The irony of the situation is that because licensed vendors like Palacios are technically "on the books," they are easier to inspect and cite. Palacios says she pays daily parking tickets for placing her cart on her piece of Los Angeles Street for more than an hour, which is the allowed idling-time limit for a mobile vending cart. Permit fees have gone up. And a new, more expensive cart model has been approved by the health department for licensed use on L.A. streets, meaning any new vendors must pay higher fees and upkeep charges to start a business.
In addition, inspectors have been coming around more often. So have police. The LAPD recently said that it would step up enforcement of a junk-car law that will now apply to street vendors' carts. Fliers were distributed to vendors in the Fashion District announcing the change in English and Spanish.
The new atmosphere has led to more confrontations between vendors and authorities, and between vendors and each other.
One illegal hot-dog vendor in the Fashion District, who identifies himself as Manuel, says that sidewalk territories are fiercely contested among the unlicensed vendors who still defiantly hawk bacon-wrapped hot dogs. He tells stories of tire slashings and catfights in the competition for real estate and customers.
"Before, everyone used to get along, everyone had each other's back," Manuel says. "Now no one trusts each other."
Palacios says she sees a double standard.
"[An inspector] came to check me, and the piratas were there, in front of us, and I said, 'Hey, why don't they move them? What happened?'" Palacios recalls. "She said, 'Oh, they get aggressive,' and I said, 'Oh, you want me to get aggressive?' [The inspector] says, 'You know what? I have your ID. If you get aggressive, I put you in jail, and I can't do that to them, because I don't know who they are.'"
Neither do reporters. Unlicensed hot-dog vendors are notoriously resistant to speaking to the press or having their picture taken. L.A. Weekly photographer Greg Bojorquez tried doing so in MacArthur Park for this story and was accosted and threatened by a man who claimed the carts were "his."
Elizabeth Palacios had a blunt defense against gang members seeking to tax her.
"The cholos were coming here to charge us, the Fifth and Hill gang, but they've never come near me," she says. "Well, once, a cholo came and said to me, 'What if maybe I come and tax you?' And I said without thinking, 'What if maybe you go fuck yourself?' He started at me, then never came back."
"Plus," she adds, "I know them since they were little. Some of them are the children of the same ambulantes."
Becoming a street vendor here seemed like a natural decision for Palacios. A sidewalk merchant practically since birth, she sees her work as her trade, as honorable as the next person's. "This is my profession. This is what I like. I work. I pay taxes. I'm like anybody else."
Yet it's felt by downtown's licensed vendors that the city bureaucracy does not see their work as honorable in any way. They've been served with police notifications warning them of pending stepped-up enforcement efforts. Many have written letters to the city in protest, claiming the enforcement has been abusive and borderline racist.
Licensed Cushman cart vendors, for instance, must have a letter from a neighboring business or restaurant stating that the merchant allows the vendor at the cart to use its restroom. The carts, however, must always be within 200 feet of their sponsoring restroom. That 200 feet includes the distance traveled up or down stairs or elevators. Palacios said she's had health-department inspectors tell her they won't deal with her because her English is not good enough. ("And why wouldn't I have an accent? I wasn't born here," she protested.) Other city workers tell her she should give up her cart and just get a job in local government, because there "you don't do anything." She said that once a police officer accused her of possessing a fake California ID card, suggesting she was an illegal immigrant.
How are all these rules made up? Codes are formed at the state level, with suggestions and input from local health departments. They are frequently updated. Terrance Powell, acting director of the L.A. County Department of Environmental Health, says he has little room for pity toward vendors who operate outside of code. In fact, rules related to street vending have recently been "liberalized," he says, in temperature limits, for instance.
"I cannot bargain with safety — will not — that's not my arena," Powell says. "We are a country of laws, and we are going to abide by them."
But in a country of laws, does the public retain the right to ignore laws intended to protect them, at their own risk? What harm is there in risking a bit of indigestion in exchange for the mouthwatering greasy glory of a bacon-wrapped hot dog?
Frustrated, angry and desperate, the licensed hot-dog vendors of the Fashion District formed what may be the first professional organization for street vendors in the United States, the Hot Dog Vendors Association. They've had some meetings, stressing that their initial goal is to give their industry a semblance of sophistication and self-respect. And on January 17, in response to the LAPD's junk-car law enforcement, the group staged a protest of nearly 50 vendors in front of City Hall and at the LAPD's Central Division station.
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