If I can’t eat twelve dogs with a fine chardonnay, what chance do I have competing against the great Joey Chestnut? My staff will be at the event wearing company merch and they will not be happy if I tap out early, so I have to put on a good show.
Eating hotdogs in public will not help your chances. My mother was on the phone asking about commenting on my marriage prospects and her grandchildren. Of course, she did not know that Joey Chestnut was a legend. The contest was an excuse to remind me that I’d thrown up as a boy after eating hotdogs at the county fair. Getting to the point of the call, she mentioned a friend’s niece, a model, who would be in town working soon. Would I like an introduction? Yes, I would. Finally, she reminded me that men appeal to women when they are doing something they are interested in, maybe not eating hot dogs. Yes, I would consider withdrawing from the contest. I don’t like hotdogs.
After work, Jill, a skinny and chicly disheveled employee with henna tattoos and piercings, told me she planned to attend the contest. She was reputed to have been a performance artist in another city, but I was still pleased. I suspected she had a trust fund and suffered from vestigial irony. That said, she was a good employee and a friend of the absurd –— an ally.
I took famotidine and went to bed.
Joey Chestnut got a rousing ovation. When my name was called, my employees yelled for me, subduing the butterflies in my stomach. Jill stood to the side in a prairie dress and blond wig tied in pigtails. With a subversive smile, she looked ready to make trouble after months of good behavior. I made it to twenty-five dogs, then went through the motions, fearing the outcome for my gooey digestion. Joey Chestnut won, of course, and I wanted to ask him about entropy. He was busy, so I decided to go home and flop on my recliner. Jill stepped forward with a six-pack.
“Can you call for a taxi?” I asked.
“I’ll drive you.”
Jill drove crazily, hitting the yellow lights late until she finally slowed down in my neighborhood. She insisted on coming in and having a beer until I was resting comfortably. She sat on an ottoman by my side and sent a group text with a picture informing our employees that I was doing well in my chair. The beer washed away the dog aftertaste.
“I will be attending an art school or an MFA program soon,” she said, pausing as if she’d already said more than she intended. “The school depends on what art form arises — certainly paint or language! At present, I’m a hostage of the four hundred.”
“Four hundred what?” I couldn’t help thinking of hotdogs.
“Stravinsky said Vivaldi wrote the same piece 400 times. As an artist, I have 124 uncreated pieces that, if I’d finished, would have been juvenile and derivative if not for my overdeveloped restraint. I’m not going to crank out the same shit just because everyone else is doing it.”
Jill unraveled her pigtails and took a long deep breath.
“My first finished piece will occur in the early 200s. I’m thinking of 213. A theme is materializing and it is giving me night sweats.” She paused to assess my credulity if not comprehension. “I will, of course, allow for variations if they are justified, which means responding to a tradition if I can find one.”
Jill removed her wig and stepped out of her dress, standing beside me in leggings and a T-shirt, sweaty head to toe. She wiped her scalp with her dress before sitting again.
“I think you have something you need to tell me,” she said. Her tattooed arm sleeve dripped like gravy. Did she want a confession?
“My therapist told me to stop telling this story, but since you’ve confided in me and seem to want a revealing or aspirational story…”
Now they’ve discontinued the chili and I’ve stopped making mine.
“That will do, but keep it short.”
“When I taught at the culinary academy, I dated someone who worked for Trader Joe’s in product development. This girlfriend learned that my turkey chili recipe won a prize at the state fair. She promptly took my recipe, had it processed, and on the shelf in a matter of months. I wouldn’t have known if a colleague hadn’t brought the two chilis to my attention. I made my chili, and it was clear to the faculty, including a Micheline chef and local foodies, that the two recipes were identical. So I brought the matter to an attorney, but it wasn’t anything I could pursue. Now they’ve discontinued the chili and I’ve stopped making mine.”
“I love the story, but I don’t believe you.”
“I have a billing from an attorney with a turkey chili reference. I’ll get it for you later.”
“Don’t bother.”
Jill grabbed her dress and held it to her mouth, retching several times — not a sound I wanted to hear.
“What number is that?” I asked before I realized I was being snarky.
“Two hundred and counting.”
Jill lunged forward and hugged me. Her tattoo smeared the side of my face. After several kisses, she struggled to back out of my chair, leaving me with the taste of what could only be called turkey chili.
“I need to get to my safe house where I keep my notebooks. I’ve been told I am a genius… but that’s not enough.”
Jill grabbed her clothes and headed for the door. I followed her to the soggy front lawn.
“213 could happen here in my rancher.” I pointed to the house behind me. “You could work in the guest room. The garage would be a great studio.”
“This contest messed up my numbers. I’m sorry. I can’t unsee you eating hotdogs!”
With that, she got in her car and drove away.
Main Squeeze Literary Journal 