Less Than Hero Read Online Free

of their clinical trials to the private sector, creating contract research organizations that specialize in drug studies. And they’re always looking for healthy test subjects—more than ten million in any given year.
    “I got disqualified from one of their trials,” Charlie says. “They told me my cholesterol count was too high.”
    “What was your diet like the week before the test?” Frank asks. “Did you eat a lot of foods high in salt or saturated fats?”
    “I don’t know,” Charlie says. “I don’t remember.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” Frank takes a bite of his cannoli. “You either know or you don’t. Jesus, Charlie. Don’t you keep track of what you’re eating?”
    Frank, our stocky guinea pig patriarch with a receding hairline and a fluctuating waistline, is always telling us to pay attention to everything we put into our bodies, since it can have an impact on our livelihood. He takes being a guinea pig very seriously.
    “I try to keep track,” Charlie says, looking like a scolded puppy. “But sometimes I get distracted.”
    “Excuses are the currency of the weak-willed,” Frank says. “Take responsibility for your actions, Charlie. No one owns them but you.”
    Frank had a business with his former wife selling her artwork out of their home in Queens. When she filed for divorce, she kept the business and the house and Frank got a severance package. Out of a job, a home, and a marriage, Frank took a ride on the depression train from Burger King to Dunkin’ Donuts to the Aqueduct Racetrack, where he lost his entire divorce settlement. Facing homelessness, he signed up for a four-week gastrointestinal disorder study that gave him room and board for a month and paid him $3,200. The rest, as they say, is history.
    “Have you gained weight?” asks Vic.
    “What the hell does my weight have to do with Charlie’s inability to keep track of what he’s eating?” Frank says.
    While Frank’s always been a little on the before side when itcomes to his weight, he does look like he’s packed on a few extra pounds.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on Charlie,” Randy says.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t bother to take pride in what you do.” Frank stuffs another bite of cannoli into his mouth.
    Frank seems to be a little more irritable than usual, although he’s not the only one who runs low on a sense of humor every now and then. When you spend your existence taking experimental prescription drugs that give you headaches and constipation and insomnia, irritability is just a comment away.
    “So is Frank being more of a dick or a cock?” I ask.
    “It’s a matter of semantics,” Vic says. “A personal choice, really. It just depends on what you’re comfortable with.”
    “Yeah, well,” Frank says, “I’m comfortable with the both of you kissing my ass.”
    “Speaking of kissing asses,” Randy says. “I hooked up with that hot phlebotomist from the research facility over by Murray Hill.”
    “You mean Megan?” I ask. “The redhead?”
    “That’s the one.” Randy leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head, the proud purveyor of promiscuity. “I ran into her at Billymark’s West and we started talking and drinking and doing shots of Jägermeister. The next thing I know, we’re back at her place and she totally lets me Led Zeppelin her.”
    “What does that mean?” Charlie asks.
    “You know,” Randy says. “In through the out door.”
    Frank throws his fork down on the table. “Great. Now I can’t eat the rest of my cannoli.”
    “You can also call it the Pink Floyd,” Randy says.
    “Because you’re comfortably numb?” I ask.
    Randy rolls his eyes. “No. Because you’re going to the dark side of the moon.”
    “Of course,” I say.
    Charlie looks around the table. “What’s in through the out door?”
    “That reminds me,” Vic says, adjusting his glasses. “The Bauer Research Facility in Newark has a serious issue with fecal matter.”
    And