Big Mouth

by Deborah Halverson

  And on the far end of the table, anchoring the assault on Tsunami’s reign, is this year’s come-from-nowhere challenger, a gustatory upstart from deep in the central valley of California. Weighing in at an amazing 130 pounds, this natural-born eater has been gunning for Tsunami for four years. And now, today, at Nathan’s, he finally gets his Big Shot to be the Big Cheese of Tube Meat. Please give a warm welcome to the Rocky Balboa of the Buffet Table, Sherman “Thuff Enuff” Thuff! Are YOU Thuff Enuff?

  Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Thuff!

  * * *

  CHAPTER 12

  Fasting was for the birds. Or did I mean camels? Oh, who cared, whichever stupid animal it was that went without eating and drinking for years at a time. Because except for the pickles, celery, and two-inch tall cups of water that Gardo called “Gardo Glasses,” I’d had nothing to eat and little to drink since my Three Musketeers and Pepsi feast the night before…and even that didn’t count because of my reversal of fortune. I felt crankier than a camel.

  Knowing I had a hot dog training session tonight was the only thing that got me through my sucky day. It went downhill right after my ride home from Gardo’s house: I opened the front door into my cheek, I tripped getting onto the escalator on my way up to Scoops, I forgot how to spell my name when I filled out my timecard, and I bounced a scoop of Spazzy Monkey off the rim of a waffle cone. I’d never missed a cone before. I was definitely in need of this training session.

  How long does it take water to boil, anyway? I drummed my fingers on the counter. C’mon, c’mon… I bounced on my toes for a minute, then walked around the kitchen island a couple of times. Like that would make it boil faster…I stopped at the counter and drummed my fingers again. I swear, next time I’m nuking the dogs.

  Waiting at the counter with me was a line of fifteen hot dog buns, ready for action. I pinched the end of a bun. It resumed its shape quickly. Not bad. Lucy had picked out good buns for my training. They were fluffy and fresh, not squished and old and pathetic like some hot dog buns could be.

  “C’mon! Boil!” I knew screaming wasn’t going to help, either, but I just couldn’t help it. This was torture. And it wasn’t like I was bothering anyone with my yells. Mom and Dad were still in Tallahassee, and Grampy was closing Scoops tonight. It was just me and my HDBs. “Boil!”

  I considered getting out the Nathan’s Famous mustard and some ketchup, but condiments were probably illegal on the Gardo Esperaldo Diet and Exercise Program.

  Water wasn’t illegal, though—as long as I kept to my rations. Gardo said I could have eight of his Gardo Glasses each day without being in “hydration violation.” Anything less than that risked dehydration; anything more risked adding pounds to the scale. While I didn’t care that water equaled weight on a scale, I did care that weight added inches to my belt. So I would stick to my water ration and be glad for it. I was serious about this, after all.

  As least Gardo okayed the fill line that I’d scratched into my plastic bun-dunking mug. He gave me the mug himself after our research session that morning. It would have to be enough to dunk fifteen buns in. And Lucy said that wet buns were the key to victory.

  I nudged the water mug a few millimeters closer to the first bun. Man, cooking takes forever. The timer on the stove said twenty-six more seconds. Close enough! I flipped off the burner, carried the steaming pot over to the sink, then dumped the pot upside down into the colander. Once the cloud of steam cleared, I gazed down on a shiny pile of fifteen plump, juicy hot dogs. I could’ve eaten twice that many.

  When the dogs looked dry enough, I slapped one into each bun and was HDB-ready. At last! Wait, not quite. I had one final thing to do while the dogs cooled: stretch. I was an athlete now, my body deserved to be properly warmed up. I put my right hand on my waist and leaned to the right, stretching my left hand to the sky. I repeated this stretch on my left side, then did five jumping jacks and two squats.

  Then I remembered Mr. Olympia at the football stadium that morning. Someday I was going to be that cut; Gardo said so. Might as well start now. I tried to lift my leg up to the counter in the Swan Lake stretch, but I couldn’t kick up that high. Dang. That guy had made it look so easy.

  I dropped my leg to the floor. Maybe I’d just give my arms an extra turn so they wouldn’t be trouble. That I could do. After all, my wrist and forearm had been pretty sore after the ice cream challenge. I couldn’t risk damaging them again during HDB training. Dropping my arms down by my side, I shook them good and long until they were totally relaxed.

  There. Done stretching, I planted my feet shoulder width apart, hunched over the HDB lineup, and poised my hands directly above the nearest HDB. It was going to be a great training session, I just knew it. If only Lucy could see me now.

  I’d set the oven timer for twelve minutes, with three extra seconds for resuming my go position after pushing the start button. I took a deep breath. Okay, here we go, fifteen dogs in twelve minutes. “Aaaaaannnnnd ready…set…GO!”

  I hit the timer button, then scrambled back into my ready stance. When I thought three seconds had passed, I grabbed the frank out of the first HDB, then broke the dog in half and shoved the pieces into my mouth side-by-side. Bite, bite, bite, bite, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, swallow. One dog down!

  I was using the new and improved Solomon Method. I called it the Thuff Enuff Dog Dunking Method, and it was for eaters who couldn’t swallow after just two chews like Tsunami.

  Next up, the bun. I grabbed it with two hands, ripped it in half, then dunked both pieces into the water mug deep and hard. Water flew everywhere when I yanked the soggy globs back out. Shoot. All that H2O, wasted. I jammed the wet mass into my mouth and to my surprise immediately swallowed. It had slipped right over my tongue and down my throat. Oh…ow…ow… The unchewed wad was going down hard, like I’d swallowed a big rock. I flashed on an image of Gardo’s face as he’d choked and I started to panic. Ow…ow… I could feel the lump sliding slowly down my throat, millimeter by millimeter. When it was somewhere near my lungs, I looked toward the phone. Would the 911 operator hear me if I was choking? Then, suddenly, the lump was gone. It must’ve dropped into my stomach.

  I’d have to be more careful.

  I checked the clock. Forty seconds gone and I’d barely finished my first HDB. It was an awful pace, just awful. According to Lucy’s graph, I needed a .8 dogs-per-minute pace if I was going to do just my pathetic fifteen HDBs in twelve minutes. And I knew from experience that I was going to slow down as time ran low. Twelve minutes was too long for me to sustain an eating sprint, at least this early in my career. But I’d have to learn to sustain it, for crying out loud, or there was no way I’d catch Tsunami’s record. Fifty-three and three-quarters was 4.5 HDBs per minute. 4.5! At my current pace, I’d be toast. The Thuff Enuff Dog Dunking Method’s slower bite-to-swallow duration was killing me. I needed to speed it up.

  I attacked the rest of the disgustingly soggy bun like a squirrel: little bite, chew, chew, swallow, little bite, chew, chew, swallow…

  Better. The key wasn’t quantity in the mouth, it was speed of the swallow. Now that was the Thuff Enuff Dog Dunking Method. Plus there was no chance of choking when the pieces were that small. At least I didn’t think so. The memory of Gardo grabbing at his throat was so fresh, so real. I’d seen fear in his eyes last night, total fear.

  My heart raced and my gut clenched, neither of which was good for eating. Don’t think about Gardo…Focus on the food…Little bite, chew, chew, swallow, little bite, chew, chew, swallow…

  Yet my mind kept replaying my Heimlich rescue. Only, in this version, it didn’t work.

  Little bite, chew, chew, swallow, little bite, chew, chew, swallow…

  I saw Gardo in a casket. His sisters were standing around it, crying.

  I stopped chewing. I couldn’t do this. No one was here to give me the Heimlich if I choked. I didn’t want to do this, not tonight. Sports was all
about mindset, and right then, my mind wasn’t so set on speed. Maybe it was a good night for capacity building. Lucy said I needed to do that. Yeah, I’d work on capacity instead. That was just as important.

  I swallowed what was in my mouth then turned off the timer. I’d still eat fifteen HDBs, just like Lucy’s graph said, but I’d do it in a lot longer than twelve minutes. Maybe thirty minutes. After all, it wasn’t the speed that mattered in capacity training, it was the quantity. And just to show I was sincere, I’d whip up the extra five hot dogs from the second package. Make it an even twenty. Screw the timer.

  Once the extra dogs were nuked, I stacked everything on a paper plate and headed for the couch. Galactic Warriors was probably on. They were always airing reruns on one channel or another, whatever time of day. Even though I didn’t need to dunk since I wasn’t trying to get those buns down fast, I brought the water mug with me. I was still as thirsty as a fish. This way, I’d get to enjoy my water the way it was meant to be enjoyed—swallowed straight, not absorbed in a soggy wad of bread. Wet buns might go down way faster and easier than dry buns, but they were gnarly.

  I plopped onto the couch with the remote and my plate of dogs next to me. I planned to enjoy every stinkin’ bite. The Nathan’s Famous mustard in my fridge was calling out to me again, but I held strong. See, Gardo, I’m serious about this.

  The first dog went down just fine. Well, technically, it was the second dog, if I counted the one I’d downed during the timed portion of this training session. I ate number two traditional style. Without the clocking pushing me, I had time to savor the bun-to-meat ratio that was so important to the hot dog experience. Too much dog in one bite could overpower the salt glands on the tongue, causing excess saliva production that washed out the meaty taste. Too much bun was just blah. Speed-eating with all its separate-the-bun-from-the-dog techniques didn’t allow enjoyment of the food. Capacity training was way more satisfying.

  As I suspected, I found Galactic Warriors pretty easily. It was on two stations, actually. On channel 14 was the “Quixote’s Nine Lives” episode. I loved that one. There were nine different phaser cannon battles in nine different dimensions, and Captain Quixote died in eight of them. In the ninth, he foiled the ambush, saved the universe, and sealed his legend. Multidimension episodes ruled. The episode on channel 23 was “T’larian Justice.” That one wasn’t so exciting, but it was important to know well because it provided the core logic for Captain Quixote’s beef with the T’larian magistrate in season three. They were plotting to nuke the Earth’s sun, which was the symbol of the Galactic Federation and the heart of its mythology, but only Captain Quixote knew why the T’larians cared about any of that. And even he didn’t remember the full reason until the season finale because at the end of this episode, his best friend, Commander Panza, got brainwashed, then popped him in the head with a T’larian Pain Stick.

  Flipping back and forth between the two episodes, I worked through my HDBs. Numbers three through seven hit the spot nicely. Lucy had bought the good kind of franks, all juicy and plump, the kind that sent you straight to the ballpark no matter where you ate them. Combined with the top-of-the-line buns she’d picked, I had the perfect ballpark frank experience in my very own living room. Well, perfect if I could’ve heaped mustard and ketchup and onions and relish on them. But I couldn’t, so there you had it.

  Thanks to Gardo’s strict food regimen, I had a lot of room for the night’s HDBs. But I started sensing trouble when I bit into number ten fifteen minutes into the training session. To be honest, I wasn’t so interested in eating it. My stomach was nicely satisfied, thank you very much, and more food didn’t strike it as necessary. But my brain knew darn well how to count, and ten was way short of my goal of twenty. What was I thinking, throwing in the extra five dogs? But I was committed now, so I ate it. Then I ate all but one bite of number eleven.

  I stared at that last bite for a good minute or two. I was starting to feel the beginnings of full. This couldn’t be good.

  Leaning back into the couch, I burped a few small burps, then stuffed in that final piece of number eleven. The salty dogs were making me thirsty, big time, but with how stuffed I already felt, I was afraid to drink and fill up valuable stomach space. The thirst was pretty overpowering, though, so I sipped just enough water to wet my mouth. On to number twelve.

  When the twenty-minute mark hit, I was about a quarter of a dog shy of finishing number fourteen. My tongue felt like it was filling my mouth, and when I test-swallowed with no food in there, just to see that everything was working, the swallow was a lot of work, like my tongue was in the way and I didn’t have enough spit to get the job done. I could sense the prereversal gaggy feeling, that sensation of the back of my tongue dipping while the front stuck against my top row of clenched teeth.

  But I had to keep going, so I bit the tiniest piece of the HDB, leaving an even tinier piece behind.

  Chew and chew and chew and chew and chew…. I finally made myself swallow, but I wasn’t happy about it. And I still had six more dogs to go. Dang.

  A medium-sized burp surprised me. It felt good, so I forced up another. That one made me feel a tiny bit better, but it wasn’t as satisfying as the natural burp was.

  I stared at my plate of waiting HDBs and sighed. I really didn’t want any more hot dogs. Maybe I was hitting some kind of wall or something. That happened to a lot of athletes. I mean, I knew I could eat more if I could just let myself eat them, but still…No. No buts. Climb that wall, Shermie, climb that wall.

  I peeked at the clock. Twenty-two minutes had passed. I needed to forge on. Clearly I was going to miss my half-hour goal, but I still needed to get my groove on. Sitting up straight, I took a deep breath, then bit half of the tiny piece that remained of number fourteen. Chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, swallow. My stomach bulged, and I would’ve sworn it felt taller inside, too, like it was pushing up as well as out.

  Stalling, I swallowed without food, then held my dipped tongue still in fear of the gag. Another burp escaped, but it wasn’t a big help. Six more to go.

  Biting into number fifteen was hard. I focused on my chewing, then swallowing but not really wanting to. I fell back into the couch. I had no interest in leaning forward, and I barely noticed the Galactic Warrior firefight in front of me. Number fifteen was cold, so it was even less appetizing. And it seemed saltier than the rest, somehow. At least the bun helped cut the saltiness.

  I took a second bite, trying to chew it way over on the side, not letting it touch my tongue because I was now grossed out by the salty meat that half an hour ago was screaming my name through a bullhorn. I swigged water again to wash away the salty. Half of number fifteen was still left.

  I paused. I could feel something, a big air bubble maybe, pushing up from the bottom of my stomach…C’mon, c’mon…yes, it was…a big—

  BUUUUUUURP!

  I tried to catch and hold it out for maximum relief, but with medium success. Ultimately the burp was a seven on a scale of one to ten. But it would do. I rubbed my face and took a deep breath, then shoved the rest of number fifteen into my mouth, trying to not let it touch my tongue. I swallowed tiny bits as I chewed the rest, sneaking the food around the back of my tongue and down my throat.

  Two sudden, satisfying burps rocked me. Relief!

  Gaining courage from the burps, I bit into number sixteen. Only I wasn’t sensing trouble anymore—I was feeling it. Smack-dab in the center of my belly. I pulled up my shirt and patted my gut. It was taut as a rope, hard as a boulder, full as a canteen.

  The rest of number sixteen was going to be T-O-U-G-H.

  I bit into number sixteen and chewed with my mouth wide open, afraid to stop chewing because then I’d have to swallow—and that did not sound good. But sooner or later I’d have to, so I chose sooner: I swallowed. Okay, that went down. I bit again. Bite, bite, bite, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, swallow. I could do this. Bite, bite, bite, chew, chew, chew, ch
ew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, chew, swallow.

  No I couldn’t.

  My stomach was a balloon about to burst. I tapped my gut again. Jeez, it was harder after just those two bites. I still had three and three-quarters HDBs to go. No, I couldn’t do this after all.

  But the very moment I thought that, a wonderful thing happened: I caught the biggest burp of my life. It was a gnarly, whopping burp, and I managed to drag it out good and long. The drop in belly pressure was immediate. The glory!

  I scooched to the edge of the couch again, my back as straight as possible. Using my arms and legs as leverage, I bounced up and down a few times to pack the dogs into the bottom of my stomach.

  I took another small sip of water. One-fourth of number sixteen to go. I seriously didn’t want it. I wasn’t going to reverse, but putting that last bit of HDB in my mouth sounded about as appetizing as putting in a spoonful of dead ants. Thirty-eight minutes had now passed, which meant my half-hour guess was way off. But I would eat twenty dogs, come hell or high water. So I bit and chew, chew, chewed about a million times until number sixteen was dead and gone.

  Groaning, I sagged back into the couch and watched a few minutes of phaser battles while I worked up the strength to go back to my dog pile. Captain Quixote dodged the Icarus 2000 into a sunspot region that brewed and rumbled like it was ready to erupt. The Icarus shook and bounced and a few heat shields peeled off, but it held together as Captain Quixote plowed unwaveringly forward. The man knew no fear.

  And neither did I! I could be like Captain Quixote! I could stay the course even if a few heat shields peeled off! I hoisted myself up to the edge of the couch. It was a painful maneuver, but I got there.

  Number seventeen was a serious belly strainer, but I ate it over the course of two more phaser battles. In your eye, T’larians!