Dogs

MS’

Few people in the audience can discern the rhythm. In fact few people on stage are able to so much as tap along, save André Eats and about half the leaderboard. André leads the pack. 40 fish tacos. His cheeks are crimson; his eyes are wide. Nathan’s pace. André’s a taco to hot dog transubstantiation away from fame.

Time stops.

“How does it feel to set a record on your first appearance?”

“I just came out here and fought through. I kept my head down. I stuck to what I do best.”

André did doubles best. It was the psychology of it. Sure it was a slower hand to stomach time than a single, but it felt like eating one, one big one, one big one that counted for two. And this time his 23 grabs, 46 tacos, cheese, tartar, and all, brought him 3,760 dollars. The other half went to charity. The one that mailed the bus ticket to San Jose.

“Babe, I did it :p,” he texted Cara,

“Great. I need you home tonight.”

The bay was violet. Traffic was thick. André shifted in his seat and checked his phone. The green light kept flashing. Broken, he thought as he scrolled, seeing no new messages. His mouth was dry; his tongue like paper. The engine continued to whir. Nobody seemed to notice his shirt. In dull red letters it read, “6th Annual MS Fish Taco Challenge Champ.” The flailing fish below received his smile.

Cara’s

“Finally,” said Cara as André entered her small, downtown Oakland apartment. He removed his sturdy Columbia hiking books, worn from overuse.

“It’s a bit of a hike. You have to take…”

“We need to talk,” Cara interrupted. She had her way of doing it nicely, but André suspected the tone to be masking some greater ambition.

The microwave beeped.Once. Twice. Cara was there to stop the third. The small apartment filled with the smell of melted, microwave cheese on corn flour tortilla.

“Why do you do this?” Cara pleaded as she removed a jar of salsa from the new refrigerator, void of doodles and magnets.

“It pays. It’s more than I could make…”

“It’s not about that,” she interrupted. “I just, if we’re getting married, it seems I ought to know why. Is this who you are, or… what’s so important about it? MS?”

André looked down at his shirt. The truth was that he knew next to nothing about MS. He knew next to nothing about half the places he went to compete, or the charities sponsoring the events. What he did know about, deep down, was how at home he felt, guiding timeless creations from plate to mouth, one after another with balletic indulgence, peaking out from behind messy fingers at the curious kids and irreverent fathers who came to watch the absurd caloric carnivals that André called his sport. He knew his talent appeared semi-supernatural to the more common appetites of his spellbound spectators. And it felt good.

“I do like to do these, Cara. It’s my thing. People have all kinds of weird things they like to do, and this feels good to me. Like I was meant to be up there and make that kind of fun for people. I have a real shot next month at Nathan’s.”

“It’s a tremendous waste of food. And bad for you. I know you like it and it makes people happy, but… I don’t know… like how you could make this such a focus and all that. I don’t see it.”

“Maybe you don’t have to” said André. “I’d like you to, but maybe you don’t have to.” He began a slow walk toward her.

“It’s more that I feel like people find meaning in what they do. Or that they should or something like that,” said Cara as she finished her quesadilla. André drew nearer to her in the kitchen. His eyes traced her extended arm as it reached for the faucet. The water came out fast, pounding hard against the empty sink. He paused, then reached for her other wrist, holding it delicately. She turned and gave him a drawn out look. They kissed. Cara bowed her head. André felt her soft brown hair, poking from the back of a mesh, white hat the way it so often did.

André zoomed out, “I’m missing a lot, meaning-wise and all that. Mostly about you. Can you answer this sorta thing? You can, and I’m afraid I’m in the dark about what you’d say. Eating with a blindfold.”

The moon was barely visible from the window above the sink. The city lights dimmed the stars against the sky. André and Cara were silent, standing together as if assigned, placed beside each other on two square tiles in a rectangular kitchen in a prism apartment.

Nathan’s

The announcer gave the words of institution, blessing each body with praise. “The three foot noodle eating, cannoli eating, chicken tender eating champion of the world: Karl, “The Crusher,” Kotlowski!”

The applause swelled louder with each new contestant. Seasoned spectators knew André was a favorite by the order he was introduced, followed only by last year’s champion.

“Aaaaaandrrrrréééé… Eats! Ladies and gentlemen.” He took his place on the far end of the stage where the likes of Takeru Kobayashi, Joey Chestnut, and Matt Stonie once stood. He was among the best that day, a rising star with a bid for first, predicted to at least make a top three finish. What separated the top three finishers from the rest of the pack was often a fifteen-dog difference. André was the product of dedication, a symbol to fans and eaters alike, and today his sights were set. The defending champ sauntered onto the stage. The announcer spoke the words of intinction. The dogs came out, then the judges for each contestant. The clock began to tick. Then all was a blur.

André’s

André’s breaths were quick. Two at a time he grabbed and shoved. The hot dogs were good at first. Then better. Then slowly, surely, with glances to the right and left, every so often, they tasted worse and worse. They were boulders, rising, falling. Until finally he pushed without sensation, numb to the results. But it was when he saw the number beside him, signaling his four dog deficit, that try as he did to conquer four in one grab, he couldn’t, looking instead to the people below, loud and waving, all heads to the sky but one. This, a bowed, hatted head, white mesh with soft brown hair. He did not know what made it rise and fall, but he was determined to discover; to two at a time digest the dissonance of the sounds in this place and many others; to carry each other through.