Marquette Street
The Hotdog Boom
Chapter Approved:
The current text demonstrates excellent continuity with the previous text. The theme of Eddie's life changing due to a chance encounter is maintained, with the new story picking up right where the previous one left off. The tone is consistent, starting with a sense of wonder and opportunity and then moving into a more grounded, yet still exciting, reality.
The narrative flow is smooth, with the current text expanding on the events of the previous day, providing a natural progression of time and events. The logic is sound, as the current text builds on the premise introduced in the previous text that Eddie's life has changed significantly.
Character consistency is maintained, with Eddie's reactions and personality traits remaining true to the established character. The introduction of Celeste as a new character is seamless and adds depth to the story without disrupting the continuity.
The new elements introduced, such as the news crew, the jazz band, and the specific prices of the hotdogs, make sense within the context of the story and enhance the narrative by showing the impact of Eddie's newfound success.
Overall, the continuity is excellent, with the current text successfully extending the story in a way that feels natural and maintains the established tone and themes.
The morning after meeting Violet Desmarais—and even more importantly, after talking with Celeste by the fountain—Eddie felt like he was walking on air. Light. Buoyant. A man with something to look forward to instead of something to fear.
He went back to Jackson Square as usual, pushing his cart over the cobblestones. But today, something felt… different. People were looking at him. Not just glancing—looking. Whispering. Pointing.
At first, Eddie assumed he had something on his face, which was statistically likely. He wiped his cheeks, his forehead, even checked if he’d left a smear of mustard on himself again. But the whispering continued.
A group of tourists approached, smiling brightly.
“Are you him?” one of them asked breathlessly.
Eddie frowned. “I might be. Depends on who you think ‘him’ is.”
“You’re the hotdog guy! From that video!” another said. “The cart… the bun… the lady… it’s all over the internet!”
Eddie blinked. “The… internet?”
They nodded eagerly and pulled up a clip on their phone. There it was: a short, shaky video someone had taken of Eddie’s cart barreling toward Violet, the airborne bun landing in her lap, and the two of them laughing afterward. Someone had added goofy music. Someone else had added captions. It had millions of views. Millions.
“Sir,” a tourist said reverently, “we traveled from Ohio this morning and this is our first stop.”
“To… buy a hotdog from me?” Eddie asked.
“Yes!” several voices chimed in.
And they weren’t the only ones. Within minutes, a line began forming. A line, in summer heat, stretching halfway around the square.
“Okay, folks!” Eddie called out, flustered but flattered. “One dog at a time! I ain’t a machine! I’m barely a person!”
People laughed. They didn’t mind waiting. They didn’t even flinch at his prices, which he’d written years ago in faded marker.
A woman near the front said, “Honey, you could charge double and we’d still buy one.”
Eddie blinked at her. “Double?”
“Triple,” someone in line corrected. “It’s about the experience!”
He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was sure about the sight of a hundred sweaty, smiling customers happily handing him cash.
So he adjusted his menu board with a piece of chalk.
HOTDOGS — $8
THE “VIOLET SPECIAL” (comes with a tossed bun) — $12
The crowd cheered.
By noon, he had sold more hotdogs than he usually sold in three days. A local news crew showed up. A radio host wanted an interview. A tourist tried to buy the mustard dispenser. A teenager offered to pay $40 for an autograph. A jazz band struck up a spontaneous song called “Runaway Cart Blues.”
Eddie was sweating, overwhelmed, and grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
Around 1 p.m., as he handed out a “Violet Special” with an intentionally—but gently—tossed bun, someone approached the cart.
Celeste.
She wore jeans and a paint-splattered tank top, her curls pulled into a loose bun, sketchbook under her arm. She surveyed the enormous line, the crowd, the fuss, and then her eyes landed on Eddie.
“Wow,” she said, smiling warmly. “You weren't kidding about your life getting interesting.”
Eddie’s heart fluttered. “I swear I didn’t plan this.”
“I know,” she said, stepping closer. “That’s the best part.”
He handed her a hotdog—free of charge—and she laughed. “Your prices went up.”
“I panicked,” he admitted. “Everyone kept sayin’ they’d pay more. It felt rude not to let ‘em.”
“Eddie… this is amazing.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m really proud of you.”
The words hit him like sunshine.
He cleared his throat. “You… wanna meet up later? After the hotdog storm calm downs?”
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
She left, giving him a parting smile that lingered in his chest long after she disappeared into the crowd.
By the end of the day, Eddie was exhausted, sweaty, and richer than he’d ever been at once. His cart was empty. His tip jar overflowed. His life—somehow, unbelievably—had changed in a single morning.
As he packed up, he couldn’t help whispering to himself:
“Well… I reckon I found success. Real success.”
Then he paused, thinking of Celeste, her warm laughter, the way she’d looked at him by the fountain.
“And maybe somethin’ even better.”
He went back to Jackson Square as usual, pushing his cart over the cobblestones. But today, something felt… different. People were looking at him. Not just glancing—looking. Whispering. Pointing.
At first, Eddie assumed he had something on his face, which was statistically likely. He wiped his cheeks, his forehead, even checked if he’d left a smear of mustard on himself again. But the whispering continued.
A group of tourists approached, smiling brightly.
“Are you him?” one of them asked breathlessly.
Eddie frowned. “I might be. Depends on who you think ‘him’ is.”
“You’re the hotdog guy! From that video!” another said. “The cart… the bun… the lady… it’s all over the internet!”
Eddie blinked. “The… internet?”
They nodded eagerly and pulled up a clip on their phone. There it was: a short, shaky video someone had taken of Eddie’s cart barreling toward Violet, the airborne bun landing in her lap, and the two of them laughing afterward. Someone had added goofy music. Someone else had added captions. It had millions of views. Millions.
“Sir,” a tourist said reverently, “we traveled from Ohio this morning and this is our first stop.”
“To… buy a hotdog from me?” Eddie asked.
“Yes!” several voices chimed in.
And they weren’t the only ones. Within minutes, a line began forming. A line, in summer heat, stretching halfway around the square.
“Okay, folks!” Eddie called out, flustered but flattered. “One dog at a time! I ain’t a machine! I’m barely a person!”
People laughed. They didn’t mind waiting. They didn’t even flinch at his prices, which he’d written years ago in faded marker.
A woman near the front said, “Honey, you could charge double and we’d still buy one.”
Eddie blinked at her. “Double?”
“Triple,” someone in line corrected. “It’s about the experience!”
He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was sure about the sight of a hundred sweaty, smiling customers happily handing him cash.
So he adjusted his menu board with a piece of chalk.
HOTDOGS — $8
THE “VIOLET SPECIAL” (comes with a tossed bun) — $12
The crowd cheered.
By noon, he had sold more hotdogs than he usually sold in three days. A local news crew showed up. A radio host wanted an interview. A tourist tried to buy the mustard dispenser. A teenager offered to pay $40 for an autograph. A jazz band struck up a spontaneous song called “Runaway Cart Blues.”
Eddie was sweating, overwhelmed, and grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
Around 1 p.m., as he handed out a “Violet Special” with an intentionally—but gently—tossed bun, someone approached the cart.
Celeste.
She wore jeans and a paint-splattered tank top, her curls pulled into a loose bun, sketchbook under her arm. She surveyed the enormous line, the crowd, the fuss, and then her eyes landed on Eddie.
“Wow,” she said, smiling warmly. “You weren't kidding about your life getting interesting.”
Eddie’s heart fluttered. “I swear I didn’t plan this.”
“I know,” she said, stepping closer. “That’s the best part.”
He handed her a hotdog—free of charge—and she laughed. “Your prices went up.”
“I panicked,” he admitted. “Everyone kept sayin’ they’d pay more. It felt rude not to let ‘em.”
“Eddie… this is amazing.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m really proud of you.”
The words hit him like sunshine.
He cleared his throat. “You… wanna meet up later? After the hotdog storm calm downs?”
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
She left, giving him a parting smile that lingered in his chest long after she disappeared into the crowd.
By the end of the day, Eddie was exhausted, sweaty, and richer than he’d ever been at once. His cart was empty. His tip jar overflowed. His life—somehow, unbelievably—had changed in a single morning.
As he packed up, he couldn’t help whispering to himself:
“Well… I reckon I found success. Real success.”
Then he paused, thinking of Celeste, her warm laughter, the way she’d looked at him by the fountain.
“And maybe somethin’ even better.”