My Lost Adventure as the Wiener Mobile Boy
After I graduated from college, my parents suggested that I try and become the
Wiener Mobile boy. "Jeff, you'll meet all kinds of people, see the country.
Think of the contacts you'll make." My reply: "I'm not driving around
in a giant hot dog." They had recently seen a feature on one of the
driver's of Oscar Mayer's Wiener Mobile. His job: promote Oscar Mayer's meat by
trekking around the country in a giant hot dog and doing good deeds. I had
no problems with the promotions aspect of the job, nor with the doing good deeds
stipulation. I simply couldn't get past the vessel in which I would carry out my
mission. I should also mention that I hadn't eaten a hot dog since my little
league days. To be fair, I'll admit that my parents started out like all mothers
and
fathers, giving me insight into the professional world ("stock brokers make
a lot of money!") and occasionally giving me inside information on possible
jobs ("Bill, our insurance agent, said there's an opening in his
office.")
Wiener boy fever didn't start for my parents until after I told them one, I
was not going to apply to law school, and two, I had no career oriented job
lined up a full month after graduation. Of course I had a job. And of course I wasn't calling up Mommy and Daddy and
asking them for money. My parents were simply doing what parents do:
fulfilling their roles as constant career advisors.
Things took a major turn for the worse when the unthinkable occurred: my
parents met the Wiener Mobile boy, in all his future senator glory. In what
seemed to be like direct orchestration on the part of the old testament God,
my parents, on their annual visit to see me, ended up staying at the very
same hotel where the Wiener Mobile boy decided to pull over and park his
giant hot dog. My parents made sure to call me right away. "Get over here. We've got a
surprise for you," my mom directed with suspicious excitement. I saw the damn hot dog before I even turned into the hotel parking lot.
"Great," I said to myself, "just great." Having parked as far away from the mobile dog as I could, I was almost at
the hotel lobby entrance when I heard my mom's anxious call: "Jeff! Jeff,
we're over here." I turned to see my parents standing in front of the
Wiener Mobile with a well-dressed, squeaky clean white boy smiling at me like we
were long lost brothers. Of course he was a nice guy, the Wiener Mobile boy. That was his job: to be
nice. He was quick to tell us he had just helped some flood victims by
handing out food and blankets. He was even quicker in telling us that it's
his job to do such niceties. I wanted to vomit. My parents wanted to take
this guy home and call him son.
After a tour of the Wiener Mobile, and some more small talk, the Wiener
Mobile boy got in his dog and drove away. Like the lone ranger and his
silver bullets, the Wiener Mobile boy gave us a Wiener Mobile whistle. He
was riding off into the sunset, surely smiling at the gawking faces from
passing cars. I walked off with my tail between legs. I knew what was
coming.
"That kid sure was nice," my mom said longingly to my dad. And then,
to me,
"If you get it together, maybe you could be the next Wiener Mobile
boy."
