Am I The Only One At This Eating Contest Looking To Meet Someone?
There was no entry fee, just a waiver with a cool skull.
The car dealership owner took one look at me and said I was perfect. I was a little offended at how fast he made that decision, but I thought it better than to look a gift horse in his smarmy, gold-toothed mouth. There was no entry fee, just a waiver with a cool skull. “It’s all boiler-plate: gross-negligence this, waive all right to that,” he said, the toothpick dancing on the edge of his mouth as he assured me that it was all standard eating contest liability.
I had struck out at kickball, had an allergic reaction at singles’ wine tasting, and had remained on the waitlist for a class called “Birdwatching for Those Wishing to Settle.” I had looked in all of the right places for love and was now down to the wrong places, the compromising places, and the places that smelled faintly of pee.
Saturday arrived and I donned my snappiest elastic-waisted sweatpants. I told myself I wouldn’t even mind if they became irrevocably caked in barbecue sauce and chicken viscera if it meant that I had been swept off my feet by the man of my dreams. He’d be a guy who obviously likes wings but who also isn’t afraid to cry while we’re watching Armageddon. A guy who, like me, isn’t above looking for love at a car dealership that smells — just a tad — more like pee today. Maybe I wouldn’t win free roadside assistance for a year on any new or pre-owned Kia, but then again, maybe I’d find that aimless romantic who also found themselves competing at the Kia Karnival Sideshow — hoping for true love, though willing to settle for free lunch.
They took me back to the green room. My competitors were stretching their jaws and tossing back handfuls of Prilosec and Lipitor. No one else seemed to be looking for love. Eye contact or friendliness appeared to be discouraged, so I pretended to text someone. I had one unread email: the birdwatching class had been canceled after the instructor had shot himself. I chose to read this as purely informative and not at all a horrific foreboding omen about ever meeting someone.
As I looked up, this clean-shaven, doe-eyed peach stepped inside. No spouse to speak of, I called him “Number Twelve,” as that was printed on his sauce smock. He looked kind, like he would make a point to remember to call his mom back and that he wouldn’t respond to a charitable request with “Why should I?” the way I do. Alone, he, too, immersed himself in his phone.
He seemed out of place also, and I fantasized that he would prefer to spend his Saturdays on the couch, under a big blanket, eating cold pizza through sobs as they leave Bruce Willis on the asteroid.
They issued me number fourteen on my bib. “No way,” said the flesh mountain whom they had given number thirteen. “I’m not trading; your candy ass ain’t the boss of me.” He sort of snorted through a shout, his hot lardy breath assaulting my pores. I explained that this was for love, but Number Thirteen wouldn’t hear it. The die had been cast: I would have to out eat Number Thirteen.
(Is it “out eat” or “eat out?”)
I didn’t have time for word puzzles. Once I’d defeated Number Thirteen, I’d slide right next to Number Twelve. Scorching tongues, hickory lips, or meat breath wouldn’t matter — the adrenaline would seize us. We’d take one look into each other’s eyes and we’d both know we were finally home.
The kissing would be both so wet and so electric that we’d both tingle like we had actually been shocked. The dealership owner would gape, his toothpick tumbling onto the dirty tile. He would be so moved that he’d commandeer the emcee’s microphone and say something like: “Stop eating, stop in the name of love!” For teaching his greasy soul that love wasn’t a transactional lie that everyone told themselves, he’d gift us a Sorrento, with the free year of roadside assistance.
Yet it turned out I couldn’t “eat out” Number Thirteen. That rage-filled glutton outlasted everyone and won the bandolier filled with golden chicken wings. Most people in the crowd seemed more revolted as opposed to being moved to consumerism, though Number Thirteen didn’t mind. He stood atop the small podium roaring, his sauce-stained tank top still brandishing that he had “No Fear.”
I wiped off and gathered my belongings from the green room. Number Twelve, though, caught me on the way out the door, amidst the commotion of the EMTs trying to revive Number Thirteen. Number Twelve said his actual name was John and he asked if I wanted to get a coffee sometime. We had that coffee and I found out that he works at a non-profit, and that he loves his mom, and that he likes cold pizza.
Save the date, because he’s going to marry me on July 18th.
