How Does a Single Blade of Grass Thank the Sun? by Doretta Lau

Author:Doretta Lau
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780889712997
Publisher: Harbour Publishing
Published: 2014-04-20T04:00:00+00:00

In the morning the window in our bedroom was wide open. Lisa’s clothes were still hanging in the closet and heaped on the floor, but mine were gone.

There was a note pinned under Diane’s “Missing” poster: “Sorry I took your clothes.”

O, Woe Is Me

There are six of us sardined into the trailer behind the empty lot, which is strewn with mismatched furniture covered in violent paint splotches. Our boss, Artie, refers to the lot as “our money maker.” The rest of us call it “the pen” or “the shooting gallery.” I like to think of it as “the office,” because it’s where I spend most of my work hours.

We are congratulating our soon-to-be-former colleague Mark on his new career, one with possibilities of fame and fortune: competitive eating. Tomorrow he will no longer be one of us, a freak. His trips to Coney Island will be limited to Independence Day, when Nathan’s has its annual hot dog–eating competition. When he has a family, he might even take them to the beach or boardwalk. But he’s not the kind of guy who would let his kids play our game, Whoop the Freak. Mark’s not cruel.

“To Mark, the best employee I’ve ever had,” says Artie, raising his hot dog. He pauses, not used to giving compliments. “May you eat and eat and never explode.”

We all raise our hot dogs, too. In response, Mark stuffs his hot dog—bun and all—in his mouth and seems to swallow without chewing. I take a small bite of mine and chew slowly, wishing Artie had sprung for beer. Then I slap Mark on the back and say, “I hope you beat Kobayashi.” Everyone laughs, because they think that I look like Kobayashi. The only things that Kobayashi and I have in common are that we have Japanese parents and we are men.

Joe, who has three young children and works the dreaded

morning shift says, “Do it for America, buddy.”

Mark eats ten hot dogs without breaking a sweat. He eats the way he works: methodical and relentless. I’ve only seen him eat ice cream and dumplings in events sanctioned by the International Federation of Competitive Eating. Last year, when he was runner-up to Takeru Kobayashi in Nathan’s Fourth of July hot dog–eating contest—the glamour event, the figure skating of competitive eating really—I was dodging paintballs in the Whoop the Freak pen. After his second-place finish, he did a lap on the boardwalk with our nation’s flag draped over his shoulders. I saw him jog by and couldn’t help but be jealous. I had harboured dreams of swallowing cannoli whole ever since I had to give up my pro ball dreams.

“Twenty, twenty, twenty!” The other guys are shouting so loud that tourists have gathered around the trailer. A boy perched on his father’s shoulders is rolling balls of snot on one of the windows. It’s Tuesday—my day on cleaning duty—so it’ll be me out there with newspapers and Windex polishing the glass until Artie can see his reflection in it.

Mark eats his twentieth hot dog as if it were his first.

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