3.

As far as hotdog carts went it was was pretty cool-a three-wheeled hybrid truck, all chrome with a serving window that opened and closed by remote control. It came equipped with a sink, grill, cooler, electronic cash register and even a surveillance camera. And you could store things in the hollow fibergla.s.s crown of the fedora. On its hatband in large letters were the words pretty cool-a three-wheeled hybrid truck, all chrome with a serving window that opened and closed by remote control. It came equipped with a sink, grill, cooler, electronic cash register and even a surveillance camera. And you could store things in the hollow fibergla.s.s crown of the fedora. On its hatband in large letters were the words THE DOGFATHER THE DOGFATHER.

Mason had decided to make the best of it. He'd sell hotdogs in the open air, work on his novel at night. He'd get a membership at the Y and exercise every day. He'd pay Chaz for the damages, the rent, the gambling debts. He'd meet a girl, be a prince again-virtuous and clean, charming in a humble way. Five years was long enough.

For the moment, however, there was a lot to keep track of: all-beef, chicken, veggie, buns, drinks, ice, condiments, propane levels, oven mitts, plastic serving gloves, fire extinguisher ... And apparently there were city inspectors-hotdog watchdogs-who came around to check on all this.

Then, of course, there was Fishy Berlin-a man with a face to fit his name, keeping his fishy eye on things. At least Mason had talked him out of the dogfather outfit, arguing that it made no logical or aesthetic sense for a man serving hotdogs to wear a hat when he was standing beneath a larger, more impressive, poppyseed one.

As the morning wore on, the smell of propane, grilling wieners and car exhaust combined in a very particular way. Mason was still queasy from his birthday party, and the effort not to puke soon became distracting.

"My first day," he said when the dogs started burning. And for the most part, people were understanding.

He'd set up at the edge of Matt Cohen Parkette, named for the famous writer who had called Spadina the centre of the universe. It wasn't really a park, though-more a strange extension of s.p.a.ce making up the gap where Bloor and Spadina didn't quite meet. The Dogmobile was parked next to a stone sculpture of giant dominoes that stood and leaned like alien headstones. Embedded in the nearby tables were large granite chessboards. Sunlight reflected off pa.s.sing windshields. Everything was framed by sharp angles, slants of silver, black and grey, and among them, a dishevelment of people: a woman and two men drinking out of the same paper bag, students slumped against the concrete planters, no energy left to keep reading. This was the lip of the famous writer's universe-the intersection where, for some reason, Spadina Avenue ended and Spadina Road began.

By 6 p.m., Mason had sold forty-two hotdogs, given away four and burned eleven. He packed up-not exactly the way Fishy had shown him, but close enough. Then he got behind the wheel, waited for a really big break in the traffic, and pulled out onto Spadina.

Driving an oversized three-wheeled fibregla.s.s hat through rush hour traffic was stressful. He only had to make it six blocks, but just before College came an inexplicable Gothic castle-right there in the middle of the avenue. It wasn't easy trying to manoeuvre an already wobbly motorized fedora, dodging s.p.a.ced-out students, bouncing over streetcar tracks, in a looping circle around a looming castle.

By the time Mason reached College the chopped-up banana peppers were strewn across his feet. He turned into the alley, and pulled in next to Chaz's silver, '68, 750cc Norton. It was painful, parking the poppyseed Dogmobile (lawnmower engine) right there beside it.

There was a new pane of gla.s.s in the window. Chaz was standing in front of it, backlit by the setting sun. His motorcycle helmet was on the counter, next to a new coffee maker.

"Hey," said Mason, more than a little sheepishly.

"How's the wiener business?" Chaz had not forgiven him yet, but the idea of Mason selling Mafia-themed hotdogs had done a lot to improve his mood.

"Not too bad."

"I'm glad." Chaz knocked on the gla.s.s. "Gotcha a new window."

"I see that."

"I figured you could do without a TV for the time being. Anything else missing?"

Mason decided not to mention the sword with the dog-faced dragon-just shook his head.

"Well, I got you something else," said Chaz, and c.o.c.ked a thumb towards the desk. There was a laptop on it. "It's an old one, but it should work for book writing."

Mason walked over and flipped it open.

"Happy Birthday," said Chaz. "Try not to lose it. I hooked you up with Internet and a land line, too." There was a phone on the table next to the couch. Chaz picked it up to check for a dial tone. Then he went to the fridge for a beer. "I got a question for you, Mason." He sat on the couch. "How'd you find enough degenerates to trash this place in just one day? I mean I know you're good, but ..."

"This city's full of them."

Chaz shrugged and took a sip. "Well don't ever go buying from somebody else again. It makes me look bad." He tossed a baggy onto the coffee table.

"Chaz ..."

"That's 300 hotdogs. I'll put it on your tab." He got up, walked across the room and picked up his helmet. "And try to find the TV, will you?"

After he was gone, Mason picked up the baggy of c.o.ke. Flicking it, he held it to the light. It was just like Chaz: even p.i.s.sed off he couldn't help doing favours for people. Mason walked over to his duffle bag and dumped it out on the floor. Then he gathered up his beaten-up spiral-bound notebooks-ten of them. He put them down next to the computer and pressed the power b.u.t.ton. It made a ghostly sound, like breath in another dimension.

Notes on the Novel in ProgressThings to figure out:Who (or what) is narrating? Can we trust him? Inconsistent POV?Is there more than one street in this city?To research:Intensive care units, troglodytes, palominos, shark fin soup.Possible t.i.tle:The Centre of the Universe

4.

Mason was sc.r.a.ping the grill when a vast shadow fell-as if a mountain had suddenly risen between the Dogmobile and the sun. He looked up. A large man in mirrored sungla.s.ses stood before him.

"What can I get you?"

The man's head turned from side to side-surveying the grill, the counter, the square plastic bins of relishes, hot peppers, onions, the display of pop cans and water bottles, the rack of potato chips. It was like those scenes when the Terminator enters a room, his robot brain scanning the new environment. It occurred to Mason that a hotdog watchdog might act in such a manner, and he was glad to be sc.r.a.ping the grill. "Would you like something, sir?"

"It's very clean," the man said, still looking around. "It looks new."

"Thank you," said Mason.

"But why is it a hat?"

"That's a good question."

"It's okay," the man said. "I think I like it. There's something contained about the whole idea-though I don't really get it." He seemed to be talking to himself more than to Mason.

"Would you like to try a hotdog?"

"Try. Exactly," said the man. "I'd like to try try one." one."

"Okay then," said Mason. As he turned the dog on the grill he glanced again at his customer: a dark business suit, pressed neatly, with a blue handkerchief jutting out of the breast pocket. His hair was streaked with grey. There were deep lines in his face that seemed incongruous with the oval shape of it.

Is this what a hotdog watchdog looks like?

He tucked the dog into a bun and placed it on the counter. "Something to drink with that?"

"Not just yet," said the man "Gotcha," said Mason, though he didn't at all.

Usually-insofar as the habits gained over two days of work could be described as usual-Mason would have turned to the next customer, or otherwise distracted himself by wiping down the counter or something. It seemed invasive to watch a man dress his dog. But it was one-thirty, past the lunch hour rush, and he couldn't help but look.

Holding the mustard bottle tightly, the man painted a careful line of yellow along one half of the bun. He then did the same on the other side with the ketchup. He looked up and caught Mason watching him. It didn't seem to bother him. "I'm glad you have squeeze bottles," he said. Mason just nodded. The man put the bottle down and began flipping open the condiment containers. He counted out four rounds of sweet pickle and laid them across the ketchup, then four slices of raw onion along the mustard line. "These are very well cut," he observed.

"Thank you," said Mason.

The man closed the bun carefully. He put the plate down then closed the lids of the condiment containers. "I'd like a Sprite." Mason got him one. The man handed him five dollars. "Please keep the change."

"Thanks," said Mason, but the man wasn't listening. He was lifting his hotdog, slowly, as if about to take a bite. Just before it reached his mouth, he opened up the bun and looked inside. He closed it again, closed his eyes for a moment, then turned and walked away. A half-block down, without breaking stride, he dropped the hotdog into a garbage can.

Notes on the Novel in ProgressTo keep in mind:In fiction, as opposed to life, everyone exists for a reason.Eliminate superfluous characters. Take care with the ones who are left.To research:Gothic castles, air currents, holding patterns, sausages.Possible t.i.tle:The Edge of the Earth

5.

The big weird guy had made him nervous. And Fishy always watching from across the street didn't help. For days Mason turned wieners, sweating over the grill, waiting for the hotdog SWAT team to descend. Then, as he was packing up the cart one afternoon, he saw the big weird guy walk by.

"Hey!" he said. "Excuse me!" But the guy kept on walking. Mason left his post and caught up to him at the corner. "Excuse me," he said.

The man flinched. He was wearing sungla.s.ses.

"I'm sorry to bother you," said Mason.

"All right," said the man.

"I've just got to know ... Are you a hotdog watch-are you a cart inspector?"

"I'm a computer programmer. What's a cart inspector?"

"It doesn't matter."

"All right." He turned away from Mason to cross the street.

"It's just ... You didn't eat your hotdog."

The man stopped.

"The other day-you bought a hotdog from me, but then you threw it in the garbage without even trying it."

"I did did try." try."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm very sorry for any trouble I caused you."

"No, it was no trouble...." Mason didn't know how they'd got to this point. "I'm sorry."

They stood looking at each other.

"Okay then ...," said the man.

"I've got to get back to my cart," said Mason.

They nodded once and went their separate ways.

When Mason arrived home, Chaz was sitting on his couch drinking a beer.

"How you doing, daisy?" His mood had improved substantially.

"Just because you have a key doesn't mean you can let yourself in. Only in case of emergency." Mason tossed his jacket onto a chair. "It's in the tenant's act and everything."

"It was was an emergency." Chaz gave the bottle a lift. "Insufferable thirst. And anyway, you haven't paid any rent yet." an emergency." Chaz gave the bottle a lift. "Insufferable thirst. And anyway, you haven't paid any rent yet."

Mason pulled out a wad of cash wrapped in an elastic band. He tossed it onto the couch.

"This before or after Fishy?"

"I don't trust that guy."

"That's okay. He doesn't trust you either."

"But my name's not Fishy."

"No, Mr. Dubious, it ain't. But you still gotta pay him." He picked up the wad of cash. "Tell you what, let's play for it."

Chaz was a dealer who didn't do drugs, a gangster who disliked violence, and except for Mason's beer, he barely ever drank-but he liked the cards almost as much as Mason did. "Look at it as a bundle," he said. "Like the cable companies offer you: rent, drugs, poker debts, all in one easy payment plan." He grinned. "C'mon, dogboy. Don't you want your spinach back?"

"That doesn't make any sense," said Mason. But the cards were already in his hands.

Notes on the Novel in ProgressTo consider:Why the f.u.c.k are you still writing this thing? What is it even ABOUT?To research:Heroin. Horse thievery. HOW TO WRITE A f.u.c.kING NOVEL!To keep in mind:Breathe. Some days are better than others. Do NOT try to write after losing at poker.Possible t.i.tle:Five Years Wasted

6.

It was a warm day for the middle of April. Mason was strung out and p.i.s.sed off after his bad night at cards. He'd lost it all and was starting from scratch with another f.u.c.king hotdog.

He could feel himself sweating, and his back ached in that way that seemed to come right from his heart and liver. He'd read somewhere that those were the only two organs with the ability to regenerate completely-each cell reborn, if you could just find a way to make it happen. It gave him more hope than he probably deserved. He cracked open a bottle of water, his eyes closing as he glugged down half of it.

"I've got a lot of fears," said a voice.

Mason opened his eyes.

"I am scared of heights," said the large man with the sungla.s.ses. "I'm scared of tunnels. Of public places, intimacy, spiders, germs. I'm scared of sunsets, dreadlocks, short people, odd numbers, the colour orange...."

"The colour orange?" said Mason.