Prudence Couldn't Swim (22 page)

Red Eye had the luck of the draw—spot number seven. The year before they gave him number two, which he said was “the same as rolling snake eyes.” I never thought of it quite that way.

Most of the contestants sported bellies that bounced, rolled, and swayed in their battles with the dogs and buns. I didn't know exactly how best to support Red Eye's efforts. Very stout wives in halter-tops used the screamin-his-face approach.

“Chew, Johnny, chew. You can do it. Eat that motherfucker up.”

“Keep it down, Big Louis, keep it down.”

They hollered like their heroes were breaking tackles at the Super Bowl and dashing for the winning touchdown.

At seven minutes a hefty bearded gentleman in blue bib overalls suffered the first “reversal” of the competition. At least he was in spot number three. Red Eye told me that a reversal right next to you could be fatal.

“It's contagious,” he said, “like when you see someone yawn and you suddenly can't resist the urge yourself.”

True to form, a bulky teenage white boy in spot number four vomited just a few seconds after his neighbor. The epidemic stopped there.
Eighteen solid competitors kept shoving in dogs and buns at a frenetic pace, adding just the right amount of water to flush the food along its downward path.

The scorekeepers were bikini-clad women poised behind each competitor. They flipped over a numbered card each time their contestant finished a dog. High-tech digital displays hadn't struck the Greeley just yet.

After nine minutes the bleached blonde standing behind Red Eye was flipping over card number thirty-seven, good for third. Lightning Johnny, in spot number eight, was in second place, one dog ahead of Red Eye. Johnny wore a Hell's Angels vest with no shirt to hide his ink web of choppers and naked women with huge boobs. Red Eye looked like a blank slate by comparison. Two biker chicks were doing everything but eating the dogs for Lightning Johnny. When they weren't screaming encouragement, they were miming grotesque chewing and swallowing movements or advising him to belch to “make room for more.” I didn't know how to match their efforts.

The leader was a slim, Asian teenager named Rodney who wore a slick black tracksuit and an SF Giants cap. He was a clean, almost compulsive eater, even dabbing the grease from the corner of his mouth from time to time. He was two dogs ahead of Red Eye with three minutes to go. That's when the Hell's Angel began to falter. He had that overstuffed-pig-about-to-fall-over look on dog thirty-nine. The once vibrant motion that forced full dogs into his mouth in one enormous shove had slowed to an occasional half-hearted poke. He sat motionless for a few seconds, then succumbed to a mighty heave that covered his eating area and sprayed a few errant drops onto his nearly weeping female fans.

Red Eye plodded on, unfazed by his neighbor's misfortune. While Rodney was steady, Red Eye had a final kick. At eleven minutes and fifty seconds they were both on dog number forty-two. Rodney had an adoring young female fan who provided him with mild-mannered statistical updates of his competitors' progress.

“Stop eating,” she said. “He can't finish his. With the extra space you'll win the eat-off.”

Her strategy was brilliant. If they both ate the same number of hot
dogs, there'd be the Greeley's version of sudden death. Whoever ate five dogs first took the gold.

The young man instantly followed her advice, throwing three quarters of a hot dog on the table and turning to look at Red Eye.

“That's your margin of victory,” Rodney's advisor told him, pointing to the discarded hot dog.

Red Eye was still battling with number forty-two. With five seconds left, he took a sip of water and went for broke, trying to stuff the entire dog in his mouth. He couldn't manage. His chewing had slowed, as if he had a mouthful of rocks instead of a 100 percent pure beef dog sanctioned by the International Federation of Competitive Eating.

Red Eye held his palm under his chin, like he was trying to keep an overstuffed suitcase from popping open. He took a big swallow but his cheeks still bulged. With two seconds to go, the suitcase burst. Just after the twelve-minute buzzer, balls of chewed hot dog meat and bun plopped out of Red Eye's mouth onto the table. A dead heat.

The youngster took deep breaths while his female handler relayed encouragement.

“Focus, focus, focus. Visualize yourself eating five dogs in less than thirty seconds,” she told him. “Think about how that would look, how it would feel.”

Red Eye laid his head on his arms while his body convulsed with massive belches. They didn't allow anyone to touch the contestants. Otherwise, I would have been pounding his back and trying to get a few more precious cubic inches of gas out of his stomach. If a man could expire from eating too many hot dogs, Red Eye was at death's door.

“Ten seconds,” came the warning over the loud speaker. The biker chicks had moved over to Red Eye's spot.

“Whip that little gook,” one of them said.

“Give Red Eye a little quiet time,” I said. “He needs to concentrate.”

They complied and went silent.

I looked behind us. The man-mountain security guard had appeared.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked, looking at the two women. “Remember this contest is about eating, not color.” He put his hand on his billy club. The women didn't beg to differ.

By the time Red Eye raised his head to confront that plate of five dogs in front of him, he looked fresh.

“Good luck,” he said to his young competitor, “but you're history.” Red Eye held his opponent's stare until Rodney's handler drew his attention away. Red Eye's glare had put doubt into those youthful eyes.

Red Eye beat Rodney by a dog and a half. The title was coming back where it belonged.

He lay down in the back seat all the way to my place, holding the Golden Dog trophy atop his massive midsection mountain of forty-six hot dogs. He must have belched a hundred times.

I remembered I had a bottle of champagne in the fridge. We could use it to celebrate Red Eye's victory. As I pulled up in front of my place, I realized it might be a while before I got to pop that cork. There were two guys I'd never seen before sitting in a white car two doors up the street. No one else in my neighborhood drew the heat. They were waiting for me.

R
ed Eye couldn't get out of the car by himself. I grabbed his hands and pulled him into a sitting position in the back seat. From there he levered himself up to his feet with the armrest. I walked him to the front door like a football player with a torn-up knee. Each step brought more belches. I was hoping the inevitable wiener projectiles wouldn't fly from his mouth until we got to a bathroom inside.

The two men in the car observed our movements with great interest but they didn't get out. Likely there were considering a range of criminal activities that could have precipitated Red Eye's incapacity. Excessive hot dog consumption wouldn't have made their list.

I put Red Eye to bed, leaving a five-gallon plastic bucket at his bedside to accommodate any reversal. The trophy from the Greeley sat on the nightstand where he could look at it as he lay on his side. The topknot was a hot dog inside an undersized bun.

“I'm going to get my name engraved on the Golden Dog this time,” Red Eye said. “I should do the other trophy too though I'm not sure where it is.”

He moaned as he tried to adjust his position to get a better view of his prize.

I delivered a glass of Pepto Bismol.

“Don't think that will help,” he said. “I'm beyond medicine. I just need a gigantic puke and a good sleep.”

With that he held his head out over the edge of the bed, pulled the bucket into place and stuck two fingers down his throat.

The vomit came in waves. I stood back, trying to avoid the splash and stink. Out came gallons of greenish hot dog waste, a few pieces
of skin floated in the pool inside the bucket. I should have put some newspapers or a towel down to protect the carpet.

“That's the best puke I ever had,” he said when he was finished, “better than sex.”

I needed to apply my matchmaking skills to Red Eye when he recovered. I hadn't been as good a friend as I thought. How could puking be better than butterin' the muffin? Red Eye was no Tom Cruise but somewhere there was the perfect match for everyone if you just looked hard enough.

He picked up the lid of the bucket and sealed the top, making sure all of the edges were pressed down tight. It didn't do much to stem the stench. At least I'd kept distance enough to stay dry.

“Sorry, bro,” he said. “I'll dump it out in a minute. Just need to let my stomach settle.” I couldn't argue with his offer. I wasn't going to touch that bucket.

“I'll get you a glass of water,” I said. “You might get dehydrated.”

“Gatorade would be better,” he said, “helps with the electrolytes.”

“Sorry, don't have any.”

“Then give me a glass of water with a teaspoon of sugar and a quarter teaspoon of salt.”

“Is that recipe from the Greeley's cookbook?”

“My personal trainer recommended that,” he said. “You don't have a personal trainer.”

“Nowadays every champion has a personal trainer.”

“Yeah, right.”

I went to the kitchen to prepare his concoction. I was wondering what scent of freshener would clear the air. Hawaiian Hurricane might be a contender or the old standby, Fresh Lemon. I could hear Red Eye in the bedroom still laughing at his joke about the personal trainer. I hoped it wouldn't lead to another set of convulsions. With the lid on that bucket, a second round could bring disaster to my carpet.

As I stirred in the salt and sugar, the doorbell rang. I didn't have a hard time guessing who it was.

Carter's pal the Weasel was holding a thumb inside his belt and pushing his sunglasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. His very tall partner wore a suit and was high on something. Crank would
have been my guess. His hair was kind of frizzed up and stuck in place with grease—a guy in his late forties chasing the fountain of youth. He'd taken a wrong turn. His wingtips needed a shine, the morning shave was pretty spotty. But I forgot all that once I looked at his mouth. Harelip. Thirty years ago he'd been wearing number 74 in that picture of Jeffcoat's high school football team. The dots were connecting.

The harelip reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Though he was running interference I suspected the same old quarterback was calling the plays.

“I'm parole agent Washkowski, looking for my client, Mr. Theodore Cornell. I believe you know him as Red Eye.” Washkowski had that nasal sound to his voice. In another situation I would have sympathized. That talking through the nose was one part of the harelip experience I'd avoided.

“If you have a message for him,” I said, “I'll deliver it. He's slightly under the weather at the moment.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to see him in person,” Washkowski said, moving forward. “Step aside.” I closed the door a little to block his way.

“You got a warrant?” I asked.

“Don't need one. This is a parole search. According to our records this is Mr. Cornell's place of residence. He and his residence are subject to search any time of the day or night.”

“He's very sick,” I said without moving. I opened my phone and hunted for Tsiropoulos's number. I kept getting messages instead of the address book. Cell phones are confusing when the pressure's on.

“I'm calling my lawyer.” I said.

Just as I got Tsiropoulos's number on the screen, those two alien bodies barged through the door. The Weasel pulled out his billy club and waved it at his side. It was one of the new kind, with a little cable dangling at the end to whip you with. I could feel the blood dripping from a slash in my cheek and he hadn't even hit me yet.

“I suggest you take a seat,” he said, “and put the phone away.”

“Red Eye,” I hollered, “some asshole PO named Washkowski is here to see you. He's on his way in.”

I heard Red Eye's feet hit the floor as the Weasel slammed me to
the carpet with surprising power. As I tried to block the stench of the Weasel's excessive use of Right Guard, I heard Red Eye struggling with the lid of the bucket. I could understand why a PO showing up was enough to make Red Eye puke. I wished there was something I could do but with a knee in my back I wasn't going to be much good. I could see Red Eye through the open bedroom door, struggling to stand up.

“What's that smell?” Washkowski asked.

“It's this bucket,” said Red Eye. “Let me move it out of the way.” As Washkowski yelled at Red Eye to get down, my partner in crime reached for the bucket. In one surprisingly swift motion, he picked it up and hurled the contents at Washkowski. Little bits of hot dog stuck to the parole agent's hair while others dotted his not-so-new suit. I didn't want to think about my carpet. That show was worth the cost of three good steam cleanings.

The Weasel jumped off of me, pulled out a can of pepper spray and charged Red Eye. Washkowski was gagging. I hoped he wouldn't vomit. Red Eye tried to pull his T-shirt over his face to block the orange spray. It didn't work. I heard him coughing. Then my eyes started burning and I couldn't breathe. I tried holding my breath but it didn't help.

“My eyes, my eyes,” Washkowski screeched, “that fuckin' shit is in my eyes.”

I didn't know whether he was talking about the vomit or the pepper spray. Hopefully both. He streaked for the front door, leaving a trail of vomity footprints along the way. The Weasel had enough presence of mind to get the cuffs on the choking Red Eye and call him a few choice names.

“I'll phone Tsiropoulos,” I promised Red Eye as the cop escorted him out of the house.

“What are you taking me in for?” Red Eye asked.