Mindy squishes her fifth hot-dog mouth-ward. Most everyone else had dropped out. Twenty minutes into the contest she found herself battling out with a former baseball player and skinny guy in overalls. Sweat dripped off her forehead, ketchup splattered on her new blouse, and for some reason, the crowd chanted her name. Her mouth felt so full she couldn’t successfully chew. Involuntary panic made her tongue and cheeks and throat contract in a way that sent a hard lump of barely masticated meal down her esophagus. This particular encased meat tasted like regret.
Mindy regretted bragging that she could eat whatever she
wanted. She regretted inviting her older sister to hang out with her friends.
She regretted that her personality possessed the right mixture of lack of quick
thinking and ease of embarrassment that an overly clever quip from her sister –
put you mouth where your mouth is – could get her to sign up for a hot dog
eating contest.
To her right the athlete had thrown in the napkin, his face
a green as his teams color. To her left the man in the overalls picked up
another dog. Water was not permitted, so Mindy slathered on the ketchup to
provide some lubrication. An announcer yelled a play-by-play into a microphone.
The crowd cheered every time she picked up another one and slammed it into her
face. On the wall behind them was a chalkboard with a number next to each of
their names. Mindy and the hillbilly were tied at 9.
Painfully squeezing her jaw together in the general motion
of eating gave Mindy a lot of time to think. This man next to her was older
than he first appeared. Up close she could see lines on his face and the spots
on his hands and the way his whole body swayed in his chair. While Mindy forced
food into herself, like stuffing a trash bag with car tires, the old guy seemed
to be relishing each bite, like it had been years since his last meal and this
was the last one he was ever going to get so he was just going to take his
time.
