Bad Haircut. Tom Perrotta

Boy Launderette, a bunch of tough-looking teenagers were slouched against a black GTO, smoking cigarettes and scowling at the Wiener Man like they knew him from somewhere and hated his guts.

      While we waited, I tried to think up some good questions to ask him. I knew from experience that if you wanted to have a conversation with a celebrity, you had to get the ball rolling yourself. I made a mental list of the possibilities: How did you get your job? Who do you like better—Joe Frazier or Muhammad Ali? Do you own a motorcycle? What's your favorite TV show? Were you ever in the service, and if so, what was your rank? Have you traveled to foreign countries? Do you know Chef Boy-R-Dee?

      We were stuck in the middle of the line when Ricky Stoner, a kindergartner from our neighborhood, walked past us holding a Wonderful Wiener with both hands. He seemed to be concentrating deeply, like it was difficult to walk and carry a hot dog at the same time. Ricky got picked on a lot because something was wrong with his head—people said it was still soft, like a baby's— and his mother made him wear a Little League batting helmet all the time for protection. We called him Kazoo, after the Martian on The Flint-stones, who also wore a funny helmet.

      “Hey Kazoo,” Billy Turcott called out. “Wait up.”

      Kazoo stopped. He tilted his head sideways like a dog to look at Billy.

      “Whatcha got there?” Billy asked.

      “Hot dog,” said Kazoo. “They're free.”

      Billy stepped out of line and put his hand on Kazoo's shoulder, like the two of them were friends. “Can I have a bite?”

      Kazoo glanced hopefully up at Billy and shook his head. Billy lifted his hand and slapped it down three times on the dome of Kazoo's blue helmet. Kazoo just stood there with his eyes squeezed shut and took it.

      “Kazoo,” Billy said thoughtfully, “do you want to be a cub scout next year?”

      Kazoo nodded. He held the hot dog tightly to his chest. There was a little smear of mustard on his sweatshirt.

      “Then you better give me a bite. It's your initiation.”

      “That's right,” said Freddy DiLeo. “We all get a bite.” Freddy was Billy's best friend.

      Kazoo looked down at his Wonderful Wiener and up at seven cub scouts. The hot dog was only four bites big.

      “He's lying!” Harold cried out. “There's no such thing as initiation.”

      “Shut up, Dork,” Billy snapped. He glared at Kazoo. “Hand it over. Or else.”

      “Leave him alone, Billy,” I said. “There's enough for everyone.” I hadn't planned on saying anything, but after Harold spoke up, things looked different to me.

      Kazoo sensed his chance and trotted away. Billy didn't chase after him. He got back in line and looked at me like I'd hurt his feelings. “What's the matter with you? I wasn't gonna take the little twerp's wiener.”

      “Oh yes you were,” Harold said. His voice was shaking. “You should pick on someone your own size.”

      “Oh yeah?” Billy poked Harold in the chest. “You're about my size, Dork.” He hauled off and socked Harold in the arm, right above the elbow. Just from the sound you could tell it hurt. Harold didn't even say ouch; he just reached up and started rubbing. This time I kept my mouth shut.

      Up close you could see that the Wiener Man was not as tall as he first appeared. His face was painted pink and stuck out of a hole in the middle of the hot dog suit. He wore a wiener-colored leotard and wiener-colored gloves. Only his dirty white sneakers kept him from being uniformly pink.

      We were next in line. In front of us the Wiener Man posed for a picture with a little blonde girl in a red and white checkered dress. The two of them stood perfectly still with smiles frozen on their faces.

      “Say cheese,” said the girl's mother.

      Just as she snapped the picture, one of the tough guys by the GTO flicked his cigarette at the Wiener Man. It arced through the air, sailed past the little girl's face, and landed on the blacktop at the Wiener Man's feet.

      The tough guys laughed. There were four of them. The one who flicked the cigarette had long hair and a dirty peach-fuzz mustache. His faded dungaree jacket was covered with graffiti.

      The Wiener Man gave the little girl back to her mother, then turned to the tough guys. He pointed to the cigarette. It was still lit; smoke curled up from it in a lazy S-shaped pattern.

      “Does this belong to one of you gentlemen?” he asked.

      “Maybe,” said the guy who flicked it. “Maybe not.” His friends laughed. They all had long hair parted in the middle, but the similarity ended there. One was chubby and red-faced. One reminded me of a rat. The third looked confused.

      The Wiener Man's voice was calm. “Come over here and pick it up.”

      The tough guys looked at each other in disbelief. “Did you hear that?” the leader said. “Mr. Tube Steak wants me to pick up that butt.”

      The Rat touched his fly. “Yeah, I got a tube steak for him.”

      The woman from Stop & Shop stepped out from behind the cart and grabbed the Wiener Man's hand. “I'll go get the manager,” she said.

      “Forget the manager,” he told her. “I can handle these guys myself.”

      I glanced at Allen. His eyes were wide with wonder. There was going to be a fight. This was more than we could have hoped for in our wildest dreams.

      The Wiener Man put his hands where his hips must have been. His arms looked stumpy because they only stuck out from the elbows down. “Are you gonna come over here, or am I gonna go over there?”

      “I think you're gonna have to come over here,” said the tough guy.

      “Okay.” The Wiener Man walked slowly toward the GTO. The costume bunched up around his ankles, so he could only take tiny shuffling steps. The guy who flicked the cigarette put up his dukes and stepped forward. His friends stayed back by the car.

      There was a momentary standoff. The Wiener Man towered over his opponent, but he didn't seem eager to take the first punch.

      “Come on, weenie man,” the tough guy sneered. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

      It wasn't much of a fight. The Wiener Man faked high with his left and came in low with his right, landing a solid gut shot that folded the tough guy right in half. When 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