The Vingano Trilogy

Believe me I was as shocked as my classmates.

I'd been fired the day after cancer surgery. Two weeks into bedrest, I was strung out with boredom due to physical restrictions. Judith White-Marks - author, columnist and writing professor had been encouraging me to take her classes for years, but I couldn't fathom only having 20 minutes to write after writing a few books. (It was a series about a wealthy dysfunctional family that I took off line but eventually will republish). 

Anywho,  knowing I thought in a 400-page capacity made me dread going to classes where you only wrote for 20 minutes. I never told her this because I was too proud. Clearly, I was miserable healing while I housesat at a mutual friend's because I no longer cared as much about looking foolish. Thank goodness, I had somewhere else to go. 

My fictional story Healthier Hotdogs is the result of my first class. It was submitted to Uncharted Magazine - a well-regarded literary magazine wrote saying they were grateful to read high quality work such as Healthier Hotdogs. I had a lot of time off from people seeing my work, so that was a huge relief. 

I saved the stories I wrote at each class. Thank you Judith for not giving up on asking me! May you R.I.P. XO

Because of her, I discovered I could write a short is less than 20 minutes. Of course this story was rounded out years later for readers. You never know what your capabilities may be unless you try.

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HEALTHIER HOTDOGS​

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My personal cell phone buzzed in my tweed jacket. I took my navy wedge heeled feet off the small ottoman under my desk. If it’s Aunt Rita calling, it will be the sixth phone call from her this week. I pulled my white and silver iPhone out. “Favorite Aunt” lights up on the screen. Damn it!

My French manicured fingers grip it to the point where I could see my nails turning blue through the polish. I always answered my hypochondriac aunt by her sixth phone call, so she wouldn’t think I was ignoring her. I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and hit the green button. “Hi, Aunt Rita!”

“Holly, I’ve been trying to reach you all week!”  Her strained Long Island accent blared, almost piercing my eardrum.

“Sorry, I’ve had a ton of broker IT calls on my work phone since Sunday. My dashboard phone holder broke, and I threw my personal phone in my glove box." I  Anywho, what’s going on?”

“Your uncle and I have been going to… Uh, what’s that hotdog stand place?”

“Hotdogs?” I could feel the skin folds between my eyebrows touching. “You mean Eats? The one in South Hampton?” 

“No. Well, I mean, it was. Didn’t you read the New Yorker?  That Tim Carcus finally sold it. It’s now under the new owner, some guy, Melvin Melski.”  Rita laughed.

“Aunt Rita, his name is Tim Carkelli. I can’t believe you’re eating hotdogs after claiming, since I can remember, that Mom, Dad and I will all die from our patronage there.”

“Well, this place is different!” Rita hissed.

There it was, that tone. I can picture it; her eyebrows have just lowered and are now hidden behind her eyeglass frames.

I held the phone away from my face. I know I’m scrunching my nose in disgust. My husband hates that look on me.

“We’re going to the new place called Healthier Hotdogs!” Rita’s voice bellowed from my phone.

This I had to see. My crazy aunt, who’d been telling me for 30 years that we were going to die from road stand food, was actually promoting hotdogs.

“I can’t believe what you’re saying, Aunt Rita!”

“Why not?” she replied. “Your uncle is so much more active since he started getting food from there.”

My head tilted as I stared at “Favorite Aunt” on my cell screen. Her husband, Uncle Carlo was a slender man, his jeans and button-down shirts were all ways pressed. The year after he retired, he watched excessive Seinfeld and The Jeffersons’ reruns in their basement and didn’t get off his tush . . . except to pee. It had resulted in a blood clot in his leg. And last I knew he was still obsessing over watching reruns in their cellar, until now that is.

“I’ll have to try it” I told her, squinting at the phone.

I liked the idea of getting more done. I felt my face relax into a smile. “I’ll call you.”

 At work, the next day, as I got the commercial real estate director’s desktop running again, I nodded at him, “All set. Call me if you have any issues.”

He sat in his navy blue suit and striped tie, his phone to his ear and waved to me as I headed out.

 

 I drove my 300 series Beemer from our Brookhaven, New York office to South Hampton. From a distance I could see the hotdog stand I’d been to many times as a child. A new sign in bold neon blue read “Healthier Hotdogs.” The name was jarring.

As I pulled in, a large roof sign, with a cartoon bouncy dachshund wearing a bun read, ‘Hotdogs That Give You Great Energy!’  .

The hotdog stand’s new lacquered powder blue paint gave it more of a 50s vibe but the sound of crushed stone under my tires startled me, so I hit the brakes. A horn blared behind me.

A man, in a black mustang convertible with orange flames on its hood, lashed his arm out at me. “Park that thing!” he hollered, stabbing his index finger at my Beemer.

“Jack ass,” I muttered and pulled into a spot. I hopped out of my car, my tan leather Coach handbag swinging on my arm as gravel nipped at my leather kitten heels, and I raced to get in line before he did. An older couple, in khakis, was next in line, their necks craned, as they read the five item menu. The lady tapped the man on his shoulder. “Doug, don’t get anything for the grandkids. Last time they had so much energy; they made a slide out of our mattress and bent it.

“Oh, that was from the kids?”  He looked baffled.  “Gees, they never wreck anything.” 

Hmm, there it was - that word “energy” again. I stood close to them in line, so no one could cut in front of me.

There were eight college-aged staff members in t-shirts and jeans and a man with slicked back brown wavy hair wearing an apron. He appeared to be in his late 40s, three keys on a lanyard around his neck, and a tuft of hair peeking out from his t-shirt collar.

“Next in line!” someone yelled.

I looked over to find a boy with rolled up sleeves eyeing me. “How you want your Healthier Hotdogs?”

I hurried up to him, smacked my purse on the counter, and yanked the zipper open. “I’ll take two with ketchup and one with mustard, relish and onions. One large and one small Coke and one large fry. Extra ketchup, please.

The boy’s index fingers stabbed away at the old register buttons. “That’s forty seven dollars. Cash only.” His hand flung out in front of me. Feeling a gush of air against my face, I unconsciously stepped back.

“Okay.” I held a fifty out.

He snatched it up.

“Keep the change.” I said.

He stuffed the tip in a one gallon glass jar that was packed with cash.

“Wow, you guys do well. Don’t you?” I tucked napkins into my bag.

He nodded so big, it looked like he was almost bowing. He spun around and headed further inside. I felt a hand on my arm. It yanked me. “You need to step aside. You’re holding up the line!” A woman, with short blonde hair and a turned up nose, stepped in front of me.

Before I could stop myself, my hand pushed hers off of me, and I stepped away.

“Order up! You!” A man yelled.

It’s the guy in his 40s, his eyes are locked on mine. He launched a big bag upward and frisbeed a cup holder with two Cokes in it.

I stretched my arms out, collected the food and high tailed it to my car, my window open. I looked around me and swung my body into the driver’s seat. The mustang guy in gym shorts and a running jacket was heading towards me. “What were you trying to collect? Insurance money, slamming your brakes in the middle of the parking lot!” He thrashed his food bag toward me.

I jammed the key in the ignition, slammed the shift into reverse, and stomped the gas. The car jerked backward. My food bag smacked the back of the seat, the ice clanked in the cups. I shoved the shift into drive and launched the car out of the lot, gravel pelting the jack ass.  I checked the rear view mirror all the way home.

Mark’s car wasn’t in the driveway of our three bedroom colonial yet. I hit the visor garage door opener as I pulled up in front of it, on my side. Of course, as it rose I saw both bays full of the annoying mound of his ‘on sale’ items that he’d bought over the years and never opened. For the 2,563rd time I could hear his voice in my head. “I got such a good deal on it. It would have been crazy for me to pass up that price.”

I put my window up, headed into the garage with our food and drinks and hit the lock button on my keys. My shoulders tight, my eyes scoured up and down my road. No black mustang with orange flames. I hit the garage door closer. I hear it roll down as I push the door open into the kitchen and placed the food on the counter. I take out a white, ceramic plate, put my mustard, relish, onion hotdog and a handful of the fries on it. I shoved my straw into my small Coke and placed my dinner on the thrifted wood dining table I’d polyurethaned. I smiled at the perfect white daisies I’d hand painted on it. I texted Mark. Dinner’s ready. My phone dinged a minute later. See you in about an hour, I’m in traffic. I tapped on my cell’s New Yorker app and searched for Healthier HotDogs. A picture of the hotdog stand appeared. Hmm. My hotdog was juicy and tender. The fries, on the crispy side, to my liking. I sipped my cold drink and closed my eyes. Minutes later, I felt my shoulders relax.

 

An hour later, I found myself putting on my charcoal running shorts and jacket, and shoving my feet into my grey running shoes that were at the back of the closet. I hadn’t run in the last few months since contracting mononucleosis. I stretched outside and headed down the road, the sound of my sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythm, my breathing escalating and reaching a steady pattern with my pounding feet. I took in a slow deep breath and let it out. I pumped my fist in the air. Finally!

When I returned home after running five miles, Mark had already polished off his dinner, the empty large soda cup on the counter. “Thanks, babe. That was the best dinner I’ve had in months. I thought you weren’t eating hotdogs.”

My lips twisted. Anger nudged me, because I knew he didn’t like my cooking, but today he admitted it. My lips parted because I was going to unleash on him, but then I snapped my mouth shut. I like these hotdogs, I like running, I feel better and Mark likes Healthier Hotdogs, too. Now I know why crazy Aunt Rita raves about them.

I found myself getting Healthier Hotdogs often on my way home from work because it stopped Mark from griping about my cooking. I parked in the driveway, always focused on going for another run until one day, when I returned from work and I heard the Rolling Stones coming from the garage. I opened the garage door. There were three clear paths through aligned boxes that towered toward the ceiling.

“Mark? Hello? Is somebody here?”

Mark’s head rose above a stack of boxes.

“Oh, gosh. Mark. You’re cleaning?” My head tilted.

“Yeah. I was thinking it would be a good time to clean.”

My eyes fell on the three full trash barrels. I lifted the lid on the one closest to me to find a Healthier Hotdogs’s paper bag. “You bought hotdogs?”

Mark took two steps backward. “Well, they’re good, so I thought I’d treat myself. It’s not like I bought filet minion and didn’t bring you any.”

How could he not think of me. Something caught my eye, and I hurried to my side of the garage and stretched my arms out on either side of me. It was empty. “I can park my car in here!”

A grin grew across Mark’s face. “Yeah, I cleaned it for you.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on the forehead. I melted into him, dumbfounded.

“Where’d you put everything?”

“I’ve been selling it on Market Hack.”

After eight years of parking in the driveway, I pulled my car in the garage and even had enough space to comfortably walk around it!  I continued my runs, increasing that 5 miles to ten without even feeling it.  And evenings with Mark became exciting and romantic. 

Work even seemed more productive but, a few weeks after the first of many Healthier Hotdogs, I felt someone shaking my shoulder, jolting me awake. I lifted my head off my office desk and opened my eyes to find the real estate director holding a printed letter out in front of me. His other hand was on his hip. “Take this.”

Bold typeface at the top of it read “Written Warning.” At the bottom under the signature line, my name Holly Bertrose was in Times New Roman font. My stomach muscles flinched. My head pulled back and away from him.

 

 “You want to sleep? Do it at home! This is a massive and successful brokerage firm. Your behavior won’t be tolerated!” He slapped a pen down in front of me. I tried to focus on the the signature line as my pen swirled along it. I missed one of the “l’s” in my first name.

“Holy? There’s nothing holy about falling asleep on your desk!” The director thrashed the written warning in his hand at me and stormed off.

When I leaned in the HR director’s doorway, she sat back and crossed her arms over her cranberry sweater. My heart slammed my stomach. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to take the rest of the day off.” I stammered.

“Hmm hum.” She leaned forward.

The next day, I sat in my office with a large black coffee. A TikTok video about Healthier Hotdogs popped up on my desktop news feed. Police cruisers surrounded the hotdog stand.  I couldn’t play the sound in the office so I scrolled down to read the story.

A reporter from the Port Haven News had posted it an hour earlier. It read:

Hotdog connoisseur Tim Carkelli sold his numerous, popular drive-in food stands due to his wife wanting him to lose weight. The new owner, Marvin Melski, has taken over all the locations.

Mysteriously, patrons noticed they were happier, more energetic and productive. Yes, I’ve been more productive at work, so they never should have written me up! I griped and went back to reading.

One Healthier Hotdogs’s patron who spoke anonymously said, “I’ve never been able to deal with my nagging wife when I get home after working a long hard day, but since I started eating Healthier Hotdogs, I have energy to accomplish her Honey Do list faithfully. I stop at Healthier Hotdogs and eat on my way home from work.”

After local cops sampled take-out from there they became suspicious, and Drug Enforcement Agents opened an investigation.  Oh my gosh! What for? My heart slammed my stomach.

I kept reading: Several patrons were voluntarily tested by the DEA. All of their results came back positive for cocaine.  I sprung out of my chair and it hit against the credenza behind it. I swung my door closed and starred at my computer screen, my eyes picking up the story where I’d left off: Agents were able to get a Healthier Hotdogs’ employee to admit that Melski told them to sprinkle cocaine on every order of food and drink.  The underage student, who remains anonymous, added that the gourmet high prices covered the cost of the cocaine in the food.  Melski has been arraigned and is being held until bond is set. 

My breathing grew restricted as my shaking fingers typed my doctor’s name into my phone. I usually put it on speaker, but I connected my earbuds. When the receptionist answered, “Dr. Bennett’s office,” I whispered into the phone, “I, I think I’m addicted to cocaine.”

“Have you been eating Healthier Hotdogs?” she asked.

I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. “Yes. I didn’t know there was stuff in their food,”

“Hold please.”

The Scarface movie intro song played into Holly’s phone. Then it went silent.

 “Hello, this is Dr. Bennett. Holly?”

 “Yes, doctor. I think I need to go to drug rehab.”

“How long has it been?”

“Gosh, uh, about a month or so.”

“You’ve never had a drug addiction?”

“No. Never.”

“Well, wait and see if you’re having a hard time coming down from the high and, if so, call me.”

“Really?” My body shuddered.

“Yes. You’ll probably be fine.”

“But, I should come in so you can make sure I’m okay.”

“I can’t have half the town showing up at my office. You’ll be okay. Call me if you have a real problem.” The phone went dead.

  Okay? I hesitated, then caught my breath. I have to go back to being exhausted, not jogging, and listening to my husband gripe about my cooking!

I dialed Aunt Rita, my hands trembling. 

“Hi Holly honey. Is everything okay? You’ve never called me during your work hours.”

“Aunt Rita?” I cried out. “Where is there a Healthier Hotdogs location that’s still open!”

 

RJ Grand has written a film trilogy in her car and cafes, inspired by real life. The first story of The Vingano Trilogy is CHECKBOOK. It’s about 29 year old Stephanie Morgan, who is desperate to get a promotion so she doesn’t lose her tiny apartment. When she rejects a male client’s advances, he secretly sets out to destroy her financially.

RJ  is currently adapting the first movie script, Checkbook, into the book.

 

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