I enjoyed your link with the vending carts.
About a year ago, a group of amateur field naturalists (Fancy name for bird watchers) agreed to meet at a small pond a few miles from where I live. I needed to visit a banking machine, the nearest being in a village a couple of miles out of my way, but still much shorter than making a special trip. Who would’ve thought there’d be a line on a Tuesday morning? Anyway, I was a bit late, and decided to take a (shorter) back road to the pond. Not only was the distance less, I could really let fly, not worrying about traffic, cops, and stops. (There are stops, but like most rural drivers, I disregard them.)
About a couple of miles from my destination, a guy had set up a hot-dog vending cart. This was in the middle of nowhere! I expect I was the only car on that road that morning. This was farm country. There was no business, school, neighbourhood, park, store, or anything else I could imagine that would attract people. I knew the area. I was really amused by his business sense.
I arrived at the pond, and we enjoyed ourselves. Someone mentioned seeing some Long Eared Owls nearby and we decided to try our luck at finding them again. But – by this time, it was well after lunch time and we were all pretty hungry. Unfortunately, none had brought food, and we knew the closest fast food joint was ten miles away. We thought about trying the next day, but a few couldn’t make it. I thought about the hot-dog vendor and told the story. People looked at me with two expressions: She bumped her head; or she forgot her medication. I volunteered to drive for some food.
The guy was still where I first saw him. He didn’t seem to understand a single word of English. I wanted a dozen to fifteen hot dogs, plus drinks. He only had eleven. (Must have eaten one himself) I wanted all eleven. I wrote the number eleven on a scrap of paper with a sketch of a hot-dog. His eyes bulged. I think he may have thought I wanted to rob him. (Apparently, middle aged, 120 pound women, are hot-dog vendors’ worst nightmare.) I took the food and all his drinks, paid the guy and left. I felt obligated to communicate with him somehow that my purchase was an unusual thing and that his location was not the best spot for maximum sales. I doubt the message registered. All he knew was his cart was completely empty and his wallet was full.
I couldn’t help but think about this guy. He’d get home and tell his wife about his wonderful good fortune; how he sold all his stuff by early afternoon; and how he really knows how to run a business. I wished him well, but had my doubts.
Anyway, I don’t travel this road much, so I didn’t see if he returned. The next time I drove down this road, a month or so later, he was gone.
Cheers, PW.
P.S. Vending hot dogs isn’t helped by wieners coming in packs of twelve while buns coming in eight. |
