He yelled at me in English, unlike the two Polish cashiers who pretended not to speak the language so I couldn’t understand their complaints about what a bad job I was doing. It was stiflingly hot all year round, and the owner yelled a lot, mostly to let me know what a terrible job I was doing: I didn’t put enough relish on the dogs, or hadn’t dipped the Italian beef in the vat of its own juice long enough, and so on. The soundtrack was mostly older electric blues stuff, and the city’s flag greeted you over the door upon entry. The place was cramped and decorated with autographed pictures of famous locals and lots of Cubs and Bears gear, and firefighters and cops always got discounts (cops also received free soda). When I was 19, I got a summer job working at a beloved little hot dog place about a mile from Wrigley Field on the North Side of Chicago, and either a 15-minute bike ride or two El trains, one bus, and a ten-minute walk from my apartment, thanks to the city’s wonderfully confusing public transportation.
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