Book of Nathan by Curt Weeden

Author:Curt Weeden
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Published: 2010-08-01T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 15

A shallow, muddy stretch of the Raritan River is the divide between a suburb called Highland Park and New Brunswick.

“Holy shit.”

I shot Maurice a look of disapproval. He knew I had a thing about public profanity.

“Sorry,” Maurice apologized. “But over there—I think that’s the—⁠” He stared into a thick Monday morning fog that lifted off the Raritan and made the Albany Street Bridge all but disappear.

I followed Maurice’s eyes and got my first glimpse of a phallic-looking vehicle penetrating the dense wall of Monday morning river mist.

I couldn’t stifle my own oath. “What the hell is that?”

“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s the Wienermobile.”

For some mysterious reason, Maurice was an expert on one of America’s most imaginative marketing inventions—the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. I, on the other hand, knew nothing about the traveling hotdog and bun. Maurice gave me a quick tutorial while we hurried across Albany Street, a main drag that ran through the heart of New Brunswick. Until this unexpected diversion, we had been on our way to the Hyatt Hotel hoping to locate Yigal, whom I figured had to be taking full advantage of Twyla’s free room.

“Oh,” Maurice gasped again as a gargantuan vehicle rolled into full view, a trail of dark gray smoke spewing out its back end.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Maurice mumbled, grabbed me by my arm and began running toward the disabled conveyance. We were a bun length away when two men who may not have been old enough to buy beer climbed out.

“Damn.” one of the men yelled and kicked the rear passenger-side tire.

The other man was less distressed. He turned to Maurice and me who were now at his side.

“Name’s Frank,” he said and stuck a hand at my belt buckle.

I wondered if the kid was putting me on. “Frank?”

“Yup.”

“Whatever you say.”

“The junk heap’s been givin’ us trouble the last couple of days,” Frank explained.

Maurice blinked a few times. “Is this . . . is this the Wienermobile?”

“This thing?” Frank slapped the broken-down bun. “Nah. This is the Dubensko Kielbasavan.”

“But it looks like—” Maurice moaned.

“Yeah, I know—like the Wienermobile,” Frank broke in. “Get that all the time. Dubensko Polish Meat Products ripped off the idea and built this piece of crap to advertise its all-beef sausages. Oscar Mayer ain’t happy about it but so far that hasn’t kept this fat piece of kielbasa from travelin’ all over Jersey.”

Maurice was too crestfallen to continue talking. I took up the slack. “So what happens now?” I asked with a gesture to the dormant sausage.

“Well, we can’t drive it no more until it’s fixed. Know where we could park the thing?”

I tried to find another sane-looking soul who might come up with a suggestion. Even though it was nine thirty in the morning and we were standing on one of New Brunswick’s busiest thoroughfares, there wasn’t a human in sight except Maurice.

“Albany Street’s fairly flat,” I observed. “Might be able to push it back toward the river.”

Frank cranked his head to the side. “Sweet. So we push the kielbasa backward into that side street over there.

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