A decade ago I worked at a downtown Spokane ad agency whose culture was, shall we say, unforgiving. Not a day passed without at least one account executive in tears—or the entire creative department brought to its knees. Sometimes both. And I was there for over three years.
If it hadn’t been for “Cheddar Chad” Rattray and the hot dogs he peddled from a cart across the street, I’m not sure I would have made it as long as I did. But it wasn’t just my standing order—Italian sausage, sweet-hot mustard, grilled onions—that offered relief. It was the opportunity to spend even just a couple of minutes in the company of a truly decent human being; to talk about everything from jazz to the weather to the structural integrity of Costco’s hot dog buns; to marvel together at the weirdness of life and the inanities of the advertising business.
Chad died yesterday morning. It’s a little odd, I suppose, to reflect on the impact of a hot dog vendor on one’s life. But Chad wasn’t just any hot dog vendor. Requiescat in pace.
by Jess