Bad Haircut Read Free

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 scoringa 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 lookslike 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 wish I'd known,” she said. “I could've at least sent a card.”
    “It was bad,” he said. “We weren't even on speaking terms when he died. He never forgave me for not taking over the business.”
    “How's your mother?”
    “She's a pain in the ass, as usual. All she does is complain. Like I don't have enough problems of my own.”
    He opened the bathroom door. My mother peeked inside and laughed. I couldn't see what she was looking at.
    I sat next to my mother on a padded bench behind the kitchen table and played a game called Hi-Q while she talked to the Wiener Man. It was a neat game, something like Chinese checkers, but harder. The Wiener Man told me that he