There was a rumor that the old Hot Dog on a Stick was closing the weekend before Labor Day. Picture this, a young Vito – that’s me, with older bro Nico, Mom and Dad in tow, strolling along the Redondo Beach Pier some thirty years ago. I pranced forward after a few rounds of skeeball with mom at the Fun Factory. Nico won two out of three matches of air hockey with dad, and we each raced around an arcade track of Monaco, hitting every wall on the track. A hop and a skip away was Hot Dog on a Stick, the literal only option to eat beside the old stinky “catch and fry” shack on the furthest edge of the boardwalk. Nico was a huge fan of the corn dogs, but what I really remember most fondly was how bright the sun would always seem while we were there.
The Hot Dog on a Stick had, under the shapeshifting miasmic cloud that suffocates LA of any chance at heritage, outlasted even the old Fun Factory (turns out the owner of that place was a pederast, which slightly diminishes this facet of the memory). Since 1965, the old sign, in bright primary colors, has proudly displayed for decades. A fixture, a stalwart, something certainly worth making the local news.
We didn’t grow up in Redondo (Dad would drive us over from San Pedro in a shitty Chrysler minivan, the kind with faux wood paneling), but when I learned about such news, I felt compelled to make it over – especially since I found out on the actual final weekend. Sunday was my only shot.
I woke up to oddly misplaced anticipation, for really all I was doing was wasting twenty bucks in gas for a corn dog for lunch. No family could possibly be arranged in time. Getting my parents, in the very furthest part of LA that may still qualify, to come out was an exercise in futility. Nico, well, hey, hello, Mr. Brick Wall. You get the point – despite this, I was still excited to go alone.
The night prior I planned out my whole outfit.
Zip, zip, zip, copious amounts of synching and sashing, a few buttons, some tucking and untucking, and I was ready. A full inch taller thanks to the spit-shined combat boots. Taut, tactical, jet-black fatigue bottoms. A turquoise islandscape Tommy Bahama shirt, top buttons undone, tucked in under a leather belt with its studded buckle. Three-quarter length, camelhair coat.
I took one last look at myself, because, believe it, I looked good with that crisp black Stetson on my head. Turned and walked out, stepping over the cruft of my wholly cave-like hovel.
The drive over took longer than expected, because Sunday traffic (despite the utter godlessness of the city) was pretty serious. I parked in the old underground lot that looked like the kind of place Batman hung out at, and, after brief contemplation, skipped paying the fee. It took a few hundred feet to get used to, but after a while my Heely’s found a groove along the battered, uneven wooden boardwalk of the Redondo Beach Pier. I passed by the sad, yet somehow still-smiling clown that resisted the allure of graffiti in the dozen or so years since the Fun Factory closed.
To my dismay, there was a crowd of people already at Hot Dog on a Stick by the time I had rolled over. Deftly I dismounted, and, embarrassingly, reduced myself to a quiet walk to the back of the line.
Apparently I wasn’t stealth enough though, because everyone in line, each a distinct form of fucking weirdo wholly preoccupied by the little worlds within their phones, turned around and looked at me.
“Oh, hey,” one of them, a pirate with a Korean bowl haircut, said. Four Tamagachis were tied to their carabiner. Their right forearm was shredded.
“Are you from Reddit?”