Bad Haircut. Tom Perrotta

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СКАЧАТЬ the punk was doubled over and gasping for air, the Wiener Man grabbed a hunk of his hair and led him over to the cigarette butt. When the tough guy picked it up, everyone cheered.

      The Wiener Man called all seven of us up at once. After we introduced ourselves, he made a speech. “Scouting's a fine thing,” he said. “It'll give you direction in life, teach you the right values, keep you off the street. Whatever you do, don't grow up to be wiseguys. Wiseguys don't know it, but they're going nowhere fast.”

      He gave us a long serious look, then turned to the woman behind the hot dog stand. “Lois, why don't you give these fine young men a Wonderful Wiener on me. Boys, I'll be frank with you”—he winked for those of us who caught the joke—“in the world of wieners, they're the winners.”

      “I'd be glad to,” said Lois. She took a bun out of the plastic bag and spread it apart on her palm with metal tongs.

      The Wiener Man smiled when I asked for his autograph. “What's your name, son?” He scrawled his signature with confidence and flair, then snapped the book shut with my pen marking the page. “There you go.” He handed it back to me.

      He seemed friendly, so I decided to try one of my questions. “Sir,” I said, “have you ever met ChefBoy-R-Dee?”

      He didn't seem to hear me. He was gazing over my head at the doors of the Stop & Shop. I turned and saw my mother standing in front of the store, hugging a grocery bag with both arms, looking around for her scouts.

      “Pardon me.” The Wiener Man squeezed right between me and Allen. His suit was spongy to the touch. He shuffled through the parking lot as best he could, on a beeline for my mother. He had to move fast to dodge a long train of shopping carts. The kid pushing them wasn't paying attention.

      “Ann,” he called out. “Is that you?”

      Ann was my mother's name.

      My mother's face scrunched up above the groceries jutting out of the bag. Then she smiled. She had a really pretty smile. “Mike?” She didn't sound convinced.

      The Wiener Man stuck out his little arms as he approached her. He hugged my mother right there in the parking lot. A can of tomato sauce spilled out of the bag and rolled toward Grand Avenue. I wanted to chase it, but my legs wouldn't move. My mother reached around with one hand and clutched a fistful of the wiener suit. I felt like everyone at the mini-mall was staring straight at me, demanding an explanation.

      I removed the groceries one by one from the bag and handed them to my mother. She ranged gracefully around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, rearranging things according to her private system.

      In the parking lot she had introduced the Wiener Man as Mr. Something-or-other, a friend of hers from high school. She held his wrist and blushed so deeply that her face was almost the same color as his.

      He pointed to me. “This one must be yours, Ann. I recognize that mouth.”

      My mother laid her hand on my head. “This is Buddy. He's mine.”

      The Wiener Man sighed. “It's a small world, isn't it?”

      My mother put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “I'm sorry, Mike. You just look so silly.”

      He nodded, his face moving independently inside the costume, and said he had to get back to work.

      My mother opened the freezer door and stared for a long time at the jumble of ice cube trays and frozen meat. White vapors swirled around her head. If my father had been home, he would have yelled at her for wasting electricity.

      “He was nice.”

      My words startled her. She shut the door without taking anything from the freezer. “I've always thought so,” she said. She went to the table and plunged her arm into the empty bag. “Did you see a can of tomato sauce in here?”

      “No.”

      “Darn,” she said. “I'll have to make the pork chops. Your father won't be too thrilled about that.”

      While my mother cooked, I sat on the couch and read Strange But True Football Stories, a book I'd just checked out of the library. The first one was about Jim Marshall, a defensive end on the Minnesota Vikings, who picked up a fumble and ran the wrong way for a touchdown, actually scoring a safety for the other team. I couldn't make up my mind whether his mistake was funny or sad. He got spun around after picking up the loose ball and lost his bearings; the roar of the crowd drowned out his teammates' desperate cries. Marshall was totally happy as he ran: it was every lineman's dream, nothing but green grass between him and the end zone. He did a joyful touchdown dance and didn't begin to understand the enormity of his mistake until players from the other team swarmed all over him shouting congratulations. His own teammates clutched their helmets; the stadium echoed with laughter. Even the referee was smiling.

      The phone rang in the kitchen. A few minutes later my mother came into the living room and asked if I was hungry. I told her I wasn't; I'd eaten a Wonderful Wiener before we left the mini-mall.

      “Good,” she said. “Mr. Amalfi wants us to drop by before he goes. I'll just stick the pork chops in the oven. We can pick up your father at the store and all eat together for once.”

      The mini-mall was almost deserted when we returned that evening. A few cars were clustered near the entrance of Stop & Shop. Beyond them, the Frankmobile stood alone in the corner of the lot. My mother squinted, as though it hurt her eyes to look at it.

      “What a hideous color,” she said. “It looks like chewed-up bubble gum.”

      She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then knocked on the side door. It swung open and the Wiener Man helped us climb inside. Only he wasn't the Wiener Man anymore. He was this normal-looking guy, just a little taller than my mother, wearing tan corduroy pants and a blue sweater. He had removed the gloves and scrubbed the makeup off his face. He was still wearing the beat-up sneakers.

      The Frankmobile looked pretty big from the outside, but inside it was close and cluttered, like someone had taken an entire house and squashed it into one room. The three of us stood huddled between the door and the sink that jutted out from the opposite wall. The carpeted floor sagged beneath our weight.

      The Wiener Man smiled at my mother. He had dark curly hair and a boyish face. “Ann,” he said. “You look terrific. You haven't changed a bit.”

      “It's a nice place you got here,” she said. She turned to get a better look and her purse swung into the side of my head.

      “This is the kitchen,” he said. “I don't use it much.” There were cabinets above the sink and a tiny refrigerator next to the door. A small wooden table folded down from one wall. An unplugged toaster sat on top of it, along with a stack of magazines and a houseplant in a red clay pot.

      “Let me give you the grand tour,” said the Wiener Man.

      The trailer swayed gently, like a boat, as we followed him through the bead curtain into his bedroom. We stood single file between the wall and the bed. There wasn't much to look at, except for a portable TV—it had aluminum foil flags attached to the rabbit ears—plopped in the middle of the sunken mattress. My mother asked the Wiener Man about his parents.

      “Pop passed away two years ago,” he said. “Cancer.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ