“On dirait qu’la folie a loué une chambre dans ma tête ce soir,” thinks Charbon as he enters the diner. Un grand jack à la chaude moustache foisonnante, he casts a tall shadow on the yellow walls. Under the crude light, every vein and wrinkle on his face shines. His bulging ego is in love with his crusty boots. Sluts from the neighbourhood martini shitholes stare, flushed and greedily fighting over hot dog ass. He spits at them and messes their cheap make-up.

No-vacancy at the counter bloated with tired factory workers, so Charbon picks a table and waits for the others to trickle down the road and join him. He departed first to ensure the path was clear. According to his beloved, well-worn sourcebook¹, everything should be all right. He spotted a few circles crossed by diagonal lines (good road) along the way and the side of this joint is tagged with a rectangle on a slug: a gentleman lives/works here.

The smell of grease makes him happy and ill. His thoughts are blurred by too many hours spent in the dark being abused by pucks and sticks and skates. Avec son gros couteau d’chasse, il aimerait bien couper les ondes et envoyer les gros boss d’la ligue licher la vaisselle de sa vieille mère. Et faire une belle brochette de suits à $5,000. Then he would take over the town and rename it Festifall.

Les idées les plus joyeusement cariées vagabondent dans sa tête. His bony ass hurts, his left arm feels like it’s been gnawed by racoons and his hair is falling out in clumps. He’s going to shear it all at once and knit it into a hat, one that will last 40 winters. Charbon doesn’t understand this delusion, only that tonight is la negra luna. Les nuits sans lune, la nausée en profite pour se répandre dans toutes les cellules et y’a pas d’antidote. He thinks about the true love of his life, a nasty bout of gout-induced alcoholism he caught in Yellowknife, and his tenderloin catch sweat.

The man in charge of the fry station, Tassé, can tell the chap who came in with crusty boots is not from here. His wrinkles are too real. He also knows the hobos are with him as soon as they come in, scrawny broomsticks with rows and rows of teeth. All drunk and lopsided, except for the one with flames on his head. He glows and slithers across the old floor, his feet covered with thin strips of dead skin delicately sewed to a sliver of sturdy material. His name is inked on his wonder shoes: Soleless Foksabuche.

The girls all speak like diseased turkeys. “I live on borrowed time and mooners.” “Dans mon shack, y’a rien qui m’survit.” “Papa? Comment s’appellent les boules au fond des urinoirs?” Tassé slaps the dead patties on the grill with a greasy spatula and, for the first time ever, becomes conscious he will never marry.

Charbon’s happy they’re all reunited at last. This is a good place. The man behind the counter patiently takes both slurred and methedrined orders like a gentleman. Deep-fried sausages on sticks are brought to the table, doused with vinegar and dipped in mustard. They could live on this for years. Warm cheeseburgers remind him of sleeping in cow pastures without clothes. Nice and easy. Tassé scoops thick gravy out of a stockpot to pour on thin fries and crowns the dish with shredded cheese. Not for purists, but plenty good enough for hobos. All that remain are glutinous streaks on the plates and that’s the last thing Charbon sees before he closes his eyes forever and dies a happy man.

1 Dreyfuss, Henry. “Symbol Sourcebook: An Authoritative Guide to International Graphic Symbols” (New York: McGraw Hill, 1972).

Royal Submarine Sandwiches
ADDRESS: 10 Bernard W.
TEL: 272-9788
HOURS: 11 a.m.–midnight
CARDS: None
BOOZE: None
PRICES: Pogo $2, poutine & cheeseburger & soda $7.95, hot dog $1.75
WHEELCHAIR ACCESS: One step up, tiny bathroom.
WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU CALL AT 11:01 A.M. TO ASK IF
THIS IS THE BEST HOT DOG IN THE WORLD?
They laugh a lot and say, “Yes, yes.”
OVERALL: Nice