Alfred and the Surplus Buns

            At 3200 12^th street, there is a small brick building. The windows have been replaced on the first, or office, level, but the ones along the side, above, and along the back have small panes in steel frames. These have panes up top that also open for ventilation. And, there was a sign was on the entrance door:

            ‘Hot Dog-Bun Complex Headquarters’ (Appointment Only).

            I entered through the steel-framed glass office door. After the mat there was low-nap carpet, and thin, finished plywood walls everywhere. In that hallway, I could see reception through a cloudy plate plastic window. A woman sat there at a desk, wearing a thick fuscia top and tan slacks, and listening to soft rock at a low volume playing on a clock radio on a Formica counter nearby.

            “I don’t have an appointment. I’d like to speak to the highest level,” I told her. She was calm. Now I could see generic framed photographs of the soccer team the place sponsored, along with a picture of a Cessna, and a certificate declaring their membership in The Better Business Bureau, which was ironic.

            “We have the highest level here, and Cedric has been waiting for you.” She pointed to swinging double doors in back of reception.

            I went through. The doors opened onto a steel landing over a factory floor. My eyes adjusted to the dimness, and I could then see that condiments were prepared and bottled there. The complex was becoming a conglomerate. There were stainless steel vats, and bottles in boxes, and some sort of narrow assembly line. But, there seemed to be no activity there. I stepped down a stairway onto the floor, then, on another walkway toward the back of the small factory, I saw a skinny figure. He shouted-

            “Welcome!” and began to negotiate his way down a long, steel staircase. Closer now, I could see that he wore a smoking jacket and dark-toned jammy bottoms. He carried a pipe. What I especially noticed, and what really pissed me off, is that, although the same age as I, he had a full head of hair, brushed to a half-pompadour, with thick strands of more pepper than salt.

            “Just what is your game, here,” I asked him when he got to the bottom of the stairs.

            Cedric jerked his head back a bit, seeming surprised at my question.

            “Why, to provide deserving consumers with infinite amounts of hot dogs and buns.” He paused, and pondered his empty pipe. “Sorry about the mix-up in the numbers.”

            “I bet you are…”

            But then we heard some slithering, and clanky footsteps on steel landings and stairs. I was startled. Even Cedric looked a bit disconcerted.

            “Yarrgh! Prepare to be thwarted!” I thought I recognized the voice from somewhere distant in the factory. I spun around, and recognized Fred’s friend Ken, who was dressed in black ninja garb, and Boomer, in mufti, who worked with Fred at the corrugated plant. Then a pirate emerged from the shadows beside us all. At that time, the top swinging window above sturdy panes of frosted glass opened with a thunk, up the other side of the factory above a management office landing. The pirate came over and stood beside me, facing Cedric. Boomer and Ken did, too. The pirate gave me a confiding ‘yarrrgh’ Then I recognized her. She was Peg, wielding a cheap sword toy. She had her bandanna, mariniere, high-water britches, and espadrilles. She had an incisor blacked out, which was actually quite fetching. Cedric turned to watch what was happening concerning the window, and we watched along with him. Boomer said something like: ‘The chickens have come home to roost’, but he had to. He wasn’t in costume. Fred’s face appeared at the top of that high window, and he leaned through it into the factory. Then he withdrew. Then a foot came, then a leg followed with the foot exploring. Fred began to squeeze himself through the window.

            Cedric cleared his throat politely.

            Fred got the other leg through, and worked his way into the factory down the dusty, grimy panes. He lowered himself to the carpeted landing, brushed himself off, and started down a wooden, carpeted stairway to join us in confronting Cedric.

            “Friends!” Cedric began his speech as Fred was now free and brushing himself off and sniffling and ‘fwwwing’ breath to clear cobwebs from his lips and nose as he tromped down the stairs.

            “The front door is open.” Cedric, now re-dignified, told him as he arrived, . “All are welcome.”

            “Your days of plenty are over, Mister Hot Dog-Bun Conspiracy President Man!” Fred growled loudly.

            Cedric spoke quietly but confidently.

            “The days of plenty have just begun, for everyone.”

            Fred, like us all, was thrown off. Did he mean to co-opt us?

            “You see, Alfred, we’re more alike than you think,” Cedric said. “We both like a good dog.”

            His gambit sounded a bit off, since he spoke in a contrived sophisticated drawl which came from below the belly. Fred’s answer was short.

            “I’m not alike to you! I don’t rip people off!”

            Cedric gave his head a shake, like he’d come across someone who thinks two plus two is twenty two.

            “We’re all involved in some way,” he answered, then turned to Peg, “Even your charming pirate partner.”

            Peg jutted her head toward him and hollered, “Yarrgh!”

            Cedric threw his head back and chuckled. Peg lifted and rattled her floppy plastic sword and grimaced. It was all getting out of hand.

            He spun a bit as he talked, including all five of us in his declaration.

            “Why all the tussle? All are welcome at my picnic.”

            On cue, more sunlight came through what few skylights there were in the factory, and the sound of bird calls was heard through the public address system. Buffet tables were revealed to us, and Fred stepped toward them. First, I saw the fixins. Ketchup, mustard, relish of many varieties, and other things in bottles. There was potato salad, mayo-based, and German, with the bacon bits. There were piles of ambrosia with its creamy, sweet fluff, raisins, and pineapple, and a small tub of Waldorf salad.

            “Why should the argument continue,” the man purred. “There is plenty for all. The packages and the amounts in each should be of no concern.”

            Alfred stared at the table. I sidled over to him.

            “Peg’s rockin’ that pirate costume,” I told him.

            “Be quiet! I’m thinkin’.”

            Peg herself came up beside me.

            “Thanks. Some people don’t notice. Hey, Fred. There’s kim-chee.”

            “I know,” he said, in a choked voice. Cedric heard that, and went for the jugular.

             “We both share an affinity for the finest the grill has to offer, Alfred. Why are we standing here arguing when we should be enjoying this great repast,” He reared back and announce-boomed-

            “Helpie Selfie!”

            I could hear another sound. That of the Cardinals Network, playing a game from the year before, along with the occasional bird calls. Mike Shannon announcing during a slow moment. The bases empty, and a full count with Yadier Molina at the plate.

            Pavlov couldn’t have set it up any better. Alfred approached the table. Molina continued to foul them off, one by one. Shannon talked about who was on the disabled list, and who had been brought up from farm teams. And, the birds went: ‘tweet, tweet, tweet’. The announcers plugged air conditioners and mowers. I swear the temperature in the factory had gone up to a comfortable level, along with a bit of humidity.

            Cedric had thought of everything. The paper plates weren’t Chinet, with their centimeter thickness, no. They were thin, honest Glad. Make as many ply as you want. He drifted to the table beside Alfred.

            “I heard especially that you were the lauded creator of the hot dog/kim-chee combination, so I made sure that it was available. But, you may not have noticed…”

            He caressed a small jar of kim-chee there.

            “It’s a special recipe that features spinach. Rare here in the Midwest. I had it flown over this morning directly from Busan, kept, of course, at a constant four degrees Celsius.”

            Alfred distractedly took the bun Cedric offered. He cracked it open, placed a nicely split, singed hot dog within it, and laid the spinach kim-chee on top.

            “Damn!” Ken cried beside me, his mouth already full of hot dog with the works. An Eastern Goldfinch chirped, in the recording, and Shannon told us that Pujols fouled one off again, to right. But no one cared, and that was nine months ago anyway. I turned, and there was Peg, with a dessert plate full of ambrosia, fluff on her spirit-gummed goatee.

            “I start backward, aight?”

            “As you should, my dear,” Cedric told her. “Follow your instincts. We don’t hold to any particular custom here. It’s a picnic!”

            Peggy beamed at Cedric and consumed more sweet fluff.

            And so, my literate friend, I joined them. I took a dessert plate and headed for the dog section on a mission. Cedric had dug in, lifting his work, with ketchup and mustard down alternate sides, sweet pickle relish in the middle, claiming a high level of purism, but few could hear over the famished munching. I took my plate up the stairway and out the front door, (‘…at least take a ketchup and mustard packet!’ The receptionist cried) into the January chill, and down the sidewalk in the general direction of home. Dogs barked, curtains twitched and children pointed, but I didn’t care. I tore into the dog as I walked, garnishing it with my tears.

            Tears of disappointment. Tears of appreciation of a properly grilled dog in February. Tears of loss. There was a Dog-Bun Complex, and they had won this round. Alfred could be tempted. He was not up to the huge task.

            I don’t really hold much against him now, though. When there are hot dogs, eat, I always say. My reaction that January day was in the heat of the moment. The Complex was never much of an issue with me. Later, I saw a television commercial for a class action lawsuit for those who’d found themselves with surplus buns. ‘If you, a member of your family or loved one have been a victim of the discrepancy between packages of hot dogs and buns, you could qualify for significant compensation...’ There was a re-creation of Fred’s photo post, but now studio quality, him, holding a partially empty bun bag, and with the same effective frown. ‘Since 1973 Hot Dog manufacturers have known that there were more in a pack than needed…’ And Peg! Looking all bourgeois next to a kitchen counter, wearing flats, slacks and a thin sweater top. ‘Recently, as much as a million dollars has been rewarded…’ Her shiny-loafered foot on toes aback as she pondered what was on the counter. There, an empty hot dog platter, and a bag with two buns left. Her finger to her chin in dismay. They could both get more work in ads.

            I did claim my compensation, and got my $5.73. Fred got more. He had a Camaro reconditioned, which I’ve ridden in. But, the dog-bun discrepancy remains…