Hot Rod Hotdogs
August 27, 2006
Hot Rod clubs from all over the Tri-State area lined up their creations in the parking area under the BQE overpass. Cars coated in bottomless coats of candy colored paint, next to rusty jalopies held together with nothing but a faith in the lifestyle.
When I left the house earlier in the day, it looked like rain, so I had a white, lightweight nylon rain jacket with me. It's a relatively insignificant detail except that it didn't take long to realize I was the only one wearing white. I felt like the only kid in school who didn't wear a hat on Hat Day. Every other guy there was dressed in identical outfits: black T-shirts emblazoned with various hot rod club logos, blue jeans rolled at the hem with chain wallets in their back pockets, engineer boots, and slicked-back hairdos. Of course, if I really felt left out, I could've gotten a greaser hairstyle from the barber who was there to do just that.
For the most part, the girls were dressed just like the guys, except for the few who chose to get all dolled up in I Love Lucy style dresses and bright red lipstick—tattoos of pin-up girls decorating their pale white skin. The guys had tattoos, too, of course. Eight balls, skulls, and flaming V8 engines up and down each arm. The only guy I saw without a tattoo on his arm, other than me, was a guy painting pinstripes on whatever people gave him to paint. I noticed his unadorned arm when I stopped to watch him paint clean, perfect stripes on a fender that someone had waited in line to give him. I was so busy watching him paint with his left hand, impressed by his sure, confident technique despite being surrounded by gawkers like me, that I nearly didn't notice his right arm was prosthetic.
It’s an exaggeration, of course, when I say that everyone was wearing the exact same uniform. And I'm teasing the people who were, but truthfully, it made the show a lot more fun. Whenever I saw someone inside a car who didn't have the look — the Asian guy with the new wave hair and freshly laundered Polo shirt, for example — it made me appreciate the ones who were living the life. Who cares that so many "custom" cars looked exactly alike? They were still fun to see.
In the middle of the show was a hotrod hot dog truck, painted black, with orange flames. As I waited for a hot dog and a drink, a burly Hell's Angel, a foot taller than me and twice as wide, cut in line and walked away with the last of the bratwurst. Like I said, I was in line for a hot dog, so it didn't matter much to me, but the guy behind me seemed rather bummed. He looked at me and shrugged.
"C'mon, man,” I said. “Go tell him that's your bratwurst."
