football, with no blood on my hands (save for all of the vermin slayed and ground up to provide the lumpy substance of the meaty sandwiches)
The day shift must have seen me rise in the estimation of my Chinese handler. I knew how to take care of myself. Or more usefully, I knew how to take care of the hot dog cart and its associated profits. I wasnow granted some of the more dangerous and demented streets each night. I was dropped off into the heart of Sydney’s red light district. The tenuous shield that kept the marauding hoardes from my hard won cash was my non-violent response to the threats I received. And the hand on the handle of the bread knife in case of extreme situations. People threatening to throw the hot dog cart across the street became mainstream, whether or not I was to be thrown across with it. As with animals, it was important to try to hide fear, and maintain a firm and calm manner in the face of groups of large slobbering youths. This was the last job where I was surrounded by violence and physical threats. Or so I thought until last week.
To see two grown men in office jobs square up to each other has to be seen to be believed. The small chubby authority raising his voice. The shaven-headed eastender stepping into the personal space of the chubby fellow, while pointing his finger at his chest. People in the open-plan office distracted momentarily from the hypnotising dance of text that jauntily adorns their email addictions. It was a relief not to be involved in this unfolding of office violence. And a relief that no ketchup was at stake, and no bread knives to hand.