Love At Last Bite
Ricky Ginsburg © May 2006
Paul first noticed Carrie at a corn-on-the-cob contest in Sioux Falls . He was finishing his twenty-third cob when the buttery tube slipped from his grasp and rolled across the table, over her napkin and plopped into her lap. Carrie spread her hippo-sized legs and let gravity take it to the dirt floor below. The official scorekeeper never got to count the piece and it gave the two hundred and ninety pound accountant to his right a one-cob win over Paul. Carrie, a distant fifth in the contest and the only college student at the table, smiled and wiped several errant, pale yellow chips from her cheeks before disappearing in the crowd. She's beautiful. Paul sighed to himself. A goddess of gluttony, a porcine princess, a corpulent corn queen; I'm in love.
Carrie was not the first contestant to whom Paul had declared, internally, his love. There was Priscilla at the South Fargo Jelly Bean Festival last May who fought him to a close second -- thirty-one point seven pounds to his thirty-two point three. He'd never seen anyone with two different colored eyes before -- one a deep, sea-green, the other bloodshot red -- she was a blinking traffic light, changing signals each time she swallowed a handful of sugary pellets. Kate, who couldn't have been more than twenty years old, had fought him to a sixty-four slice tie in a suburban Minneapolis pizza throwdown a month later. He was sure the squeeze on his shoulder she gave him just before passing out on the awards stage was a sign of affection. Paul went so far as to send her a get-well card in the hospital but it was returned for insufficient postage; he may have eaten two or three of the stamps by accident. And Jennifer, who groaned and gulped in the same instant as she chugged another mug of warm beer in Des Moines , and took second place, four beers ahead of his third, sloshed her affection on his penny loafers as she doubled over on her way to the porta-potty. He had actually touched her hand just before she went south.
They met again at an Interstate 80 service center outside of Kearney , Nebraska . Carrie was headed east for a catfish tournament (after the catch) in Cleveland , Paul was facing west on his way to Reno for the First Annual Reno Baked Bean Bash.
"Carrie, how've you been? I haven't seen you since Sioux Falls ."
"Well, look at this skinny fella. What' shakin', Paul?"
"Always on the road, always hungry, you know the mantra."
"Nice road barge; is that a '76?"
Paul patted his fire-engine red Eldorado with the pride of a new father, "No, '74. The tail lights changed in '76, but you've got a good eye for cars. Most people think it's a Lincoln . Where'd you get the door enlarged on your VW?"
"Guy in Casper , Wyoming -- four hundred pounder, took the Wyoming state hog-calling competition three years in a row -- he works on nothing but VW bugs; calls it a 'hatchway modification.' Are you going to Reno ?"
"Eleven hours of highway and I'm there. I always try to enter the first year contests. They roll out the heavy guns from the neighborhood who pride themselves on eating six hot dogs at a picnic. I sit down at the table and eat six in a minute and watch 'em start to sweat. You're headed out to eat catfish? Watch 'dem bones."
Carrie smiled and licked her lips at the thought of fried fish. Her gas pump finished first and they passed awkward goodbyes across the concrete island. She poured herself into the car and threw him a kiss as she cruised back on to the Interstate. Paul blushed.
At three hundred and seven pounds, Paul was not the largest contestant on the circuit, but he was one of the most frequent. The judges knew him from his purple food-stained suspenders and the yellow flannel shirt he wore, even in the heat of the summer. It was his lucky shirt and the only one left in Wal-Mart's 'Big Man' collection which still covered his bulging gut. Paul ate jumbo shrimp in Seattle , hot dogs by the dozens in Topeka , and drank enough beer to extinguish a four-alarm blaze in Butte , Montana . If there was a contest that involved eating or drinking within a twenty-four hour drive from his home in Fort Collins , Colorado , Paul was there and ready to slurp and gulp his way to victory. If Paul had his limits, he never revealed them to anyone. No solid or liquid was safe when his appetite took command of his steamboat-size body. Small children and their pets ran from his approach lest they became Jonah to this walking whale.
Sunday mornings after every competition, Paul always found himself kneeling in an unfamiliar church where a wafer and a paper cup of cheap wine sufficed as his sole meal of the day. He would ask the good Lord to forgive him for his sin of overindulgence and pray for a woman who would be delivered to him by some van with a red triangular sign and a portable hot box. He tried to offer confession at several of the churches, but he couldn't get himself inside the tiny wooden rooms. Paul's vision of God was of the same cheery fellow with the white beard and red flannel suit who magically slid down chimneys around the world on Christmas Eve. If it was possible for an overweight deity to transform themselves to waifish proportions, he would some day be able to do the same. But more than his desire to one day be slim, Paul wanted a woman worthy of his talents. As his thirties rolled closer to his forties, time was becoming more of an enemy than his girth. The long drives to the contests, the empty house he returned to on Sunday night, and the lonely kitchen where he ate his Weight Watcher meals in silence needed the addition of a wife. Paul asked this jolly god for help -- he was answered with silence.
The last Friday in October, Paul sat on two chairs in a diner outside Salt Lake City eating his fourth hamburger when Carrie squeezed through the double doors. He was in town for a spaghetti-eating contest the following afternoon and had arrived early to guarantee himself a king-size bed on the ground floor of the Holiday Inn. He waved her over and helped her slip out of a Notre Dame varsity jacket large enough for a family of six. Paul stood while she lowered her beefy body into the other two chairs at the four-person table.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he offered.
"Thanks, Paul. A diet Pepsi with a slice of lime is my usual."
He was pleased she remembered his name and doubly so knowing they shared a common taste in dinner beverage. Paul waved to the bevy of waitresses who were now certain the diner was going to run short of food for the evening's meals.
"Two diet Pepsi's with lime and ." he looked at Carrie for her order.
"Are the hamburgers ok?" she asked him. He smiled and she took the cue, "He's on his fourth? Catch me up to him and we'll go from there."
The waitress scribbled the order and offered a blessing to the god of beef and hefty tippers as she hustled off towards the kitchen. Paul slid the ketchup bottle across the table and wiped an errant drop of grease from his wrist. Half of his burger sat waiting while Paul tried to compose some meaningful conversation. Carrie found the words first.
"The Japanese kid is here for the contest tomorrow," she began, "the one who took Nathan's for the third year in a row. How much spaghetti do you think he can eat?"
Paul's face switched to a serious expression but inside he was smiling. "Well, spaghetti is pasta. Not much in the way of protein, so it's gonna fill you much faster. But you don't have to chew as much so that's always an edge for someone with a fast throat. I dunno, he's pretty good with hot dogs, but remember, I was fourth in that contest only because I got the hiccups."
"Yeah, but the kid can really eat. I heard he took a Jelly Bean event in Sarasota , Florida with thirty-eight pounds."
"Thirty-eight? Are you sure? That's six pounds more than my best."
"I wasn't there but two of the girls I usually travel with went down to get some sun and ended up with a pair of free passes to the event. They swear it was thirty-eight pounds and he got up and did a little jig when it was all over."
"Gosh, he must really like Jelly Beans." Paul heard legends like this all the time, but he knew most of them were just someone's overblown imagination. If you didn't see it with your own eyes, it probably never happened.
Carrie's four hamburgers arrived along with their drinks. In order to save time, she put three burgers on one bun and ate the mass in a couple of quick bites. Paul finished his fourth in two swallows and Carrie matched him to bring the meal to a tie. The waitress, who hadn't had the time to back away from the table, asked if they wanted anything else. Paul grinned and asked for another round for both of them.
"Bring us both four more and a glass of water for me."
"Not a bad idea, I hate to fill up on soda pop. Water for me as well," Carrie added.
"Do you think we should save room for tomorrow?" asked Paul.
"For spaghetti? Are you kidding? I'm starved now and these are some tasty burgers. How about a side of fries?"
"Not for me, fried food gives me gas."
The waitress started a second page on their check and left for the kitchen. Several of the other customers turned their chairs to watch the two monstrous eaters at work. The manager sidled past their table, wary of the detritus spreading from the impromptu competition. He spun back around to verify one of them had the means to cover the damages. Paul handed him an American Express card and shoed him away.
"You did pretty well in Sioux Falls last winter; fifth place is a pretty high finish out of forty-seven contestants." Paul offered.
"Thanks, but I would have taken first if the damn corn wasn't so slippery. Where in the rules does it say 'butter'? As I remember, you dropped an ear that never got counted. I ate most of the napkins I used to grip the slippery devils."
"It's only at that contest. I eat at two others in Kansas and the corn is dry. Makes it easier to grip but it doesn't taste as good."
"You won the ribeye contest in Kansas City last month?"
"Yeah, that was me," Paul grinned, "fifteen one-pound ribeye steaks in five minutes. One of the tastiest contests I'd ever eaten. Man, can they cook beef in Kansas City ."
Two waitresses marched to their table with the eight fresh hamburgers, placing four apiece in front of the two diners. Carrie smiled at Paul as she folded one in half, bun, pickle, tomato and lettuce, and ate it in three bites. Paul, not to be outdone, followed suit. He picked up the second hamburger and in two shark-sized bites it disappeared in his mouth. The waitresses stood back from the table, keeping their hands away from Carrie and Paul as the remaining six burgers vanished.
Carrie looked at them and ordered another round. "I'm just getting warmed up. Should we stay with burgers or do you want to try sirloin steaks?"
"No. Burgers are fine with me. Let's get a double round, eight apiece, and save time for the cook."
"Good plan -- eight burgers for each of us. And I'll take another diet Pepsi."
The two waitresses turned from the table, one ran to the kitchen to place the order while the other told the manager to announce last call to the balance of the patrons. Once the other diners settled their tab, they turned their chairs to face the table Carrie and Paul had turned into a competition plateau. No one left the restaurant; several asked for water to dissolve an alka-seltzer.
Paul looked across the table at Carrie as a sly grinned spread across his face. God had come through; his woman had been delivered, piping hot from the oven.
"What's the smile for?" she asked.
"I'm just offering thanks."
"To whom, me or the waitress?"
"I'll start with the good Lord up above for sending you to keep me company."
"It wasn't God that made this the only diner close enough to the hotel to reach without a taxi. But I appreciate the sentiment."
The moment froze as a team of waitresses delivered the next sixteen hamburgers to their table on a full-size baking sheet. Carrie snatched two of them and gobbled them down before Paul could bite his first. Not to be left in a puddle of ketchup, Paul took three and compressed them in his size eleven hands to be eaten in two bites. Carrie pulled the tray closer to her side of the table and inhaled a hamburger between breaths competition-style. She had her eight absorbed several seconds before Paul.
"Keep 'em coming, honey," she called out to the chef, "and bring me a side of fries. I'm starting to work up an appetite."
Paul knew a challenge was at hand even before the gauntlet was thrown. He poured the glass of water down his throat and swiveled his neck to loosen the muscles in the back and on the sides. Carrie cracked her knuckles and adjusted her chairs. Everyone in the diner who wasn't cooking or carrying the food to their table had taken a position to watch the contest unfold; several were passing money back and forth. There was a contest here but the prize was not going to be awarded with a trophy or a ribbon. If Paul was able to eat more hamburgers than Carrie he would win the battle but he might lose the girl. He was certain his ability to eat and win was a known quantity to Carrie. How can I win and lose at the same time? I've waited a long time for a girl like this, I want her to win, and I want her to be mine. What sort of weird Christmas present was this?
The next tray of hamburgers hit the table with a clatter. snapping Paul's attention back to the contest. He grabbed the hot patties four at time and pressed them between a single bun.
"No way, Paul; you've got to eat the buns," Carrie mumbled with a mouth full of burger and fries.
"I know," he retorted, "but the rules don't say I have to eat them together." He grabbed the three empty buns and squished them into a golfball-sized lump he then simply swallowed with one gulp.
Carrie paused for a moment to recall the specific rule and, finding nothing out of order, just shook her head and attacked the remaining burgers on her side of the tray. With each swallow she tossed her shoulder-length hair back and rocked her head from side to side easing the food down and clearing her throat for the next bite. Paul mimicked her technique but had no hair to toss so he just brushed his hand over the spreading bald spot reflecting the overhead illumination. As the tray emptied, Paul raised his left hand calling for a one-minute pause. Carrie agreed, raising hers as well.
The waitress, now on her third page of the check, asked if it was over. One of the spectators who had come to see tomorrow's competition explained the single allowed pause and everyone took the opportunity to stretch their legs and make sure all bets had been placed and covered.
"Where is this going?" asked Paul. "What's in it for the winner?"
"Well, loser's gonna pay the bill," replied Carrie. "What else do you want?"
"Perhaps I'll just leave that up to your imagination," he smiled. "Can you dream as well as you eat?"
"Ooh, now this is getting interesting. My imagination runs pretty deep, honey. I've waited a long time for a one-on-one contest like this. Drop your hand and let's see what you've got."
The next tray of hamburgers slid onto the table. In the kitchen the chef was grinding fresh meat for another round as his supply of frozen patties had now been exhausted. In the dining room there was nothing but silence when the competitors started eating again. There was a noticeable slowing of the pace as both Carrie and Paul were munching on one hamburger at a time. Paul looked into her eyes when each of them finished their thirtieth hamburger. There were four still on the tray, two a piece, when Paul burped.
"Are you getting full, Paul?"
"Why, are you ready to quit?"
"No. But you look like your tank has reached the top and is about to overflow."
"Oh, trying to psyche me out?"
"No, honey, but I've seen that look before. I know when the finish line is only several steps away and someone's gonna fall and someone's gonna break the tape."
"Well, let's see which one you are, Carrie."
Paul grabbed a burger off the tray and ate half of it before the room started to spin. Carrie was picking hers up from the tray when a loud snapping rippled through the diner and the chair under her left butt cheek gave way. Paul dropped the half-eaten hamburger on the floor and fell, face first into the table.
Hours later in the emergency room of the local hospital they wheeled Carrie into Paul's room. Her left arm was in a sling and a slightly bloody bandage blocked part of her left eye. She looked at the tubes and wires running from Paul to an assortment of gadgets. She rolled the chair closer to his bed and took his untubed hand in hers.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"I'm gonna be okay," he mumbled through a haze of pills. "Do you think they'll have good sauce tomorrow?"
END
Ricky Ginsburg
11161 Sandyshell Way
Boca Raton , Florida 33498
561-488-4815
Ricky Ginsburg escaped from New Jersey in 1998 on the eve of his 45 th birthday to the wilds of Southeastern Florida at the edge of the everglades. He works only when necessary preferring a day at the beach or the company of scantily clad college girls at Florida Atlantic University .
As a writer he was first published a nine part tale of competition barbecue in 2004 in The National Barbecue News. The photo above is from an article in Zone 10 Gardening Magazine (now defunct) that Ricky wrote about solving the mistakes most Northerners make when they try to garden in South Florida . Currently he has short stories appearing in Bewildering Stories, Humdinger, Lamoille Lamentations, Outcry, Skive Magazine, and Static Movement.
Ricky has had more than his fair share of fame having exceeded Warhol's predictions with almost eleven years at WFMU radio (not defunct) and two and half years at WBCN Boston (should be defunct.) His radio show at WFMU Synthetic Pleasure had, for over five years, almost a half million listeners and
was most famous for his discovery of Yanni. During that phase of his fame he wrote and published a magazine also cleverly called Synthetic Pleasure that had over 1000 subscribers at its apogee.
