Eater X and The $4,000 Mistake

Eater X's family wasn't pleased with his performance Saturday at the Wienerschnitzel World Chili Cheese Fries Eating Championship. They didn't know what Eater X knew: that Eater X had actually eaten 9 plates of chili cheese fries, good enough to win the event, but that in his zeal he'd also eaten three of the cardboard plates on which they'd come and wiped out all evidence of their existence. Contest officials had no choice but to credit him with 6 pounds of chili cheese fries eaten. The world believed he'd lost the contest, an opinion with which Eater X's pride could at least coexist. But his family believed he was a loser, an opinion with which it could not.

"We wouldn't have come to America if we'd known you'd stink so badly," they said collectively and with thick accents, as if they'd been rehearsing their line for weeks.

"How can I show my face in Winnipeg?" his mom cried selfishly.

"You've let down all of Lithuania," scolded his dad. "You're a bigger disgrace than Rolandas Paksas."

His sister said something too, but Eater X broke into tears before he could finish recounting her comments to me. It had something to do with her being glad that she'd taken her husband's surname and was no longer legally a Janus. Eater X's tears made a thick mud of his facepaint, which hours earlier had shone blue and green like the California waters upon which the Queen Mary lazily rocked.

We were in Long Beach, downtown at the aquarium, where we were watching the sharks as they fed on dead fish. It was 5 o'clock in the evening on Saturday, and I'd arrived in port four hours earlier, in time to witness the start of the event. Competitive Eating's cognoscenti had said that it couldn't be done; sea captains and maritime experts had universally agreed. "You can't set sail from Gloucester and arrive in Long Beach overnight," they cried. "It's impossible!" And yet I'd done it! I'd set a nautical record and was proud. I'd skipped happy hour at Fanny's in the Azores. I'd merely waived from my boat to the lovely Bonita as she stood on the shores of the Panama Canal and bid me to dock and "bèsame mucho." I'd cut every corner imaginable and enjoyed a year's worth of luck in one day. But as Eater X sat on the rail in front of the shark tank and cried and spilled his heart to me, I put my pride in my pocket and listened, as a good friend sometimes must do. There'd be time enough later to enjoy what I'd done. The day belonged to Eater X.

"I wish I were one of them," he said, pointing to a sardine exploding under the pressure of a hungry shark's jaws. As the shark chewed on its meal mechanically, the sardine became a white cloud of fish juice and splintered meat. A few large pieces fell softly from the side of the shark's mouth to the floor of the tank, where bottom-feeders snatched them up immediately.

"I can't believe they'd say that," I said, referring to his family's comments. "You can't let them bother you. It's your quest not theirs, and you know that."

He nodded at me and burped but declined to speak further.

"Let it out," I said, encouraging him to vent his anger.

He burped again.

A blizzard had struck the Northeast on Saturday afternoon, and Eater X's flight home that evening had been canceled. He was stranded in Long Beach with a ticket for a flight from Burbank the next morning but without a hotel room in which to relax in the meantime. Because my boat was tethered to a searock nearby, I suggested he spend the night there. "It's free," I said, "and there's an extra hammock to which you know you're always more than welcome."

"Thank you," he answered, "but no. I think I'd like to play make-believe tonight. I saw a perfect nook in the Queen Mary's World War II exhibit. It's right beneath a couple of mannequins dressed in army flannels. I'd like to spend the night aboard Her and imagine myself a stowaway. How many times in life do you get to be a stowaway?" he asked rhetorically. "Those days are long gone."

I suggested that we grab a drink because it was early. I even offered to pay for them. "All you can drink," I said, and I raised my eyebrows and opened my eyes up wide to emphasize the offer.

"I thank you, Whaler. You're kind," he said. "But I'm eager to go and be alone now. And I'd better claim that spot early. I can't be the only one with designs on it. There was a heating vent nearby!"

I followed Eater X out of the aquarium and watched him as he slowly walked away down the avenue. I wanted to stop him and insist that he stay with me because the floor of any boat is a poor place to sleep. But as I studied him closely and saw him staring up at the rising moon and whistling, I realized that he'd be alright. He was sad, of course, as he should have been, but at his core he remained as unbreakable as ever. He was independent and dreaming again, which is all I believe he has ever really needed.

Poll: (post your vote in the "comments" section) Should competitive eating be in the Winter Olympics or in the Summer Olympics, or should the IOC create a separate Olympics in the fall or spring for competitive eating exclusively?

Lobster Larry, you can only vote once!