Hot Dogma

I had a friend who was a competitive eater as the result of being a Jehovah’s Witness. Because of his religion, Ben wasn't allowed to celebrate holidays like Easter or Christmas, or even his own birthday. Ben had to stand in the hallway as the rest of us celebrated our pagan rituals, like the fertility rite of hunting for colored eggs, tree worship, and blowing out candles endowed with wish-granting magic. So, Ben got his kicks by becoming a competitive eater.

That Friday Ben and I were walking to the cafeteria. We were both very excited because it was the day of the big competition. The Foot Long Hotdog contest. For us at Emerald Isle Elementary, this was our Super Bowl. Our two fastest eaters were finally going head-to-head after weeks of insults, threats, and bets between both camps. Now, it was time. Ben versus Bradley, the eating competition of the millennium.

“Did you bring the dollar?” said Ben. 

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got it here in my pocket.”

Behind a glass divider, pillars of steam rose from stainless steel vats as the lunch ladies prepared our food. We got our foot long hot dogs and tater tots, and pushed our trays down the line to the cashier. “That’ll be a buck twenty.” 

I gave my money to the cashier, but Ben had a free lunch card in his wallet, which he flashed like an FBI agent as he walked by her. 

The tables in the cafeteria were arranged into long rows. We sat as far away from the teachers’ table as possible. Beside us, three boys were having a chocolate-milk chugging contest. The referee told the racers to put their money on the table, then instructed them to open their cartons.“On your mark, get set...chugg!” Both boys were chugging, but the one with spiky hair slammed his empty carton on the table first, and collected the money. Chocolate milk chugging contests were good sport, but nothing could distract us from the challenge ahead. 

The lunchroom was beginning to fill up. We had some boys on our side of the table. Some of Bradley Mitchell’s goons sat across from us, but I ignored them. 

“How you feeling, Champ?” I said. 

“Hungry,” Ben said through a mouth of tater tots. 

“Good,” I said. “It’s a sure thing. Just do like we practiced.”

“Here he comes,” said one the goons. 

Bradley sat down. “Hope you said your prayers, Jesus Boy. You’re going to need all the help you can get.” 

“Shut your mouth,” I told Bradley. “Your breath smells like a foot-long turd.”

“What’s the matter, Tallon? Jesus Boy can’t speak for himself?” 

Ben sat like a statue, staring down Mitchell, just as we discussed.

“He doesn’t have to speak,” I told Bradley. “He’s about to be crowned Eating Champion of Emerald Isle.” 

I reached into my pocket and slapped the dollar on the table. Mitchell put his money down, as did others. The referee was a loudmouth kid whose father was a boxing nut. He picked up the money and said:

“Alright, both of y’all are professionals, so I expect a good, clean race. I don’t want any shin-kicking under the table, or any other funny stuff. You guys got that?” They both nodded. “Protect your plate at all times, and at my signal, come out chewing. Racers take your mark, get set….eat!” 

Mitchell picked up his foot-long and took a bite, then another, and another. Ben was still sitting with his hands on the table, staring at Mitchell. The kids at the table stared at Ben with a kind of fascination. Is he going to eat? 

Ben turned to me, and when I nodded, he picked up his foot long. Ketchup and mustard swelled up from the bun. He took his first bite the way heavyweight fighters punch when going for the knockout. His fingers directed the foot-long through his lips and down to his stomach. A gasp arose from the spectators. Bradley was fast, but Ben was like a hot dog eating machine. When Mitchell glanced up and saw that Ben had already caught him, I saw fear in his eyes. 

“That’s right, Mitchell, you’re going down!” 

Mitchell’s goons began chanting, “Brad! Brad! Brad!” and pounding their fists on the table. There was an electric feeling in the air. Bradley was munching down fast, but still had a few inches of hot dog left when Ben crammed the last of his foot-long into his mouth. I pumped my fist in victory, then pointed my finger in Bradley’s face. 

“We win! You lose!” 

I reached out for the money, but the referee said, “Wait!” I gave him a look, then turned to Ben. Something seemed off, but I didn’t know why… 

Ben’s eyes were glassy and his face was turning red before my eys. He grabbed his throat. Somebody at the table said, “Uh oh.” Then Ben opened his mouth, and gasped like a fish. His face trembled. Everyone at the table looked on. I knew that Ben was choking, and I was immobilized by fear. I couldn’t move. Then someone said, “Slap him on the back!” 

I struck his back with my hand three times. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! But it didn’t help.

Suddenly, Ben shot up from his seat and began punching himself in the stomach, again and again. When that didn’t work, he leapt like a dolphin, bellyflopping onto the table, sending silverware and trays flying into the air, and clanging and clattering back down. He threw himself upon the table again and again.  

“Reach in and pull it out!” someone said.

“No way!” another said. “I’m not sticking my fingers in there!” 

Finally, Ben planted his hands on the table, opened his mouth wide, and began to push. It looked like his face was giving birth. One of Bradley’s goons said, “I can see it!” Soon, we all saw something: a tapered tip poking out. There was a slick, peeling sound as the hot dog slowly slid out of his throat. It hung there, seven, eight, nine…ten inches of meat dangled from his open mouth before…

Plop! 

There, in the center of the table, sat the foot long. I stared at it—everyone did. It was fully intact, without a single bite mark on it. 

“Holy crap!” someone said. “He swallowed it whole!” 

“Like a snake!” said one of Bradley’s goons.

I didn’t want to look up, but when I did, Bradley was cramming the last bite of hot dog into his mouth. He indulgently blotted the corners of his lips with a napkin and raised his fists in victory, the jerk. 

“Bradley wins!” said the referee.

"Damn it!" I said, then turned to Ben.

His face was wet with tears and sweat. A long, thin rope of spit connected his chin to the table. He looked disgusting. He disgusted me. I was staring at the saliva rope when Ben caught his breath.

“What’s wrong with you?” he shouted. “I almost choked to death, you jerk!”

“Me?” I said. He’d never spoken to me like that before. “How is this my fault?” 

“You’re not my friend!” Ben said, “You were just using me!” Then he stormed off toward the exit. A teacher tried to ask him where he was going, but Ben yelled, “Leave me alone!” and marched by her. 

“Looks like your golden boy choked, Tallon.” 

When Bradley said that, something inside of me snapped. 

“Choke on this,” I said, then picked up the foot long and slapped Mitchell across the face with it. Bradley’s eyes got big, and he jumped up like he was going to come across the table. Of course, he didn’t have the guts to do it. That was the thing I hated most about him: No guts, even after someone slaps his face with a wiener. 

I picked up my tray, carried it to another table, and stared into a sad puddle of ketchup until the lunch bell rang. 

They say the true test of sportsmanship isn’t if you win, but how you handle losing. I tried to convince Ben to compete again, but he said that his near-death experience was a sign from God, and vowed never to participate in another eating contest again. Which was sad, because it was the only exciting thing left in Ben’s life that wasn’t against his religion.