Tale #006 — The Formal Hotdog Affair
As told by Betsy LeAnne Broussard
There are certain things a woman ought to be able to count on in this life.
The sun coming up in the east.
The Lord forgiving a reasonable amount of cussing.
And a hot dog remaining a hot dog, regardless of what somebody puts on it.
That last one might sound obvious to you.
But you've probably never watched Elbert Dale Hoss attempt to rescue sixty-four wieners from a charity supper.
I have.
And I can tell you that by the end of that particular Friday night, the Katy Bill Volunteer Fire Department had evacuated its own fundraiser, the mayor was hiding behind a pickup truck, and Sheriff Bert Grant was standing in a parking lot holding a tiny paper top hat.
All because somebody forgot a comma.
The trouble started with the fire department's annual fundraising banquet.
Now, Katy Bill ain't a big town, and our volunteer firefighters don't have much in the way of fancy equipment. They do good work with what they've got, but every year they hold a supper to raise money for things like hoses, turnout gear, and whatever gets broken when somebody's cousin decides he can burn a brush pile during a drought.
This year, I was catering.
Hot dogs, chili, potato salad, baked beans, and a big sheet cake with a little red fire truck drawn on top.
Nothing complicated.
The invitation read:
FORMAL DINNER — HOT DOGS AND FIXINGS PROVIDED
Which meant you were supposed to dress nice and eat hot dogs.
Simple.
Except somebody copied the notice onto the bulletin board outside the Farm & Feed and left out the punctuation.
So the sign read:
FORMAL HOT DOG DINNER
Hoss saw it Monday morning.
He stood there reading it while Frank unloaded chicken feed.
"Frank?"
"Yeah, Hoss?"
"What's a formal hot dog?"
Frank looked up.
"What?"
"Formal hot dog. Says right here."
Frank glanced at the sign.
"Means folks dress up for supper."
Hoss nodded.
"How fancy?"
"Church fancy, I reckon."
"Reckon a tuxedo'd be too much?"
Frank shrugged.
"Can't hurt."
Now, Frank meant people.
Hoss did not.
And that's how an innocent charity supper turned into a hostage situation involving processed meat.
Hoss came into my Stop-N-Go that afternoon carrying a little notebook.
"Hey, Betsy."
"Hey, Elbert."
"Y'all got them black napkins?"
"Sure do."
"White paper doilies?"
"Wedding supplies, back aisle."
"Toothpicks?"
"Beside the paper plates."
"Little rubber bands?"
I stopped counting the cash drawer.
"What're you making?"
"Formal wear."
"For who?"
"Hot dogs."
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
There was a silence during which I could've saved us all considerable trouble if I'd understood just how far he'd already gone.
"Elbert, the hot dogs are supper."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And people are dressing up to eat them."
He nodded.
"That's what Frank said."
"So what do you need doilies for?"
"Shirtfronts."
"Shirtfronts."
"Can't have a feller wearin' a tuxedo without a clean shirtfront."
I stared at him.
He smiled.
"Betsy, they're gonna look nice."
There are times when arguing with Hoss is like trying to explain a stop sign to a thunderstorm.
You can be perfectly correct.
The thunderstorm is still coming.
I sold him the napkins, doilies, toothpicks, rubber bands, and two sheets of black construction paper.
Then he bought eight packages of hot dogs.
Sixty-four wieners.
I asked why he needed so many.
"Don't wanna leave nobody out."
And somehow that sounded sweet enough that I let him walk out the door.
God help me.
Hoss spent Monday afternoon in Daddy's equipment shed.
Paul was asleep in a feed sack beside the workbench.
Clyde sat on an overturned bucket, wearing his fedora and watching with the solemn attention of a raccoon inspecting counterfeit money.
Hoss laid out the hot dogs in neat rows.
He knew how to measure.
Daddy had taught him to cut fence boards, mark planting rows, and space seed holes straight.
That boy could take a ruler and make sixty-four identical paper jackets without being off by more than a hair.
Unfortunately, he was making them for hot dogs.
He cut little black napkin coats.
He folded white doily shirtfronts.
He used toothpicks for bow ties and tiny rubber bands to hold everything in place.
By supper, he had sixteen dressed.
By bedtime, thirty-two.
By Tuesday morning, all sixty-four were wearing tuxedos.
He made one little top hat out of construction paper.
Set it on the fanciest wiener.
Stepped back.
And smiled.
"Well, Paul, look at that distinguished gentleman."
Paul remained asleep.
Clyde reached across the table and stole the hat.
Hoss turned around.
"Clyde."
Clyde put the hat on his own head.
It sat between his ears like a thimble.
"That's the mayor's hat."
Clyde stared at him.
"Come on, now."
Clyde took off the hat, inspected it, and tucked it into his coat.
Hoss sighed.
Then made another.
He'd inherited a thousand acres and more money than most people around Katy Bill would ever see.
He could've bought sixty-four little tuxedos if such a thing existed.
But Hoss wasn't going to spend good money on something he could make himself.
I suppose you have to admire that.
From a distance.
Tuesday afternoon, Hoss stopped Biggun outside the courthouse.
Biggun was getting into his patrol car.
"Hey, Biggun!"
The sheriff shut his eyes for a second.
Then opened them.
"What is it, Elbert?"
"How many dignitaries comin' Friday?"
"To the fire supper?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mayor. Fire chief. Council president. Couple donors."
Hoss counted on his fingers.
"Five important wieners."
Biggun stared at him.
"Elbert, do not call the mayor that."
"Yes, sir."
"Why're you asking?"
"Seatin' arrangements."
Biggun's expression changed.
"Who's handling seating arrangements?"
"Me."
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody."
Biggun opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then pointed one thick finger at Hoss.
"Elbert, don't go changing anything at that banquet."
"No, sir."
"And don't cause trouble."
"No, sir."
"And whatever you're thinking about doing, run it by Betsy first."
"Yes, sir."
Biggun got in his patrol car.
Hoss went home and made five special tuxedos.
Then he made a sixth, because the fire chief's wife ought to have a nice hot dog too.
He wrote the names on little paper cards.
MAYOR
FIRE CHIEF
COUNCIL PRESIDENT
BIG DONOR
OTHER BIG DONOR
FIRE CHIEF'S WIFE
Then he sat back and looked at his work.
"Reckon that'll do."
Paul was asleep in a boot.
Clyde was trying to open a locked tackle box.
Nobody offered a second opinion.
Friday came.
I spent most of the day at the church fellowship hall with four volunteers from the fire department auxiliary.
We had big pots of chili, trays of buns, potato salad chilling in the refrigerator, and enough hot dogs to feed a small army.
The cake was on the back counter.
I'd iced it myself.
White frosting.
Red fire truck.
Little yellow flames painted along the bottom because the fire chief's wife thought it'd be cute.
I thought it looked pretty good.
At three o'clock, I left to pick up more ice.
At three-fifteen, Hoss arrived.
He'd borrowed Daddy's old dark suit.
It was a little tight across the shoulders and a little short at the wrists, but he'd brushed it clean.
He had his hair combed.
His boots polished.
And a cardboard box full of sixty-four formally dressed hot dogs.
Clyde drove him over in the Turnip Wagon Truck.
Paul came along in the cardboard box's empty lid, curled up on an old towel.
Hoss carried his wieners inside.
Saw the white tablecloths.
Saw the flowers.
Saw the head table.
And decided he'd gotten there just in time.
He started making seating arrangements.
Not for the people.
For the hot dogs.
He put one at each place setting, propped upright in a bun.
He tucked their little name cards beside them.
The mayor's hot dog got the top hat.
The fire chief's got a paper badge.
The council president's got a tiny folded napkin that looked like a briefcase.
And Biggun's got a sheriff's star cut from aluminum foil.
By four o'clock, the entire fellowship hall looked like somebody had opened a miniature funeral home for sausages.
When I returned, Hoss was adjusting the mayor's hat.
I stood in the doorway.
Looked at the tables.
Looked at the hot dogs.
Looked at Hoss.
"Elbert."
He turned.
"Hey, Betsy!"
"What have you done?"
"Seatin' chart."
"Those are hot dogs."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why are they in the chairs?"
"Formal dinner."
"Elbert, the people are supposed to sit in the chairs."
He looked around.
Then back at me.
"Well, I figured folks could sit beside 'em."
I set my ice down.
"Those hot dogs are supposed to be eaten."
Hoss nodded politely.
"Well, Betsy, I ain't gonna tell folks how to conduct their affairs."
"Their what?"
"Affairs."
"Elbert—"
"Formal affair. That's what the sign said."
I pressed two fingers against my forehead.
The first guest wasn't due for another hour.
I figured I could get the hot dogs off the tables, put them somewhere safe, and explain the whole thing without embarrassing him too badly.
I had not yet seen the little tuxedos up close.
And I had not yet realized that Hoss believed he was responsible for sixty-four living, breathing members of Katy Bill society.
The first real trouble came from the kitchen.
Miss Darlene, who'd been helping me since noon, found a tray of Hoss's hot dogs sitting beside the stove.
She didn't know they were special.
She just knew we were cooking hot dogs.
So she removed the paper decorations, dropped six into the boiling water, and went back to stirring the chili.
Hoss came through the swinging doors looking for the bathroom.
He saw the pot.
Saw the six little paper tuxedos on the counter.
Saw the hot dogs bobbing in the boiling water.
And screamed.
"BETSY! THEY'RE BOILIN' THE GUESTS!"
Miss Darlene dropped her spoon.
I came running from the fellowship hall.
"What happened?"
Hoss was already at the stove.
He'd grabbed a long-handled strainer and was fishing hot dogs out of the pot.
"ELBERT! PUT THOSE BACK!"
"THEY'RE WEARIN' TUXEDOS!"
"THEY'RE SUPPER!"
"THAT AIN'T NO WAY TO TREAT A FELLER IN FORMAL WEAR!"
He lifted two dripping hot dogs into the air.
Water ran down his sleeves.
Miss Darlene stood against the refrigerator with her hand over her heart.
"Honey," she whispered to me, "is he having some kind of episode?"
"He's having a regular Friday."
Hoss rescued all six hot dogs.
He laid them on a serving tray.
Then he scooped up their wet paper clothes.
"They stripped 'em, Betsy."
"Because you can't boil paper, Elbert!"
"Well, I should hope not!"
He marched out of the kitchen carrying his rescued dignitaries.
I followed him.
"Elbert, those are food!"
He stopped.
Looked down at the tray.
Then looked back at me.
"Betsy, I know what a hot dog is."
And that was the moment I realized we were in real trouble.
Because he did know what a hot dog was.
He just didn't think being a hot dog ought to disqualify a fellow from attending a banquet.
By five-thirty, the guests had arrived.
The mayor wore a gray suit.
The fire chief had on his dress uniform.
Biggun wore his good dark jacket and a tie his wife had picked out.
He looked tired before he'd even sat down.
I knew how he felt.
The mayor approached the head table and found a tuxedoed hot dog sitting at his place.
He picked it up.
"What's this?"
Hoss appeared beside him.
"That's you, sir."
The mayor looked at the hot dog.
Then at Hoss.
"Excuse me?"
"Formal representation."
The mayor turned to me.
"Betsy?"
"I'm working on it."
Biggun came over.
He saw the foil sheriff's star.
He saw the little paper badge.
Then he saw Hoss.
"Elbert."
"Evenin', Biggun."
"What did I tell you?"
"Don't call the mayor a wiener."
The mayor turned slowly.
Biggun shut his eyes.
"That wasn't the only thing I told you."
Hoss looked puzzled.
"Reckon I forgot the rest."
Before Biggun could respond, one of the kitchen volunteers came through carrying a fresh tray of cooked hot dogs.
Hoss saw them.
His face changed.
He looked at the tray.
Then at the pot steaming through the kitchen doors.
Then at the six damp wieners he'd rescued.
And the whole terrible picture came together in his head.
He grabbed Biggun by the sleeve.
"SHERIFF!"
Biggun stiffened.
"What?"
"They're killin' the dignitaries."
Biggun stared at him.
"What dignitaries?"
Hoss pointed at the head table.
"THE WIENERS!"
The mayor looked down at the hot dog in his hand.
Then carefully set it back on the plate.
Biggun rubbed his forehead.
"Elbert, those are hot dogs."
"I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE!"
"Then why—"
"THAT'S WHY THEY NEED PROTECTIN'!"
Hoss pointed toward the kitchen.
"They already boiled six of 'em!"
Biggun turned to me.
"Betsy."
I sighed.
"Yes, Bert."
"Tell me this is going somewhere reasonable."
"It isn't."
Hoss wanted protective custody.
He said so.
Loudly.
Biggun refused.
He said so even louder.
Hoss interpreted that refusal as evidence the sheriff might be involved.
Now, Hoss wasn't suspicious by nature.
He trusted people.
He trusted animals.
He once trusted a sack of cement because the label said quick-setting, and he figured that meant it wouldn't take long to sit down.
But when it came to the safety of his formal hot dogs, he'd developed an unexpected sense of responsibility.
He looked around the room for somebody dependable.
His eyes landed on Clyde.
Clyde stood near the back door wearing his fedora.
He'd been examining the raffle prizes.
There was a fishing rod, a pressure washer, a homemade quilt, and a gift basket from my Stop-N-Go.
Clyde had already tried to put his name in the raffle without buying a ticket.
I had taken the pencil away from him.
Hoss hurried over.
"Clyde! We got trouble!"
Clyde looked up.
"They're tryin' to kill the guests!"
Clyde straightened.
He glanced toward the head table.
Saw the tuxedoed hot dogs.
Saw Biggun.
Saw the mayor.
Then he reached inside his coat.
I was still across the room when I saw that movement.
"Clyde."
He kept reaching.
"Clyde, don't you dare."
Out came the Tommy gun.
I swear that raccoon had a talent for finding the exact moment when a situation could still be saved and making certain it wasn't.
Biggun spotted the gun.
"CLYDE!"
Clyde turned.
"PUT THAT DAMN THING AWAY!"
Clyde held it across his chest.
He wasn't firing it.
He wasn't aiming it at anybody.
But there was a raccoon with a Tommy gun standing beside a table full of formally dressed hot dogs, and that was plenty.
Biggun took one step forward.
Clyde kicked a folding chair into his path.
Hoss shouted:
"DON'T LET 'EM GET THE MAYOR!"
The actual mayor, who was standing six feet away, heard this.
He looked at Clyde.
Looked at the gun.
Looked at Hoss.
And decided that whatever was happening, he didn't intend to be part of it.
He headed for the door.
Fast.
The fire chief saw him moving.
Then saw Clyde.
Then saw the crowd starting to turn.
And because he was a good fire chief, he did what he'd been trained to do when people were frightened in a crowded building.
He ordered an evacuation.
"EVERYBODY OUT! NICE AND EASY!"
Now, folks in Katy Bill are good at many things.
Leaving a church supper before they've eaten ain't one of them.
There was confusion.
A woman asked whether she could take her potato salad.
A councilman tried to carry his chair.
Somebody grabbed the raffle quilt.
The fire chief shouted again.
"LEAVE THE FOOD! GET OUTSIDE!"
Hoss heard that.
And misunderstood it completely.
"THEY'RE LEAVIN' THE WIENERS!"
He snatched up the tray holding the five VIP hot dogs.
"CLYDE! WE GOTTA GET 'EM OUT!"
Clyde followed him toward the door.
Biggun followed Clyde.
And I came out of the kitchen carrying a pot of chili to find fifty people heading for the parking lot.
"WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYBODY GOING?"
Biggun pointed at Hoss.
"HE THINKS YOU'RE MURDERING THE WIENERS!"
Hoss was already outside.
"THEY AIN'T HAD THEIR SPEECHES YET!"
I stood there with a pot of chili in my hands.
And for the first time in my adult life, I seriously considered throwing supper at somebody.
Outside, the mayor had taken shelter behind his pickup truck.
The fire chief was counting heads.
Biggun was trying to get close enough to Clyde to take the gun.
And Hoss had loaded the five VIP hot dogs into a little red wagon the firefighters used to haul equipment at community events.
He arranged them carefully.
Straightened their jackets.
Adjusted the mayor's hat.
Then he looked around for somewhere safe.
Now, somebody inside the fellowship hall had pulled the fire alarm.
It wasn't a fire.
It wasn't even smoke.
It was just panic, which spreads faster than either one.
But the alarm went off, and two volunteers who'd been working out by the fire station brought the department's engine around to the hall.
Lights flashing.
Big red truck.
Men in turnout gear.
Hoss saw it coming.
He looked at the firefighters.
Then at the hose connections.
Then at Clyde.
His eyes widened.
"THEY BROUGHT REINFORCEMENTS!"
He grabbed the wagon.
"WE GOTTA HIDE THE MAYOR!"
The actual mayor crouched lower behind his pickup.
Hoss pulled the wagon toward the fire truck.
One firefighter was opening an equipment compartment.
Hoss saw the open door.
A safe place.
A big metal box.
Perfect.
He lifted the tray and slid his VIP hot dogs inside.
Then he closed the compartment.
The firefighter turned around.
"What're you doing?"
"Protective custard."
The firefighter blinked.
"What?"
"THEY'RE UNDER PROTECTIVE CUSTARD!"
I had finally made it outside.
"Custody, Elbert!"
"THAT TOO!"
The firefighter opened the compartment.
Six little tuxedoed hot dogs fell out.
One landed on his boot.
One rolled beneath the truck.
One bounced off the bumper.
And the mayor's top hat came floating down after them.
The firefighter stared at the pile.
Then at Hoss.
Then at me.
"Miss Betsy?"
"Don't ask."
He nodded slowly.
"I wasn't planning to."
Biggun had nearly reached Clyde when the raccoon made his move.
Now, I need to explain something about Clyde.
He's an outlaw.
Not a pretend outlaw.
Not one of those cute little raccoons that steals cat food and washes its hands in a birdbath.
Clyde is the sort of raccoon who sees a perfectly good evening and wonders how much criminal behavior he can fit into it before supper.
And for reasons known only to him, he'd stolen a sack of red, white, and blue confetti from the banquet decorations.
He'd stuffed it into the Turnip Wagon Truck earlier.
Nobody noticed.
Because we were busy trying to keep a man from appointing a hot dog to public office.
Biggun advanced.
"Clyde. Hand it over."
Clyde backed toward the truck.
"Now."
Clyde reached behind him.
Grabbed the sack.
And flung the whole damn thing into the air.
CON FETTY.
A great red, white, and blue cloud burst across the parking lot.
Paper blew into the mayor's pickup.
Across the fire truck windshield.
Through the open doors of the fellowship hall.
Into Biggun's face.
The fire chief coughed.
Somebody screamed.
Hoss ducked.
"SMOKE SCREEN!"
Biggun staggered backward, spitting paper.
"CLYDE!"
Clyde darted beneath the fire truck.
The Tommy gun disappeared with him.
And the parking lot erupted into the kind of confusion you normally only see when somebody releases livestock during a parade.
A firefighter slipped on the spilled hot dogs.
Another stepped backward into the little red wagon.
The wagon rolled downhill.
Straight toward the ditch at the edge of the parking lot.
Hoss saw it moving.
"THE DIGNITARIES!"
He lunged.
Grabbed the handle.
Stopped the wagon.
Unfortunately, the sudden stop launched the remaining hot dogs forward.
The fire chief's wiener landed in a puddle.
The council president's hit the side of the fire truck.
And the mayor's formally dressed hot dog, tiny top hat and all, sailed through the open fellowship hall door.
Right past me.
Right past Miss Darlene.
And straight into the center of my freshly iced sheet cake.
SPLAT.
I looked at the cake.
There was a hot dog sticking out of the fire truck's roof.
Its little black hat was embedded in the frosting.
A thin red line of chili had splashed across the white icing.
It looked like the fire truck had been hit by a sausage tornado.
I set my pot of chili down.
Very carefully.
Then I walked outside.
Hoss was standing beside the wagon.
Clyde had emerged from beneath the fire truck and was trying to brush confetti off his fedora.
Biggun had the Tommy gun.
The mayor was still behind his pickup.
The fire chief was holding a hot dog in one hand and a piece of paper tuxedo in the other.
I stood in the middle of that parking lot.
And said:
"ELBERT DALE HOSS."
He turned.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE?"
He looked around.
At the confetti.
At the firefighters.
At the hot dogs.
At the mayor.
Then he smiled.
"Well, hell, Betsy."
I waited.
"They sure know how to make an entrance."
I nearly committed a felony.
It took forty-five minutes to get everybody back inside.
Biggun confiscated Clyde's gun for the evening.
Clyde objected by crossing his arms and refusing to look at him.
The mayor finally emerged from behind his pickup.
The fire chief checked that nobody was hurt.
Miss Darlene cleaned up the kitchen.
And I threw away every hot dog that had been involved in the evacuation.
Including the one from my cake.
Especially that one.
Then I went back to the kitchen and cooked fresh hot dogs.
Proper hot dogs.
In boiling water.
Without tuxedos.
Without name tags.
Without protective custard.
We served supper an hour late.
The firefighters raised money anyway.
Folks in Katy Bill are generous, especially when they've witnessed something they'll be talking about for the next ten years.
The mayor ate two hot dogs.
Biggun ate one and spent the rest of the evening staring at Clyde.
Clyde ate three.
I don't know where he got the third one.
Hoss ate potato salad.
Just potato salad.
I sat beside him while the fire chief thanked everybody for coming.
"Elbert," I whispered, "you can have a hot dog."
He shook his head.
"No, ma'am."
"Why not?"
"Wouldn't feel right."
"Why?"
He looked toward the kitchen.
"Not after what them fellers been through."
I took a long drink of coffee.
Didn't say another word.
Because there wasn't one left worth saying.
At the end of the evening, the fire chief stood up to make his closing remarks.
He thanked the volunteers.
Thanked the donors.
Thanked the auxiliary.
And thanked me for salvaging supper.
That last one got a nice round of applause.
I appreciated it.
I really did.
Then he asked whether anybody else wanted to say a few words.
I saw Hoss stand up.
And I knew.
I knew before he opened his mouth.
"Well, I just wanna say—"
Biggun lowered his head.
The mayor set down his fork.
Clyde leaned back in his chair.
Hoss smiled at the room.
"I LOVE DRESSIN' UP IMPORTANT WIENERS!"
Silence.
Not ordinary silence.
The kind of silence that makes you aware of every clock ticking in a building.
Then somebody at the back snorted.
A woman covered her mouth.
The fire chief's shoulders started shaking.
And suddenly half the fellowship hall was laughing so hard they couldn't breathe.
Hoss looked delighted.
He thought they were laughing because they'd enjoyed the banquet.
He waved.
"THANK Y'ALL!"
Then he sat down and finished his potato salad.
Biggun stared into his coffee.
The mayor shook his head.
And I decided that if I ever catered another formal affair, the menu was going to be chicken.
The next morning, Hoss was back in Daddy's equipment shed.
Paul was asleep in an old boot.
Clyde was sitting on the workbench, cleaning confetti out of his fedora.
Hoss had Daddy's old clothes trunk open.
He rummaged through it.
Pulled out a dark suit coat.
A pair of suspenders.
A felt hat.
Then he found Daddy's black funeral tie.
He held it up.
"Paul, I been thinkin'."
Paul didn't move.
"Next year, we oughta do a black-tie affair."
He studied the tie.
Ran it between his fingers.
"Reckon I could cut this into a whole lotta little neckties."
Paul opened one eye.
Hoss smiled.
"Make everybody look real respectable."
Clyde stopped picking confetti out of his hat.
He looked at the tie.
Then at Hoss.
Then at the package of leftover hot dogs sitting on the workbench.
A slow grin spread across that raccoon's face.
Hoss nodded.
"Yeah, reckon we'll start early this time."
Paul closed his eye.
And that afternoon, I opened my catering book to next October.
Under the fire department fundraiser, I wrote three words.
NO HOSS. WIENERS.
Then I looked at it.
Thought about how Elbert Dale Hoss interpreted written instructions.
And added another line underneath.
THIS MEANS DO NOT LET ELBERT DALE HOSS ANYWHERE NEAR THE HOT DOGS.
Because I wasn't about to lose another sheet cake to a man who thought a sausage could hold public office.
THE END