You're Getting A Hot Dog

My brother Pat doesn't know when to stop. He never did. The problem really is that he's funny as hell and you can be angry and annoyed with him, but laughing at the same time. This was the bane of my mothers existence for a few years back when my brother was between the ages of 8-14. He was the biggest goof and it's hard to discipline a kid when you're actively trying to suppress a chuckle. 

My dad is one of those "Everyone is going to bed now" types. I don't know why, but sometimes on weeknights, around 8:30 or so , he would stand up from the couch and announce that everyone in the house was going to bed as if it was some sort of God-mandated proclamation to be obeyed by all. I don't know why it mattered that everyone went to bed, or why it pestered him knowing that other people were awake while he was asleep, but nonetheless it happened semi-regularly. 

On one such night Pat really didn't feel like going to bed. On the way up the stairs he told me to come into his room after my Dad had gone to sleep. He told me that we would stay up late, and at 1 AM we would march up and down the stairs, with my other brother Ian, chanting "Hakuna Matata" in military cadence until my Dad and Mom woke up.

Well, we did it and my Dad was pissed. 

Hopefully that paints the picture of the sort of nonsense Pat got himself into. He also got staples in his head while pretending a chunk of concrete was a Pokeball and he was a Pokemon. He was 16. 

Another one of my Dad's favorite activities was yard work. He also enjoyed using the free labor provided to him by the fact that we were his offspring. I've grown to like and appreciate yard work as the Dad-Zen and a form of middle class meditation but as a kid it sucked. Pat was literally the worst employee. My youngest brother, Ian and I would work hard. Pat would do something else. 

In the fall we would rake leaves onto a tarp and then either pull them into the woods or shove them in the street so they got pushed into the Marriot property and we were no longer our responsibility. Pat was no where to be found, he would instead steal the tarp, wrap it around his shoulders as some sort of cape and declare himself "a scary dragon". He would then push Ian on the ground and not let him up for a good 20 minutes. I would usually rat him out, at which point, my Dad would come outside, chuckle a little bit and tell Pat to get back to work. 

As soon as my Dad left Pat would continue with his nonsense. I again would snitch because I wanted to go home and my Dad would be a little more stern. Eventually the work would get done, but only after the threat of physical violence from Ian and myself towards Pat. 

After all the edging, mowing, mulch laying, hedge trimming and weed-whacking was done it was lunch time. Although I didn't like the yard work, my Dad was a fair employer and usually took us to lunch afterwards. Normally we went to a local tavern where I would get a burger or Philly cheese steak. 

Patrick almost invariably had no choice but to get hot dog every time. 

I can still remember sitting down in the high top chairs of the Oakhill Tavern and the waitress coming up to take our orders. 

"Scott and Ian, you guys can get whatever you want. Pat you're getting a hot dog". 

Pat would groan and stomp his feet while we would all laugh ear to ear. My dad was not being cruel. Pat had done no work all day. He had played "scary dragon" instead of raking. 

"How's your hot dog pat?" I would always ask. He would kick me under the table. 

Every now and then when the waitress would arrive, Pat would try to be sneaky and order something different upon which he would be immediately corrected by all of us with raucous laughter. The waitress would usually laugh too. 

It got to the point where the hot dog represented justice. A shaved steak sandwich dripping in grease and melted provolone was justice for the sweat of your brow. A hot dog with chips was your retribution for chasing Ian with a rake.  

There were times when we all got hot dogs. Although it was usually Pat, there were times where we were all guilty by association. Either that or money was tight and a hot dog with chips was $1.50 in 1999. 

I'm 25 and it's been a long time since I've had to do yard work for my Dad. However, every now and then if I've got a hefty day of chores around the house, after all the work is done, I'll get a real hankering for a cheap hot dog. I don't eat them frequently, but there is something to be said for scarfing down a mystery meat tube with dirt still on your hands and sweat still on your forehead. It's not even punishment anymore. In fact, it's really quite nice.