Ronnie was rapidly realizing that being a puppet master was not all it was cracked up to be.
He was constantly under some repugnant, sweltering stage, sweating profusely while contorting into awkward positions to animate his puppets. He should have taken that summer job at Dairy Queen instead of subjecting himself to this arduous livelihood. Was anyone even paying attention? Could he stand one whiff more of stale popcorn, old theater seats--not to mention what was on them--and his own stench? Was it still possible to convince himself that he was keeping a family vaudeville tradition alive, and his work was a badge of honor, a cross to bear, no matter how low the attendance?
Suddenly, the thought of a cold, banana split lured him ever closer to putting his aching arms down forever. Why, at this point, he could even acquiesce to a lowly crunch cone or a dilly bar.
He shook his head violently. Selling himself out for not even a gelato, but an artificial icy treat? Oh, the humiliation! He stilled his feet from running faster towards the exit than the sweat running down his face. Be strong, Ronnie, be strong!