Andy Hor & hyper
The "Chineesee man" from Indonesia Malaysia, the welder by the abandoned pool. My man at Cyber Metal Tech. I will go back. He is beautifully pale and I am going to have the money to commission a piece of his work.
When I explained, as best I could, what I wanted, he said: push it? and shrugged, doubtful.
A pushcart. My friend did it.
How far? he said.
Ten blocks, I said.
Maybe. he said.
Yes, I said.
Maybe? he said and flipped through his book of designs. He stopped at what seemed like a random point, half handing it to me and setting it on the counter. The designs all looked huge. This couldn't be my cart!
Not so wide! I said in alarm.
Only 28 inches. he said, and I realized I hadn't been seeing the drawings.
They were technical drawings, and I had looked for vanishing points. Lines of depth, which had seemed grossly distended, were now stout and adequate. Depth is come out to speak it's native tounge, nothing disappears into the distance, nothing is too far away to describe -- Is it any wonder the Soviets pioneered technical design?
X-ray reveals hidden surfaces with dotted lines. Cyber Metal Tech.
Maybe like this one -- you make hot dogs? he said, calling me back from my reverie.
No. I said. No hotdogs.
Maybe like this one without this? [covering pretzel box] No pretzel. Starts to draw lightly with a fine pen. He sarts with the dimensions, one box, two, three.
Grill Here, he says, lightly dashing the right side.
You need two water tanks. he says. it is true, I have read the code. The health department has made it very expensive.
Hood on 3 sides. continuing the sketch.
how does the hood work? I ask. Passive or...fan?
"Bullshit" says Andy and shrugs. he knows as well as I do that a passive filter is a contradiction in terms. but the health department says so. Water tanks too... "you going to wash hands?" and he chukles.
[a brief note to the uninitiated, who doubtlessly reel in horror at his joke--
--food businesses, particularly poor ones like food carts, have to be sanitary if they want to survive. you lose your customers and go out of business quickly if you handle food poorly. only a restaurant with rich backers could afford to gamble. for every flash in the pan yuppie shithole there are two tight-margin miracles. these establisments survive only with a reliable staff and a coherent sanitation plan.
--washing your hands is a dubious plan in a pushcart. most of the good carts I have seen do most of their handling with utensiles -- tong, spatula, fork-- and careful use of plastic gloves. (although perhaps you could use that sanitizing gel that doesn't need water -- alcohol or sanitizing solution would be too hard on your hands. I will look into this)
--In a truck, you could wash your hands. but the total amount of water you would have to use to wash your hands for a full shift (no doubt calculated to the x gallons mandated by the city) would be impossibly heavy to push. a pushcart worker has to do a variety of dirty tasks -- including the dirtiest of all: handling money.
The Health Department is absolutely remiss in not mentioning the filth of money in their food protection course. Money is more likely to carry dangerous germs than any other thing that comes into a restarant. this includes E. coli (from shit), which is more prevelant on money than it is on toilet seats.
money is filth. credit is really the only way to fly.
perhaps with the pushcart I sould take only exact change -- and say "pay me back next time" to the rest. strange and risky, but when have I been anything but?]
/cut/
//back to the plot//
Andy expains:
you have to meet code to get the plaque, you have to keep it up to code to avoid fines. The city needs money. This is the code: this is the price.
"Bloomberg?" I query.
he shrugs effusively, smiling. "the city needs money, it doesn't matter who it is." A true Daoist. What is, is; and with certainty. Where there is a way, there is a way.
I share his certainty, at least in part. I know what this cart is, and is becoming. this knowledge suffuses my atmosphere. It is my air; I have mutated and part of me will die without it. The Parks Department suffocated one part of me, one of my own children, one of my beautiful own. I will not forgive them until my grievance can be heard.
I am shocked by my new power to breathe.
I may be hyperventilating.
Posted by Sam at May 4, 2003 02:52 AM
