The Sleeping Bear

“Amos, you’re awesome!”

Well, maybe Amos wasn’t quite as awesome at choosing outfits as he was at removing the door pin from my old, decrepit Frigidaire refrigerator. I first met Amos when he arrived at my front door, his Caribbean accent not exactly matching his faded-blue snowsuit and fluffy, ear-flapped stocking cap. He was a walking contradiction – an equatorial accent on a man who looked like he’d be comfortable sleeping in an igloo.

“Hi, my name is Amos,” he said, extending his hand. I soon learned that Amos was a happy chap, as he broke into a smile upon spying my three dogs staring at him.

“Look at that one! He’s just chilling on the couch!” he exclaimed as he made his way to my kitchen to inspect my old fridge and determine the best exit strategy. After taking a few measurements, Amos was off to get some tools to pry off the fridge door.

And that’s when his partner in fridge delivery, Joel (sounds like Joelle) showed up. Joel was sporting some solid facial hair and dressed a little snappier than Amos. Of course, snappy is a relative term akin to saying N’Sync is a better boy band than the Backstreet Boys. Either way, they’re both sucky boy bands.

I have to admit, I was mesmerized by the tin foil – yes, tin foil – adorning the back of Joel’s baseball cap. Being the polite person that I am, I didn’t ask Joel the obvious question – Why the fuck do you have a two inch rectangle of tin foil on the back of your baseball cap? But, judging by his Pineapple Express chuckle and the way he eyed up all the munchable foods on my counter, I’m guessing it had something to do with his desire to deflect the government’s mind-reading wavegun.

Joel’s duty was to remove the doors from the old fridge so they could squeeze it between my countertop and the wall and out the back door. He had no problem with the freezer door, but the fridge door was a problem – one final screw was hidden behind the door pin and hard to get at.

“Amos, do you have that extender for my screwdriver?” His solution was to remove the screw using an extender. Amos had other ideas.

“Let me go get it. But we can just use a pliers to unscrew the pin. We don’t need to access that screw.”

“But the pin is slippery. There’s nothing to grip,” Joel complained.

But Amos wasn’t deterred by Joel’s nancying. He reappeared a short time later, pliers in hand. And much to Joel’s delight, Amos was indeed able to grip the pin, pull it out, and give Joel a clear path to the final screw.

“Amos, you’re awesome!” an awestruck Joel exclaimed.

Door off, it was time to strap up and get the fridge out the door. As Joel moved behind the fridge, he spied my wife and dogs on the couch. He channeled Cassanova’s spirit, smoothly cooing “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. I didn’t see you hiding there.” and then following it up with some chitchat about how well behaved the dogs were.

Amos, not wanting to be left out of the conversation, agreed. “My boy would love that little dog. He’s just chilling on the couch. He’s so chill. He and my son have a lot in common.”

With that, they were off, making easy work of the old fridge and hauling in my shiny new Samsung. A slight mishap with my dining room light aside, it went smoothly.

Which meant it was time for Amos to bid a fond farewell. He bid a slightly creepy “I’ll be back for your dog!” and followed that up with an “I’m serious.” when we laughed at what we surmised was a joke. A quick smile, a nod, and Awesome Amos was off into the cold Minnesota air for more delivery hijinks.

I like to push my heart to the extreme, defying death by bicycling for miles on end, daring to drive a heart-pumping 75 in a 70 and worshipping at the altar of heartbreakingly bad Minnesota sports teams. But even I had some moments of trepidation today as I stared into the beanie eyes of death incarnate, knowing there was a chance my heart could falter and lead to my untimely demise.

Let’s start at beginning. Rumor had it a restaurant in the area served a meaty concoction so mouth-wateringly huge, so fantastically carnivorous, so scarily fatty that ingesting it could cause instant arterial blockage and certain death. That place? Jimmy’s in Vadnais Heights. That product? The Hamdog.

What’s a Hamdog? Apart from Fugu, quite possibly the world’s most dangerous food. But unlike Fugu, damn f’n tasty. As Jimmy’s no-frills menu says, the Hamdog is a 1/2 pound burger wrapped around a hotdog, topped with chilli, onion and cheddar cheese and served on a hoagie bun. The menu calls it “Enough Meat to Satisfy Anyone.” I call it “Enough Meat to Make Ron Jeremy Feel Inadequate.”

Defibrillator in hand, we made the trek to Jimmy’s to defy death. Located in a stripmall at the intersection of 35E and County Rd E in Vadnais Heights, Jimmy’s isn’t much to look at from the outside. The clean, dimly-lit interior features numerous big-screen TVs, most of which were showing Hockey Day in Minnesota. We slid into a booth in the corner, said a few prayers and waited for the waitress to come, take our order, and ultimately bring us what may have been our last meal.

“Are you ready to order?”

We nodded in assent. My wife ordered the walleye sandwich. The waitress turned to me. This was it – my moment of truth. Some men blink in the face of death – but not me. I took a deep breath, turned to the waitress and shouted “I’ll have the Hamdog!” Then let my gaze wander triumphantly across the room as everyone within earshot jerked to attention, mouths agape. One woman, obviously unnerved, clutched her cell phone and practiced dialing 9-1-1 in preparation for the inevitable. The waitress, in the midst of writing my order on a piece of paper, muttered “Nice!” under her breath. I was everyone’s new hero.

Within minutes the Hamdog was before me in all it’s meaty glory, garnished with a side of barbecue potato chips, some lettuce, a pickle and a tomato. Even better, I had to fill out a form with my name and phone number before I ate it so I could presumably be entered to win a free t-shirt proclaiming the glory of the Hamdog. I didn’t flip it over, but I’m guessing there was some legalese and a waiver should I choke out on the Hammer.

And it was on. So on. It was love at first bite. As I sunk my teeth into the Hamdog, I have to admit I shivered a little. It was slightly orgasmic. Seriously, the dude who one day thought “This hot dog just isn’t enough. What if I wrapped a shitload of dead cow around it and then topped it off with more dead cow, chili beans cheese and spices?” is my new hero. Screw Cialis – if you have erectile dysfunction just hop on over to Jimmy’s and sink your teeth into a Hamdog – you’ll be pleasing your wife or significant other in no time.

Before I knew it, I was halfway through my Hamdog, needing just a few fists to the chest to jumpstart my heart. A waiter walked by, did a double-take, stopped and said “You did the HD, eh? Nice. How is it?” With my mouth full of PETA’s worst nightmare, I mumbled “Great!”

But in all reality, I was done. My stomach was full. I was starting to get gassed (figuratively and literally). It was time to throw in the towel and call it a day. I knew when I was beaten, waived over the waitress and asked for a doggy basket for my H-dog.

In the end, I didn’t finish the entire Hamdog, but I did manage to maintain consciousness through the entire event. I had stared down the beast, and though in the end I did blink just a little, I conquered my fear of arterial blockage and scarfed down 3/4 of a Hamdog in one sitting. To me, that earns a bit of a boastful “Who’s yer daddy?” That’s right, me.

The Business End of a Hamdog.