The Hot Dog Killer

[CW: language, sexual content, violence]

My mind listlessly floats in wonderland. A rush of thick saliva floods the back of my throat as I imagine Luis gently pumping in and out of me. My legs squeeze tight and my hips thrust ever so slightly at the thought of Luis’s large hands pinning me to the hotel bed. I bite my lower lip to prevent a moan from escaping so as to not draw my husband’s attention. “Camila” — the way Luis says my name, dragging it out like thick sugar melting on his tongue. I play it over and over in my head. 

“Cuh – meh – laa,” three jarring syllables rush through my ears, breaking the spell Luis has me under. It’s my husband, shouting my name crassly, mauling it, choking on it, like an old dog devouring a ragged bone. 

“What the fuck do you want, Bennett?” I bark as I open my eyes to reorient myself with my surroundings. I sink lower in my chaise lounge and stare at the calm water of the pool. The 75-inch TV hung under the crisp manilla awning blares in my face:

“The Hot Dog Killer has struck again, this time in Miami, Florida. The body of 27-year-old Clara Maria Nunez was found mangled in her red Mercedes parked just off of Biscayne Boulevard. Six hot dogs were strewn about the vehicle along with a crumpled Oscar Meyer package. This marks the twelfth victim that —”

“How many hotdogs do you want?” Bennett interrupts as he looks away from the TV and smiles at me.

“Not funny, that shit is seriously fucked up,” I respond. Bennett shrugs and awaits my answer.

“I want zero hot dogs,” I say snidely. I hate hot dogs, and it’s not just because of this weird serial killer that has recently taken the news by storm, but watching my husband devour his own hot dogs on a regular basis has made me hate the tubular meat amalgamations.

“I’ll just have a salad later,” I say, trying to retract my previously harsh tone.

“Georgia, how many hot dogs?” he asks our daughter.

“Just one, daddy,” she exclaims, before holding her nose and doing a cannonball into the pool, water wings and goggles strapped tightly onto her tiny body.

I gaze at Bennett as he carefully lays out five hotdogs on the grill in perfect symmetrical order. Four for him, and one for Georgia. His gut pulls at the middle portion of his white shirt. His small chubby feet stick awkwardly into his flip flops. His pale skin still holds the remnants of the 110 SPF he smeared on an hour ago.

My mind flashes back to Luis, his chocolatey skin taut from his muscles bulging underneath, in his sleek black V-neck tee, the front casually tucked into his designer jeans with his thick package resting below. Sweet sticky sweat seeps from my pores and pools at the nape of my neck. And it’s not just from the heat of this summer day, not at all from the heat radiating off of Bennett’s grill, but from the heat of Luis’s image still dancing in my mind. 

“Ready!” Bennett exclaims. I watch as he meticulously arranges four plain hotdogs in white buns into a row on his plate. My stomach curdles as he shovels the dogs down his throat. Bennett eats the same four hot dogs every Saturday. Every. Single. Saturday. I wonder if Luis ever eats hotdogs. 

And then there’s Georgia. She’s doing her best to hold her hot dog steady in her bun. Ketchup spills out of the end and drips onto the flimsy paper plate in her lap. She carefully licks the end to stop the red stream before taking a small nibble with her front teeth. I smile and suddenly I love hot dogs because I love Georgia. She is the spitting image of me with her long curly brown hair, bronze skin, and hazel eyes. She doesn’t look a thing like Bennett. Sometimes I wonder if he notices.

On the outside, we are the picture-perfect family. We live in the nicest house in the neighborhood. We even have a little white fence surrounding the front perimeter and a large oak tree that shades the vibrant green grass in our front yard and hosts a tire swing that Bennett hung for Georgia last summer. Georgia is signed up to start the very best kindergarten in the city next year — the one that costs $21,000 per year. And Bennett pays for it all. He’s just an accountant, but he has family money, like fuck you family money. Bennett is good dad and a good husband. He does all the right things.

We’ve only been married four years, but I can’t stand him. The thing about Bennett is he is so utterly, painfully boring. If we were all condiments, Bennett would be mayonnaise, I would be siracha, and Georgia would be honey. Bennett is the epitome of plain, of dull, of monotony. He’s so repetitive in his actions that it physical hurts me to watch him sometimes.

Bennett opens his eyes every single morning promptly at 6:15am after exactly two soundings of his alarm. He takes a seven-minute shower in lukewarm water. When he’s done, he puts on a freshly starched short sleeve white button-down shirt. He threads a black leather belt through the loops of his grays slack. He slides on a pair of black tube socks and black sneakers. At 6:35am, he eats a plain bagel with plain cream cheese and drinks one cup of black coffee. At 6:55am he puts a banana in his right pants pocket along with his wallet and keys and walks out the door. Every week day, he leaves at 7am and returns at 5:30pm. And on Saturdays, he eats four hot dogs.

I am the exact opposite. I wake whenever my body tells me to, or at least as late as Georgia will let me sleep in. Most mornings, Georgia barrels into my bed singing “Mommmy.” We lay together, cuddling our sleepies away, sometimes for an hour, sometimes drifting back into dreamland. We eventually stumble into the kitchen together with messy hair and wrinkled pajamas. I let Georgia choose breakfast. Sometimes its pancakes, other times its eggs, sometimes its tacos. Georgia is so perfectly random, so cool and casual, drifting wherever the excitement of life takes her. She’s just like me. She should be, she is my daughter after all.

Bennett is not really her father, and he’ll never know that. I don’t think a drop of uncertainty has ever seeped through the pores of his mind. Because here’s the other thing about Bennett — he’s painfully stupid and unaware when it comes to anything but punching little numbers into big spreadsheets.

Georgia is the product of a one-night stand. Bennett and I had been on again, off again for several years when I got pregnant. We met in college eight years ago. Bennett was obsessed with me — rightfully so, because what meek dorky white dude that carried a calculator in his pocket wouldn’t be enchanted by the petite yet curvy half Latina with a loud mouth that spewed sass and sensuality. I met him in accounting class. He helped me pass and as a thank you, I showed him a little too much attention. His mind was not the only thing I blew. Afterwards, the poor dude clung to me like a sad lost puppy.

The end of that semester should have also been the end of Bennett and I. But he hung around, showing me attention like I had never seen before given my previously dismal taste in men. He took me to expensive restaurants and always let me order dessert, bought me flowers just because, and gave me gifts with sweet little handwritten notes. And all because he wanted to, not because he had to, and not because he was expecting sex in return.

I don’t know if what Bennett and I had could actually be considered a relationship. I still had to feed my sexual side and was constantly fluttering off to have a fling with my flavor of the month. But Bennett was always faithful, fervently loyal, and incredibly gentle and kind. He was never jealous and never lost his temper, like so many of the other men I surrounded myself with. 

I never wanted to hurt Bennett, so when I needed my freedom, I would impose a little break on our pseudo-relationship. He didn’t need to know about all the others. Bennett always waited for me in the background, he was always there to pick up my pieces with no questions asked. 

Bennett and I were in one of our “off-again” phases when I found out I was pregnant with Jay’s baby. Or was his name Ray? I can’t remember because it happened on a night when I was properly blitzed. I knew what I had to do after I peed on that stick and saw two pink lines. My baby needed a father. Bennett came right over when I called saying I needed him. As soon as he walked in the door, I planted my lips upon his and unzipped his pants. I wrapped my legs around him and rocked gently, offering Bennett a one-way ticket to paradise. The whole thing lasted seven minutes and I breathed a sigh of relief when he finished inside of me.

The following month, I peed on another stick and feigned excited as I showed Bennett our creation. He proposed and we had a small ceremony. The rest is history, and here we are on a lazy Saturday, with him having just eaten four hotdogs. I wish I was back in that hotel room with Luis.

When Bennett is done with his meal, he retires to his office. It’s the only room in our house that has a keypad to unlock the door. Some may consider this mysterious, but there is nothing mysterious about Bennett. He put the keypad there to keep Georgia out. I don’t even know the passcode, and I don’t really care because Bennett is less than thrilling.

I lay Georgia down for her afternoon nap. When I am finally alone, I sink into the couch and text Luis, “Bennett is flying out this weekend for his monthly audit trip. Can you sneak out Saturday night?”

“You got it, babe,” Luis replies with an arm muscle emoji. I send back an eggplant, a water splash, and a pair of lips.

***

“New findings regarding the string of murders by the aptly named the Hot Dog Killer, who leaves little to no evidence behind other than the trademark six hot dogs haphazardly slung across the crime scene. Police have just released another clue, forensic evidence revealing the presence of red wool fibers at the site of several murders, linking them all together —”

I jolt and almost drop the cold pizza I am eating to the floor when Bennett creeps behind me and plants a kiss on the top of my head.

“Fuck, Bennett you have to stop scaring me like that,” I groan.

“Sorry, I’m heading out for the airport. Please be very careful while I am gone,” he says, cutting his eyes to the macabre scene on the television.

“I’ll be fine,” I snap.

“I don’t think Georgia should be listening to stuff like this,” he says softly as he ruffles her curls while she chews her cold pizza.

“You’re right,” I sigh and change the channel to Sesame Street.

***

“Georgia, let’s go. Where are you?” I shout.

I find her sitting in front of Bennett’s office, punching numbers onto the key pad. She retracts her hand quickly because she knows she’s been caught trying to break in again. He should have never put that lock on there and she would never have cared about what was inside.

Once I get Georgia settled at my mom’s, I hurry to the hotel bar to meet Luis. I find him casually perched on a bar stool asking the bartender to switch the channel to the Brave’s game. I silently creep behind him and stand on my tippy toes to plant a tiny wet kiss on the nape of his neck.

“Camila” he says and I melt. “What you wanna drink, baby?” He hands me the cocktail menu, and glances back to the TV, but the bartender has stopped on the national news channel.

“Bro, you heard about this crazy shit?” the bartender asks Luis. “They just found another body in Atlanta. Number thirteen now…”

The TV screen flashes thirteen little rectangles, all side by side, each one featuring the face of a smiling young woman.

“Aye, those chicks are hot,” Luis says, fanning his face with his hand. The bartender bites his lip and nods in agreement as he clicks the volume up button.

“After interviewing the families, all of the victims seem to have one thing in common. They were having marital problems, either recently divorced, or cheating on their spouses. The husbands and/or boyfriends were naturally the first suspects, but all have since been cleared when evidence pointed to the Hot Dog Killer…"

Luis and the bartender look at each other and laugh. I stare at all those pretty faces on the screen, their eyes penetrating me, warning me. They all look so similar — dark hair, dark eyes, tan skin, last names like Rodriguez, Mendez, and Fernandez. Vertigo strikes me hard when I realize something — they all look just like me. Bennett’s words echo in my mind – “Please be very careful.”

I take in Luis, his sheer strength and size. He could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. Anxiety wrenches its way up my spine and I get the sudden urge to bolt. An image flashes in my head — it’s me, bruised and bloody, face down on the hotel carpet upstairs, my most hated food strewn across my lifeless body.

Luis takes notice of my grimace and the way I am cradling my stomach. “Lighten up, babe,” he says as he urgently motions for the bartender to change the channel. All I can see is their faces swirling in my mind, blending together. Thirteen women. Not everyone that cheats deserves to die. Maybe their husbands were boring, maybe they just needed a brief reprieve to insert some excitement back into their lives. Who can blame a girl for wanting to have some fun?

Suddenly, I feel like going back to my mom’s, collecting Georgia, and holding her tight and close to my body, just the two of us in bed, safe and sound. Luis breaks the trance I’m in when he presses his thick lips to mine and softly caresses my tongue with his. His hand gently glides down the curvature of my hips before slowly sliding back up under my dress. I forget all about the women, about the hot dogs, and all about Georgia. All I can imagine now is Luis and me intertwined on top of the white fluffy duvet waiting in the room above us. 

***

Another month goes by. It’s Saturday, and I can’t wait for Bennett to leave on his monthly audit trip this afternoon so I can see Luis. We are all sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, Georgia and I chomping on omelets and Bennett with his boring plain bagel. The TV blares in the background:

“The hot dog killer trail seems to have cooled off with no victim in over a month. Recently divorced women along the eastern seaboard are rightfully terrified.”

“What did I tell you about letting Georgia hear stuff like this,” Bennett says softly.

I turn the TV off.

“My trip was cancelled, so I was thinking of taking Georgia to the zoo today,” he says gleefully.

But my heart sinks because that means no Luis. I’ll have to wait another month.

I take a long nap while Bennett and Georgia go to the zoo. Upon waking, I saunter down the hall, my bare feet pressing against the cold marble. I pass Bennett’s office and notice the door is slightly ajar. Damnit Georgia, she must have finally broken the code. I peek inside wondering if they have returned from the zoo yet. I step inside and call her name, “Georgia, are you in here?”

I survey Bennett’s secret room, expecting nothing. My fingers delicately graze a red wool jacket draped over the desk chair. I thumb through the stack of neatly pile receipts on his desk.

Milam’s Market

Miami, FL

May 7, 2022

Oscar Meyer Hot Dogs $3.99

And another one.

Publix Supermarket

Atlanta, GA

June 4, 2022

Oscar Meyer Hot Dogs $3.28

I hear a sudden thud. The door just closed behind me.

“Georgia, come out immediately, we have to get—” I shout, but I’m interrupted when the TV suddenly illuminates the room. Video clips scroll rapidly. They are all from various weekends over the past eight years. I know because I lived them. It’s me on the screen. And Luis. And Ray, or Jay. And that one guy named Manuel. And all the others. Panic seizes me. I spin around frantically and see Bennett.

“Hey babe, what’s up?” he says causally as he digs into a crinkly plastic grocery bag.

“Where’s Georgia?” My voice shakes.

“I dropped her off at her dad’s. I thought you and I could have some fun this weekend instead.”

Bennett pulls out a package of hot dogs and drops the bag to the ground. He neatly places the receipt atop the pile on his desk. I cower in silence as I watch him shove four raw hot dogs down his throat. When he’s done, he rips the flimsy plastic on the Oscar Meyer package and throws the remaining six hotdogs into the air, letting them fall where they may. He crumbles the package in his fist and smiles.