Condiment Man

           Missy had been thinking about a cheeseburger all morning. On her lunch break, she rushed down four flights of stairs and briskly walked the three city blocks to a parking lot full of food carts. She grabbed a bacon cheeseburger from a wagon that claimed to have the “Best Burger in Town.” In order to make it back to work in time, she would have to eat on the run. She was crossing a busy intersection on Broadway as she pealed back the foil on her burger and discovered a dry bun. “God damn it!” she said out loud, to herself, in disgust, for she had specifically asked for extra ketchup. Her perfect lunch had been ruined.

But wait. What was that? A man on a bicycle was riding down the road, shouting enthusiastically. “Condiments!” he yelled. “Get your condiments! I got your mustard! I got your relish! I got your Mayo! I got your ketchup! Condiments! Get your condiments!”

Genius, Missy thought. The city was full of food carts, serving every type of cuisine possible, but nobody was selling condiments. She waved the man down. He sprinted over and did a power slide with his bicycle, his rear wheel stopping inches short of her high heels. The man’s bike had both a rear and a front basket full of squeeze bottles. On his upper body, he wore a vest with dozens of pockets filled with small packets. “What can I do you for, ma’am?” he asked with a smile.

“I just need some ketchup,” Missy said.

“Bottle for here, or a packet to go?”

“A bottle will be fine.”

The man pulled a red bottle from his front basket and handed it to Missy, who squirted its contents onto her burger. “What do I owe you,” she asked, as she handed it back.

“Nothing,” the man answered.

“Nothing? You mean to tell me that you ride around giving away condiments for free? But why?”

“Because if I don’t do it, then who will?”

“Who are you?” Missy asked in disbelief.

“I’m condiment man!” The man said as he took off on his bike. “Condiments!” he yelled as he rode away. “Get your condiments!”

The city soon fell in love with condiment man. No longer did its citizens have to live in fear of eating a dry, tasteless lunch. He was a savior to every hotdog without mustard, to every sandwich without mayonnaise, to every gyro without tzatziki. It seemed that he could do no wrong. Until one day…

Jesus had a bought a burrito from a local dive, but had forgotten to ask for extra salsa. Damn it! he thought, My lunch is ruined! But then came along Condiment Man. “Condiments! Get your condiments!”

Jesus waved him down. “I’ll take some salsa, please.”

“Don’t do salsa,” Condiment Man replied.

“What do you mean, you don’t do salsa?”

“Salsa’s not a condiment.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Jesus said.

This made Condiment Man angry. “Are you telling Condiment Man what constitutes a condiment?” He asked.

Jesus didn’t back down. “I guess I am,” he said. “A condiment is something that adds flavor to a food. Does salsa not add flavor to food?”

“Bacon adds flavor to food,” Condiment Man shot back. “Is bacon a condiment?”

“But I can’t dip something into bacon.”

“I dip cookies into milk,” Condiment Man said. “Does that make milk a condiment? Listen here buddy. I think I know a thing or two about condiments and salsa is not a condiment. Salsa is a food. Take out the onions and the peppers and the chopped up tomatoes, and what do you have?”

“Hot sauce?” Jesus answered.

“Which is a condiment,” Condiment Man said with pride. “Which I can gladly offer you.”

“This is discrimination!” Jesus yelled.

“I guess that’s a ‘no’ on the hot sauce,” Condiment Man said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

As Condiment Man rode away, Jesus pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Hola,” he spoke into the receiver. “Tenemos un problema.”

The following day, after Condiment Man saved a dry Philly Cheese Steak with some A1 sauce, he sped off down 6^th Ave. He was crossing Broadway, through a green light, yelling “Condiments! Get your Condiments!” when an eighteen-wheeler broadsided him. The intersection exploded into a mosaic of colors—ketchup red, mustard yellow, mayo white. The truck came to a screeching halt. The scene looked like a Jackson Pollack painting with Condiment Man’s lifeless body as its centerpiece. Pedestrians looked on in horror. Children cried. Women screamed. The driver simply opened his door, hopped out of his cab, and walked away, up Broadway, past his rig, including the forty-foot trailer that had one word painted across its side: “SALSA.”