Free Hold the Pickles by Vicki Grant Page A

biceps!”
    I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Right. Like anyone is going to mistake those tennis balls for muscles.”
    â€œThe kid’s got no imagination either.” Hammy seemed to be talking to the hotdog now. It gave him the same blank-eyed stare I did. “Oh well. Doesn’t matter,” he said and patted me on the back. I relaxed.
    â€œPhew,” I said. Hammy always was a joker. “For a second there, I actually thought you were going to make me wear that stupid thing!”
    That got the biggest laugh yet. “Course I am! I mean it doesn’t matter what other people think. No one’s going to see you. You’ll be completely hidden. All they’ll see is a big delicious Hogg’s Dogg. Now let’s get this show on the road! And by the way, you’d better strip down. It’s hotter than a barbecue grill inside this thing.”

Chapter Two
    I wish I could say I turned and walked away, but I didn’t. I did what I was told.
    I stripped down to my tighty-whities, and Hammy slammed the hotdog over my head. I felt like a bumblebee trapped in a glass jar—except, of course, a bumblebee would at least have had a view. I could barely see a thing. I was supposed to look out through the black screens covering the hotdog’s eyes, but as Hammy kindly pointed out, I wasn’t tall enough. I had to stretch my neck even to peer out through the mouth.
    Hammy helped me get my hands into the big white Mickey Mouse gloves and my feet into the giant green slippers that he claimed looked exactly like pickles. Then he ran me through my lines.
    â€œOkay, Dan, try this. ‘Hey, folks! You want fiber in your frankfurter? Then ask for me!’” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “‘I’m Frank Lee Better. The Healthy Hottie! From Hawwwwwwwwwg’s Doggs!’”
    He sounded like he was calling down the next contestant on a TV game show.
    The costume, the name, the stupid slogan—everything about this job was humiliating. I didn’t need a personal trainer that bad.
    So why was I doing it then?
    I waddled from Hammy’s food stall on Level D all the way down to the main exhibition floor. The metal braces that were supposed to keep my giant wiener head from wobbling dug into my shoulders. The tail end of my hotdog dragged on the cement floor. The rough edge of the foam cut into my armpits. The worst thing, though, was the bright blue Frank Lee Better: Superhero cape. Some superhero. I felt like I had a sign pinned to my back that said, Make fun of me. I deserve it .
    At this point, a normal person would have packed up his self-respect and gone home. But I didn’t. I hated everything about the job, but I couldn’t let Hammy down. I knew his business was going through a rough patch. That’s why he was trying out this new high-fiber hotdog. That’s why he spent a thousand dollars for this dumb costume. He was desperate.
    And it wasn’t just because of business problems. The truth was, Hammy’s whole life was going through a rough patch. First the divorce, then losing his house, then that weird thing that happened to his forehead after the hair-implant surgery. The guy seriously needed a break.
    I figured we schmucks had to stick together. Who knows? Maybe a giant hotdog handing out samples for an afternoon would be enough to get people flocking to Hogg’s Doggs. I could at least do that much for him.
    And Hammy had been right about one thing. Unless someone recognized my scrawny ankles, no one would know who was inside the costume. At least I didn’t have to worry about that.
    I struggled to keep my pickle feet from slipping down the stairs and tried to be positive. I was sweating. I was straining. I was breathing hard. This had to be good exercise at least. Some people got their workout in a gym. Some people got their workout in a pool. I just happened to get mine inside a giant hotdog.
    That didn’t sound as