There Must Be Something in that Hot Dog

The frankfurter monument in all of its colossal, veiny glory looked perverse at certain angles. It was built to bring tourism to the small community…or so they said, Monica reflected. The truth was, most of the surrounding towns had resorted to boasting “The Biggest” fill-in-the-blank, in a desperate attempt to resuscitate the economy. For what it was worth, that was what the town was known for: The hot dog plant and frankfurter, well, everything. Even the Mayor was a big wig on the factory’s board of directors.

Since most of the town was pretty reliant on the eyesore, everyone was relieved when the big trucks hired to do revitalization work to it left. Just in time for tourism season. Though, little improvement was truly noticed on the monument.

Despite being in the midst of unusually balmy late spring, Monica perceived that the locals didn’t seem to be their usual friendly and outgoing selves. It began with little things, really…her massage therapist pretending not to know her at the store. The local pharmacist being rude and impatient when she came to pick up her regular prescription. No one smiled back anymore. Small changes that could be brushed off, but collectively made her wonder. Being 90% deaf since birth, Monica noticed these things. She knew body language well; all her life she relied on non-verbal cues. Nevertheless, at first she chalked it up to certain individuals having a bad day. Changes in the world.

No, it wasn’t necessarily an overnight change, but it certainly felt close to it. In particular, it felt like low to middle class towns folk were on edge. Nobody waved back, but if Monica’s lip reading was on point (and it was), tawdry gossip was at its highest. The recent news (if you could call it that) was that the most popular teacher at the high school left his wife for a parent of one of his pupils. However, the rumour mill couldn’t seem to decide if he left her for the mother or the father. From Monica’s vantage point, seemingly solid middle class family units around town were disintegrating. 

Monica worked for the biggest employer in town - Fredrick’s Frankfurters’ factory. Unfortunately, small town Canada has never been a social and career Mecca for the deaf. It got very lonely - Especially when the collective community seemed, well, angry. 

One day, while running the end of assembly line, Monica noticed that the head foreman of the factory, who was around her age, had a high tech looking hearing aid. Funny, she didn’t realize he suffered from hearing loss, as well. She hummed and hawed about whether she should talk to him. Could a boss be a friend? Surely it was worth starting a conversation with him, at the very least.

She had debated how to approach it. Monica was, despite years of speech therapy, self conscious about her speaking. Since her pen and paper were in her work locker, she opted to go the most direct route. She signed to him, “Hard of hearing? Hearing aid? Know Sign language?”. He looked at her with an odd mixture of curiosity, contempt and confusion, so Monica pointed at the devices in his ears. Any inquisitiveness in his features faded into pure annoyance and he gestured at her, lips forming a very obvious order for her to return to her work station. 

Monica bit back her disappointment and embarrassment and returned to ensuring the casing machine for the hot dogs was doing what it supposed to. In her peripheral vision, she could tell that there was some argument between two of her fellow factory workers. Monica’s shift ended in 5 minutes. 5 minutes until she could be in the peaceful sanctuary of her townhouse, with her trusty basset hound, Skuffles. Yes, alone - but maybe for the best. 

As she put her work clothing in the appropriate bin for sanitization and gathered up her things to go home, she caught a glimpse of the CEO coming down the hallway. She wondered if the foreman had complained about her and held back. Just enough so he couldn’t see her, but she had a clear view of him through the break room’s window. Before the coast was clear, she saw it. The same device was in the CEO’s ear canal.

Maybe it was some kind of coincidence. Perhaps it was some technology from the plant to keep things running smoothly? But that sent her down a terrifying rabbit hole about being tracked. Workers being spied on. No - there had to be a simple explanation. Monica resigned herself to the fact that she would likely never know the reason for the devices. Really, there was no point even thinking about it. A nice Belgian beer with her Skuffles, was what the doctor had ordered.

Only it was when she was halfway home that Monica realized she was out of her strawberry beer and Skuffles needed more dog food. Trips to downtown that were previously looked forward to, Monica now dreaded, but she was determined that her loyal and sweet Skuffles would not go hungry.

The trip to the liquor store seemed uneventful enough. Initially. Usually, she'd get the customary wave and smile from whoever was running the show, however, the owner and cashier seemed to be in deep conversation. They knew Monica was deaf, so they didn’t censor themselves. She often found this to be a blessing and a curse. Without being caught staring, she pieced together the conversation: Someone very important wanted to buy the store and the owner didn’t want to sell. 

As she was leaving the liquor store, just after the conversation was broken up by the usually affable man that ran the post office. Monica smiled at the cashier and signed “thank you”. She tried to brush off the dirty look. She really did. But then the postmaster let the door slam in her face. Maybe it was an accident, but the sardonic smirk on his face told her otherwise.

The trip for Skuffles’ dog food felt more like the same. Townspeople seething just under the surface; the unease bubbling up. As she carried the large bag of Skuffles’ food out of the store, an old man actually held the door open. Before she could properly thank him, Monica felt herself falling. She couldn’t tell if she tripped or was shoved. There was only the sensation of being upright one moment and colliding with the sharp cement the next. Glass from her Belgian beer shattering on the pavement and the delicious strawberry Fruli foamed, then spread; appearing not unlike a fresh blood stain.

Before she could properly mourn the loss of her relaxing evening and scan for injury, the simmering tension around her erupted. The postmaster punched the grocery store owner in the face, while two local mothers appeared to have a screaming match. Monica watched, stunned, from her vulnerable position on the sidewalk. She tried to appear invisible while the majority of the town’s small business owners and their customers broke out into revolt against each other. Yet, out of the corner of her eye, Monica noticed the mayor and the CEO of Fredrick’s rushed pace. You’d think they’d be running scared, but she noticed them chatting; laughing. Before she could give it much thought, she felt an unbearable heat - Main Street was burning.

Just before the explosion, the Old Man grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away. The farther from Main Street and the monument, the less harried things were.

When they were safely far enough away from immediate danger, the Old Man asked in a strange exaggerated version of sign language if she was hard of hearing too.  The conversation didn’t progress as quickly as the situation required, as the Old Man, not as deaf, didn’t know much sign. Monica, in frustration, grabbed her trusty notepad and pen from her messenger bag.

(Monica) What the hell is going on?

(Old Man) I don’t exactly know…I’ve noticed a difference since the Hot Dog Reno. I saw an antenna.

(Monica) Since we don’t seem to be effected, do you think it has something to do with sound???

(Old Man) It’s the only thing that makes sense.

(Monica) At the plant - my bosses had these weird ear devices. High tech hearing aid looking things.

Monica and the Old Man shared a look. Both were uncertain what to do, but they knew that something was a foot.

With an unspoken directive, they both headed toward Main Street and the large Frankfurter monument. As they got closer, Monica could see it. The little metal antenna that jutted out just slighting from the casing knot. Only visible if you were actually looking for it from a particular angle.

They went around Main Street this time. From their vantage point, though, it was almost unrecognizable from only an hour ago, yet an eery calm had settled over the town.

Monica noticed a new welcome to town sign with an unfamiliar name - “Frankfurton”, followed by a full colour ad on the board by the large hot dog monument:

Downtown Revitalization Plan - sponsored by Frederick’s Frankfurters

They must have been close to the sound, because the Old Man turned to Monica and said, “So this is where our journey ends….” As she read his lips, it didn’t give her enough time to process what that may imply and everything went dark.