Gated Community: Episode II

Those of you who know the Myster well know that she is of admirable temper. Do I occasionally get worked up over things? Absolutely. Heated political discussions. My man-child roommate’s disregard for human decency. The poor quality of service provided by a certain international staff placement agency. But on the whole, I am the kind of person who doesn’t get angry too, too often. I spend two months every summer working with teenage girls. I have to be able to keep my cool. But sometimes even I lose it.

Yeah, no joke, I got in a fight with a street vendor on Sunday. No, not a physical altercation. Although if we had actually brawled, I like to think that I would have been the victor. No, it was a war of crazy words. And although not a punch was thrown, we still managed to cause quite a scene.

Friend Kate and I went downtown to see a show on Sunday. (More on this catastrophe later.) Our matinee didn’t start until three, so we thought we’d walk through the park. Friend Kate had not yet seen The Gates. So off we went. I’m pretty used to The Gates by now, and the park was packed, so by the time we’d taken a lap around the lake I was pretty much done. Plus Friend Kate kind of has a short attention span. Or that might have been me, too. Whatever.

On our way out of the park, I decided I wanted a popsicle. Fortunately, wanting a popsicle in Central Park is like being at a Phish concert and wanting a hit. No matter where you’re standing, it can’t take you too long to track one down. We jumped on line at a vendor cart in the southeast corner of the park.

Can I just start by saying that the line moved like a sloth with tennis elbow? That should give you an idea of the efficiency of service with which we were presented. But we kept our good humor. The sun was shining, orange fabric hung everywhere, and it was a holiday weekend. I ordered my SpongeBob Squarepants ice pop and started to unwrap it as Friend Kate decided she’d like a hot dog. The wrapper gave me some resistance; apparently, SpongeBob had been melted and refrozen. I waved at the woman behind the cart.

“Excuse me,” I said, politely, “there’s something wrong with this popsicle.”

“UNINTELLIGIBLE!” she screamed back. (Side Note: Obviously, she did not actually say the word “unintelligible.” But whatever it was she did say was trapped somewhere in the translation from Chinese to English and didn’t really resemble any words I’d ever heard. And I know a lot of words.) I looked at Friend Kate. Friend Kate looked at me. I looked at the woman.

“Excuse me?” I said. “It’s melted and refrozen.”

“UNINTELLIGIBLE!” she shouted. “YOU EAT! UNINTELLIGIBLE! IS FINE! UNINTELLIGIBLE!” And she pointed emphatically (and cryptically) at the price list posted on the cart.

“It’s green,” I said, holding it up to show her the layer of discolored syrup that clung to SpongeBob’s back.

“UNINTELLIGIBLE!” And an emphatic nod.

“Okay,” I said, turning away, adding “psychopath,” under my breath. The man on line behind me smiled. When I got to where Friend Kate was standing, a foot from the cart, she told me the woman had shortchanged her by 50 cents. Too much. I turned back around.

“Excuse me,” I said, firmly but no less politely, “you didn’t give my friend enough change.”

“NO CHANGE!” she shouted. I started to get angry.

“What do you mean, no change?” I asked, pointing at the price list. “It says $1.50. She gave you a five. You gave her three dollars back. You owe her 50 cents.”

“NO CHANGE!” she shouted.

“You owe her money!” I shouted back.

“UNINTELLIGIBLE! NO CHANGE! UNINTELLIGIBLE! YOU NO LIKE, YOU CALL 311!”

“This is highway robbery!” I shouted.

“EVEN MORE UNINTELLIGIBLE! NO CHANGE! YOU CRAZY! YOU NO LIKE, YOU CALL 311! CALL 311!” That was it. Crazy Hot Dog Vendor Lady had pushed the Myster too far.

“FINE!” I shouted. “I WILL!” And as the people waiting on line, and Friend Kate, watched in amusement, I whipped out my trusty Nokia and dialed 311. (Side Note For The Uninitiated: 311 is the all-purpose information number for the City of New York. It is also the appropriate number to call, apparently, if you are being blatantly ripped off by a hot dog vendor.) I waited through the recorded message and got an operator, who listened patiently as I told my story. It was pretty hard to keep it together, what with Friend Kate laughing and people on line staring and passersby pointing at SpongeBob’s melted, hideously deformed face and smirking and, over everyone else, Crazy Hot Dog Vendor Lady keeping up her stream of spite (“UNINTELLIGIBLE! HAPPY HOLIDAY! ARE YOU HAVE HAPPY HOLIDAY? UNINTELLIGIBLE! IS GATES, IS HOLIDAY! IS BE HAPPY! NO HOT DOG! NO HOT DOG!”) while still, I noticed, managing to fleece another group of customers.

“You see?” I said to 311 Girl. “She’s doing it to someone else right now.” A little girl turned to me, clutching a pretzel.

“She won’t give us our hot dog,” she said. “We paid for it.”

“UNINTELLIGIBLE! NO CHANGE!” 311 Girl asked me to read her the vendor license number off the side of the cart.

“With pleasure,” I said, loud and clear for Crazy Hot Dog Vendor Lady to hear. “Eight-oh-eight-six-eight.”

“Was that 80868?” 311 Girl asked.

“That’s right,” I said, louder and more clearly. “Eight-oh-eight-SIX-EIGHT. That is the vendor number of the woman at Grand Army Plaza who is RIPPING EVERYONE OFF.”

“UNINTELLIGIBLE!”

“Count your change!” I shouted to the people waiting on line, none of whose appetites seemed to be tempered by the many blatant acts of thievery perpetrated in front of their very eyes. I knew they’d be sorry when the time came for them to get change.

Long story short? Oh, wait, too late. Anyway, to sum it up, 311 Girl took my contact information and the details of the incident. I’m sure it was amusing to her, particularly with Crazy Hot Dog Vendor Lady squawking in the background. Will the City of New York send Friend Kate a check for 50 cents? Somehow I doubt it. But I have to say, my encounter with Crazy Hot Dog Vendor Lady did leave me feeling somewhat empowered.

The moral of the story: Never tell Myster to call 311 unless you really, really mean it.

And make sure to store your SpongeBob pops in appropriately refrigerated containers. Otherwise the bubble gum eyes get all grainy and disgusting.