Making money with your own hot dog cart or hot dog vending trailer...Trade your suit for an apron and a hot dog cart

Hal trades in the corporate ladder for a hot dog stand

Saturday, July 26, 2008 4:03 AM EDT

Exploring new locations and events on the island is my passion. I go to every pig pickin’ (known to us in Indiana as a hog roast!), book signing, music fest, or watercolor exhibit! The cottage is always full of folks; local and from all sorts of places…Charlotte, New Jersey or Scotland, and I enjoy the company of all that I keep!

I do love it when a new adventure, be it big or small, comes my way.

There is a new shop in the village complete with Adirondack chairs for viewing the harbor and, set off to one corner under the shade of the ripening fig and yaupon trees, is the hot dog man. I see him every day as I bike through the village and give a wave of my hand as he vends his wares under the red and yellow striped umbrella. I make plans with a friend to meet at the picnic table under the fig tree. When the church bells chime 12, I stuff my pockets with dollar bills and bike on over.

The day is beautiful. There are only a few clouds in the bluest of blue skies and the breeze is refreshing off the Pamlico Sound. The island is full of tourists and they meander aimlessly past us. Most are lunching at finer restaurants or back in their cottages on leftover shrimp from the night before. I am, however, consciously choosing hot dogs.

I introduce myself and ask to look at the menu. He gives a boyish grin, “There’s no menu, ma’m, just hot dogs.” I knew that. I take a quick stroll across the street to the Community Store to buy a Coke and then come back to order my hot dog. There might just be hot dogs, but the toppings are varied and generous. Red chili sauce. Coleslaw. Kraut. I decide on all of them. I ask for a napkin and he pulls off a sheet of paper towel and hands it to me. There are limp bags of chips hanging from the pole. They are thin with no more than a dozen chips. I ask to buy a bag of these chips, but they are free with the hot dog so he tosses a bag to me.

I settle at the picnic table close at hand. The hot dog is delicious and I tell him so as the red chili sauce drips down my chin. Friends and neighbors stop by on bikes when they see me sitting there. The locals joke with the hot dog man as they all know him. The conversation turns to writing and I am all ears as it is one of my favorite topics! The discussion turns to grammar and sentence fragments, none of which I find interesting. I like the creative part of writing…as an artist. The hot dog man begins to talk about his son’s English paper in college and that he would never accept such mistakes. I don’t want to seem rude and ask the hot dog man how he knows about grammar. Besides I am smarter and more respectful than that. The island is full of PhD’s who wait tables, clean cottages, work in gift shops, sail pirate ships just to be able to live here, and really, just do what they want to do with their lives.

I ask the hot dog man if he is a writer … he laughs. “Used to be, I wrote speeches for the lieutenant governor.”

My eyes are wide and I am all ears now, “Of North Carolina?” I ask, and he nods in affirmation.

Hal is all stories after that. He shares tales of his suit and tie days when he was climbing the corporate ladder one speech at a time. He was only 22 when he worked for the governor. He continues his stories as he banters with customers, tosses bags of chips and ladles out chili sauce. At the end of the day, he covers up his cart, moves it to the back, and goes about his day with no worries or cares. I am in awe and admiration of this boyish man who spends his time chatting with friends and neighbors.

His name is Hal, and every day he sets up his stand under a red and yellow striped umbrella across from the waters of the Palmlico Sound. Hal will serve you a great hot dog with dripping red chili sauce while sharing his thoughts on grammar and politics on Ocracoke Island.