Burger Burning Bonanza by Ashley Lemley
A city journalist heads out to smalltown Texas to document a wild burger-eating festival, and the legendary local determined to achieve the impossible.
It was 101 degrees in Calhoun, Texas. "Feels like 115", read my weather app as a drop of my own sweat landed upon the screen. I was scared to exit the car because outside there was not only a lack of air conditioning, but I spied actual flames.
On each visible streetcorner - all four of them - there were small charcoal grills and a small crowd of people gathered around each one. At the helm of each grill stood an extra sweaty man, donning an apron like a Captain's hat. Since the dusty car had pulled up, their attentions were directed away from their vessels and onto it. Onto me.
Dirty white t-shirts seemed to be the uniform of Calhoun, I noted as I begrudgingly exited the four-door station wagon that had ferried me from the airport to the town boasting a population of 950. I pulled my roller bag from the car, its wheels kicking up a wall of sand. My driver, Randal, with one L and none of that "fancy northern shit," was offended by the sound. I bid him goodbye and was rewarded with a grunt before he sped off, the wood paneling disappearing into the distance.
I took in the air, or, more accurately, it enveloped me. The eyes from the nearest street corner regarded me with suspicion. My clean, long sleeve white shirt was very much out of place. I should have taken my editor's advice and done more research. In my defense, I tried, but there were very few entries for Calhoun, Texas, population 950. The only article I did find pertained to the reason I was here - which was, of course, the legendary Burger Burn Bonanza.
The Burger Burn Bonanza was this small town's claim to mild, and slightly disregarded, fame. Each year, burger makers from all around the great state of Texas, and many of its neighbors, traveled to this mini-mall of a town. They brought their best meat, a small suitcase of spices, and usually their own grill - though the town would provide one at the mere cost of $100 and a six pack of Bud light a day. I thought the latter was a practical joke, but now, after seeing this town, it may very well be the preferred currency. In fact, each set of eyes on me was also accompanied by a flash of the light blue can in each person's left hand. It was sort of beautiful. Poetic, even, against the tan backdrop of this town.
The Burger Bonanza allegedly boasted tens of thousands of attendees, which was hard to imagine seeing it in its current state. Sweat had already begun escaping from my upper pores and streaming down my face. It brought with it a sting from my hair gel and a hint of derision.
I began my trek to a place known as "Bucks". It didn't appear anywhere on my maps, and no address was listed on Yelp, though it must exist from the two reviews it has received. "Beers cold", was what one simply read and "It gets reel busy put near 9" boasted the other. Five stars from both.
Randal informed me that though he didn't know, he heard it was near one of the two gas stations in town, so I hoped he had dropped me at the correct one. The other, he said, was clear across town, about four hundred yards "that a way" he had pointed off-handedly to his right. This gas station was the nicer one, with three pumps, only one of which said "Out of Order" in faded marker on a tattered cardboard sign held firmly in place by what once was gray duct tape.
I started rolling my bag past the gas station down "Main Street", and with each turn of my wheels I felt everyone's eyes narrow. As the sweat started dripping down my back after only one minute of walking, I debated taking my chances and asking the man propped up on a stop sign at the corner of "Main" and "Alternate" if he knew where Bucks was.
"Excuse me, sir?" I started asking him. His brow furrowed, and I worried that my words offended him. The smell of the meat on his grill hit my nose like he had punched me. The heat was so strong that any hunger I had faded into sheer desperation for water. I wondered how I would survive when, in less than 72 hours, the town became what their newspaper boasted as "Burning more burgers than rubbers since 1971." I suspected that, with a population of 950, it had to be a typo.
My mouth was very dry, and I craved the beverage whose skeleton he just discarded on the ground next to him. "Do you know where Bucks is?"
"Why? You a tax man?" he growled the words at me. I suspected not many well-intentioned people came to the town dressed as I was. He flipped the meat patty on his grill and the sizzle sounded like what my skin was doing.
"No, I'm here to do a story on the Burger Burn."
"Burger Burn Bonanza," he corrected me.
"Yes, I'm sorry. Burger Burn Bonanza. I'm supposed to be meeting someone there to interview them."
He eyed me suspiciously. At least I had confirmation that this five-star spot was indeed real and not a fable told me by the legend I was supposed to meet. He looked at my bag, now turned tan by the dust and looked back at me.
"You dress real stupid for weather."
I nodded in agreeance. I did, in fact, dress real stupid for weather.
He sniffed and pointed behind him. "Go 'bout a quarter mile up Alternat'. You'll past Miller's Drug on your right. If you hit the Dust Bin you gone too far."
He picked the patty up off the grill and placed it on an already ten-deep stack next to it. He reached into the cooler at his feet where some patties in Styrofoam were already floating. I wondered to myself if he was going to eat these or merely make a never-ending meat tower. Would it be displayed at the Bonanza?
I looked around and saw that the others at each corner had similar stacks going. I told the man thanks, he grunted what I believed was now the normal salutation in this town, and I started up Alternate Street.
The sidewalks were a cooler relief as I could feel the dust fill my socks, which had started to recede deep in my loafers. I passed by a mother and her whose ice cream cones were dangerously close to teetering over. As I passed she pulled her kids close to her. I heard the boy ask, "Why's that man dressed all funny?"
"Maybe somebody died," his sister offered.
"No one died," I heard the mom say. "He might be from the IRS."
I wondered briefly how she could be so sure no one died. The town would probably realize a dip in the population that would be 949 if I was there on such business.
To my right there was a dusty white store whose glass sign said, "Millers Drugs and More." Glancing in I spied two patrons at a counter, drinking a milkshake. It was something out of a black and white TV show. Immediately I felt jealous as I realized what they were drinking would evaporate into nothing more than a vanilla scent out in this heat. Glancing at my watch, I saw I only had twenty minutes until I was supposed to meet the legend; I pressed onward.
About 100 feet and two sock slips later, an all-brown building came up on my right. I looked for a sign on the window, but it only said "Open". Inside were four men clutching glasses of beer, so I took a risk. I pulled open the - what appeared to be heavy - oak door. It flew right open, held in place by a single hinge. I moseyed inside; it was reminiscent of the John Wayne movies my grandfather had me watch as a child on their TV with seven channels. I felt as if all I was missing was a cowboy hat and a piece of straw hanging from my mouth to be the great man himself.
As the stale air conditioning hit my sweat-covered body, I almost expected to hear the distinct jingle of spurs. The illusion was soon broken by the sound of my bag hitting the old, hard floor inside, causing the handful of patrons to look up at me.
They eyed me with the same suspicion as the Main/Alternate street grillers. The man wiping the bar stopped mid stroke. He looked more like John Wayne - he was pushing about sixty and his seven remaining hairs were slicked back on his reddened scalp.
"You lost?" he asked. I glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person I was supposed to meet. I did not know what she looked like, but I knew she was female, which none of these patrons were. There were two men on my right who had stopped playing pool to glower at me. I suspected a wrong answer could turn this into a western shoot out. I couldn't see any guns, but I reasonably suspected they had them.
"No, I'm meeting someone here." The pool players went back to their game and the other patrons back to their beers. The bartender wasn't as pleased with my answer.
"You from the government?" he asked
"No, I'm a journalist."
"So, you report news?"
"Yes sir."
"Who you meetin' here?"
"I'm meeting Bertha." I heard the scrape of a pool stick against the felt and a collective gasp came from the small crowd. The man closest to me who had been drinking beer choked as the amber liquid in his glass collected in his beard. The bartender was now slack-jawed, his eyes as wide as the glass the beer-bearded patron was holding.
"You are here... t-t-to... talk to Bertha?" he stammered. He went from John Wayne to 'yellow' in mere seconds. The men playing pool were frozen in their positions. The dusty air was filled with anticipation for my next words.
"Yes... Burger Bustin' Bertha," I said, her name rolling off my tongue with the fluidity of the heat within the building.
Each man looked at one another, seemingly in awe.
"Bertha don't come out so close to game day," said the man who was obviously unaware of the alcohol that dropped from his beard like my own sweat did along my neckline.
"Bertha don't talk to no one before the Bonanza." The bartender was now whispering, yet somehow his voice echoed. A chill went down my spine. The sweat was now cold against my skin. From the palpable tension and the air conditioning hanging delicately in three broken windows I could see my sweat sizzle as it hit the counter.
"...Why?"
The two men playing pool groaned. It was the sound of townies having to educate a newbie on their local history.
"She getting ready," the bartender said, lifting the separator to come stand close to me. He smelled of dust, beer and Carmex. "She spends weeks gettin' ready. This is her big day. This is like when those big shots go do them games."
"The Olympics?" I questioned.
"The Daytona 500," the man who now used his sleeve to wipe away the beer droplets from the fuzz on his face offered up.
"Yea, that one," Bartender said. I nodded my head, knowingly.
"It's been even worse the past few years," piped up the guy who was now leaning up his pool stick so his hands could be free while he talked. The other patrons shushed him.
"Why?"
The crowd was now silent. BeerBeard looked around him, checking to make sure the coast was clear. "Ever since that man brought that damn burger to town."
Another shush came from the crowd.
"Are you talking about the -" I began.
"Don't!" The bartender found his voice again and startled me so much I almost fell back on my bag, which threatened to roll me into the street. "Don't say its name," he said, his voice coming down to a whisper.
"But that's why I'm here. She said she wanted to talk about it."
The two men playing pool now started whispering to each other in hushed tones. A man sitting in the back with a trucker hat on came and joined BeerBeard so they could converse. The bartender was now inches away from my face. It was Carmex, with a hint of mint. Not overpowering, just light enough to detect.
"You better not be messin'," he said. I identified the scent as mint-flavored Rolaids; there was a roll sticking directly out of his shirt pocket.
"I'm not." I pulled out my phone to show the message I had gotten from her on social media when I reached out to her. Bertha was hard to find. When I did find her, the only picture that was on her profile was of a single meat patty. I showed him the message, which was ominous, but listed the dusty bar I was in, with the time 2pm.
The message simply read. "I'm ready to talk. Meet me here at 2pm. I don't do cameras. I don't do pictures. Only you. - Big B."
He nodded. "Yep. That's her. I imagine she'll want her usual table, which is in the back corner over there." His finger led to a back table where a robust gentleman sat with a pitcher and a glass.
"Bubba! Git up. Bertha coming."
He moved quicker than a man his size should have been able. His meaty hands grabbed the pitcher, hugged it close to him, and scurried over to the same table where BeerBeard and TruckerHat sat. The bartender grabbed his rag and furiously began cleaning the table.
I tentatively followed him. As I went to sit on the further side, the Bartender stopped me. "No. She always sits facin' the door."
Again, I nodded and sat across from where the legend herself was supposed to sit. I looked at my watch. Five till.
The bartender told me he was going to ice a pitcher and left me there to ponder my thoughts. The air conditioning could still be felt, and I spied a bathroom that said "Everybody" on it. I thought briefly about patting myself down and rinsing up, but I didn't want to be absent when she came. It was obviously a special occasion and I wasn't going to mess it up.
I felt eyes and turned back to see all the patrons now gathered at BeerBeard's table. As soon as my eyes met theirs, they turned back to their huddled whispering. I heard "city", "tax" and "that damned burger." I pulled out some paper and a pen. If she didn't like pictures, she would probably be suspicious of laptops or tape recorders.
At a minute to the time I heard a motorcycle roar up the curb. The whispers behind me stopped so I turned to face the door. Outside the dingy windows a cloud of dust had bloomed. I didn't have to see her figure to know that she had arrived.
The door swung open with vigor and in she stepped. At first, I could only make out a silhouette because the sun and the dust blocked my vision. I heard a definite stomp, followed by a thump as a leather jacket hit the bar top.
"Usual," a husky voice said and I saw Bartender scramble to the back. I started to see her clearer with each clunk of what I suspected were work boots on the hard wood floors. She didn't even look at the table of huddled men who appeared minute in comparison.
She was at least 5'11 if not 6'. She had dusty blonde hair, either naturally dirty or from the dust outside. It hung short in the front, coming up just above her ears and longer in the back extending past the collar of her denim vest. Her face counteracted her haircut and was strictly business. Her eyes may have matched her jacket, but there was no way to tell.
Her size was surprising because her accomplishments up until this point led me to believe she was as wide as she was tall. She was not a small lady, but maybe pushing 250 versus the 4 to 500 pounds I had previously suspected. On her right bicep there was a tattoo of a snake wrapped around what appeared to be a burger. It said "Live to Eat".
I stood up as she approached me.
"You the reporter?" she asked, stopping square in front of me. My eyes met her nose, which had a ring directly in the middle.
I introduced myself and she greeted me with a grunt before sitting down. As soon as her body pushed the table towards me the bartender placed a glass of whiskey in front of her.
"You getting anything city boy?" she asked.
"Can I just get a water?" I looked up at the bartender who now looked very offended.
Bertha laughed so hard it shook the tire that was hanging on the wall directly above us. "Water? This ain't Hollywood. Git this man a beer. Closest thing this place has to water other than the ice cubes." The bartender laughed with her, though his laughter accompanied a slight shake in his hand.
She took a sip of the whiskey and smiled. "All I drink up until the Bonanza, City." City was my name now and I wasn't about to refute it. "I gotta git my muscles ready."
Nodding, I said, "Is there anything else you do to get ready?"
She thought about that for a moment. "Rolaids. Everybody around here chews on those days up to the Bonanza. You don't want to get stopped by nothin' as small as a damn burnin' heart."
I remembered the bartender's pocket and took notes. Rolaids, I wrote and underlined.
"How are you feeling this year?" The patrons behind me had slowly started whispering again.
She took another sip of her whiskey. I noticed two rings on her hands. Both on the ring fingers and both appeared to be cattle's heads with crossbones. She pulled a cigarette out of her upper jacket pocket and lit it. I watched the paper recede just as my socks did earlier into my shoes.
"You mean, do I think I'm gonna beat the Bitchin' Burger this year?"
The place fell completely silent again. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. That was the name I had been forbidden to say earlier.
"The Bitchin Burger." I repeated and began to write, just so I wouldn't make eye contact. I heard her groan and felt her lean back.
"That's the burger," she said in a gruff voice. Her stare was far away as she swallowed what was left of the whiskey and took a long, exaggerated drag on her cigarette. "I've encountered it four times in my life and it has bested me each time."
As soon as her empty glass hit the table, the bartender was there with another, and my beer. I took a sip. She leaned back further as the bartender grabbed her glass and left us again.
"I've eaten every damn so called monster burger that's crossed my path since I was fifteen years old." As she exhaled, I caught the whiff of the whiskey she had been drinking, mixed with cigarette smoke and Rolaids. I furiously scribbled on my pad, not wanting to miss a word, as I was drawn into her, and the story I was about to hear.
"I've been to burger eating contests all up and down this state. My pa used to take me to restaurants that had signs that said 'A burger no man can eat'. So he'd park his hog out front, take me in and be like, 'Yeah? I betcha fifty dollars my girl can eat your burger in less than twenty minutes.' I'd go in there and they'd look at me and sometimes do that huff that means someone thinks they better than you. I'd sit on down, strap on my bib and wait. I remember each one of those faces as they watched me finish every damn bite of their so called 'uneatable burger.'
"Pa was the one who started up this Burger Burn back in '72, two years before I was born. So it's in my blood, see?" She pointed then to her tattoo. I wished I could take a picture, but rules were rules and hers were strict. "It started off small, we had maybe ten or fifteen burger places comin' in from out of town. Now? Now we have at least two to three hundred. One for every pound of me." She laughed deeply again, and I saw her drain half her whiskey before wiping her mouth off with a sweatband on her wrist.
"Four years ago..." The laugh faded into the memory as her eyes stared at her glass. "Four years ago this man come into town. He looked no different from the rest of them. Short, chubby, some bleach blonde in his hair. A face you just want to punch, ya know?" Her eyes met mine and I nodded as I wrote "face you want to punch" on my notepad.
"Each day the judges decide who has the biggest burger of the day. That's the burger that the "Big Chowers" compete to eat. Three days of this for the past twenty years I've been winning every single challenge every day. You ain't competin' against each other you see?" she said, and finished her whiskey. Like magic, the glass was gone and another full one appeared. "You competin' against yourself."
"You vs. You" I jotted down.
"Four years ago on the last day, this man puts a burger down in front of us. He was smilin', smilin' so damn big..." she inhaled sharply, obviously pained by the memory of that sight.
"It was four patties thick, each of them this big, I shit you not." She made a motion with her fingers to show me that each patty was at least three inches thick.
"He put onion rings in between the first layer, macaroni and cheese on the second, fries on the third and topped it off with..." she stopped herself, inhaling again, "shredded pork."
I heard a groan escape the bartender who was obviously listening to our conversation. He, too, was pained by the description.
"Then to top shit on top of shit," she said, frustrated by explaining it, "the bread he uses is some fancy French that's nearly as thick as the patties themselves."
She slammed her first on the table then, shaking her whiskey and my beer. "It ain't just about the patties with this guy. He puts all this extra shit on it. He knows what he's doing when it comes to trippin' me up. I swear he made this damn thing to torment me."
The table was still rattling and for a few seconds it was the only noise in the bar. She picked up her whiskey glass and sipped on it.
"Does it taste good?"
She glowered at me from across the table. "Did you not hear how I described it? 'Course it taste good. How does something with all that on it taste anything but touched-by-the-hand-of-God-himself good?"
"Of course," I said, still scribbling, mostly to keep from making eye contact.
"The point is, the first time I only got about halfway through." She hung her head in shame. "Halfway through. I had to see him look at my half-eaten plate and smirk at me. I've never felt so defeated in my life."
Sadness filled the air like the air-conditioned dust. My heart sank for her.
"I practiced all damn year. Ain't no one here equipped to make such a thing, but they did their best. When he came around, year two, I thought I was ready. But again... again I finished barely more than half.
"It was the same story. Last year I got at least three fourths of the way through. Still, though, he smirked. He smirks every damn time I fail to lick my freakin' plate clean."
"This year, though." She smiled at me. The smile of someone who saw victory through the bottom of her whiskey glass. "This year, I'm gonna git him."
"That's why I wanted you to come. I want someone to be there when I claim my victory. When I put the final big piece of onion cheesy pork burger in my mouth, I want you to write about it. The cheers from the crowd. The smirk leavin' his big old bleached face. The moment when I wipe my face on his clean, white collared shirt. I want you there. I want you close enough to smell the ketchup."
"Ketchup" I wrote and I met her eyes. "This burger. This is like your white whale then?"
She glared at me again. "I ain't eatin' no fish, City."
I heard a patron behind me snicker. "No fish" I wrote.
"City," she leaned in close enough that I could see her ears get red. "You tell my story, even if it kills me, ya hear?"
I nodded. "Of course."
She nodded and grunted in response before kicking back the last whiskey. "It starts the next three days. You need to go to every day, not just the last. You need to feel it. You got me?"
Again, I nodded. She slammed forty dollars on the table and got up to walk out. I heard her pick up her jacket and grunt goodbye to the bartender.
I finished my beer, grabbed my notes and picked up my bag. No more rolling for me. I had to become part of the town now.
As I stepped out into the dusty sunlight, a fast-food bag rolled in front of me like a tumbleweed. I felt empowered. It was a sign. Time to get my story.
The Burger Burn Bonanza was everything that I had heard and more. The air was thick with the smell of meat for three days. For those seventy-two hours there were crowds of thousands milling the otherwise desolate streets of Calhoun, Texas. It was easy to spot the outsiders from the townsfolk. The outsiders wore bright colors, shorts, flipflops and smiles. The townsfolk wore stained t-shirts, jeans, and had a look of anxiety. They weren't here for the burgers anymore. They were here for the win.
Everyone spoke in murmurs about the day three event. The Man hadn't even arrived in town yet. Bucky, the bartender/owner, who introduced himself over the next few days, told me that after the first year he only showed up on the third day.
"It's like he's too good to be here all three days," Bucky said, pouring me a beer.
"He sounds like an ass," I said, taking the beer.
"You gettin' it, City." Bucky smiled at me. "You really gettin' it."
I smiled at the approval. Roller bag was tucked safely away in my air conditioned, attic hotel room. I had been lucky enough to get a spot in town. Most people stayed in the bigger cities surrounding Calhoun - populations of three to four thousand. The hotel was owned by Bucky's uncle, who was also Bertha's mechanic. He and Bertha went way back.
"I sure hope she get him this year," Bucky said.
"Me too." I had tried to blend in with a white t-shirt and jeans, but both were still too clean. Bucky appreciated the attempt though.
On day one I tried only three different burgers. At the end of day one a burger named "Colossus" came out. At the end-of-day competitions, the "Big Chowers" came out and one hour was put on the clock. The "Colossus" burger was three patties thick, with layers of cheese in the middle. The burger was big enough to cover the plate.
"Bertha gobbled that one up in twenty minutes last year," Bucky told me as I stood in the front with the onlookers.
It was magic to watch her work. Her first bite took a chunk out of the burger that I didn't even think possible. Her eyes widened, her jaws seemed to unhinge, and before her forearms even hit the table she swallowed and went back in. Flecks of burger flew and hit the person next to her in the face. He didn't even seem to notice, too focused on the mountain of meat in front of him. I watched in awe as she would swallow each dollar sized bite with the ease of a child popping a jellybean into their mouth.
She didn't even break a sweat when she was halfway done. The crowd roared with enthusiasm as she sat it down to take a big gulp of the beer next to her. After half that glass was gone, she dug right back in. The cheese pouring down her mouth seemed to symbolize any nerves she may have had, all of it melting in front of the crowd. The ketchup represented the blood of her enemy. Each chew brought her closer to victory. Every swallow a step nearer to the finish line. Each swig of beer was just an added breath of fresh air.
Seventeen minutes. She beat her time. Her victory over herself was declared. The crowd roared in approval as she stood up, sauce coating her face, not even bothering to wipe it off. It was the blood from the hunt. It was her trophy.
Instead of simply stepping down, Bertha did something that to this day, when I'm sitting at home by myself still sends goosebumps up my arm. She started cheering on those around her. The man next to her, with her own burger flecks still sitting on his face, was who she started with. Her fist pounded the table as she yelled at him to go. The crowd joined in and soon this man, like her, tasted victory. Then he followed her lead and they both started cheering on the others. She had already defeated herself. She had no enemy. These were her friends. Her burger battle buddies.
Day two was even hotter than day one. The beer flowed as freely as the smell of meat through little Calhoun. The next burger was called "The King Chower." It seemed to overflow off of the plates in front of them and as thick as Bertha's biceps combined. This one looked more daunting than the prior. It was new to the competition, Bucky informed me.
"Psssh," he said when I expressed concern. "Child's play."
Child's play indeed. The whistle blew and the same crowd was off. Her bites were just as big as yesterday's but didn't make quite the dent. This didn't seem to bother her or slow her down in the least. Each bite was taken with the same ferocity as the one prior. The heat filled the air, but she was not going to be filled. The size didn't intimidate her. The quantity of spreads - this one had fried pickles and layers of mayonnaise - didn't cause trepidation. She was a woman on a mission. A mission which she finished in thirty-one minutes flat.
Again, the crowd roared. The sun was setting in the background, which was merciful to me and the other out-of-towners. It seemed the sun in Calhoun, Texas was more potent than anywhere else I had been.
"It's like this every Burger Burn Bonanza," I heard a passerby say. "Not a wisp of a cloud in the sky. Like the world wants this to happen."
Finally, day three arrived. The tension was almost as palpable as the heat, which was now calculated at 105.
"Prime Burnin' weather," Bucky commented as we had our noon beer. Five and a half hours until the moment of the truth.
"Oh shoot," Bucky said and motioned for me to get up with him on the stop of his pick-up truck that he had parked at the edge of the Bonanza. "There's the bastard."
I climbed up next to Bucky and across the parking lot a big black truck was pulling in. It had a wagon behind it and two long horns sticking out from the front. All the windows were black, but the wagon on the back was clearly displaying an angry bull, and the side read "Bitchin' Burgers."
I inhaled deeply as the truck parked, and out stepped a man with bleach blonde hair, a clean white t-shirt, and sunglasses. He was already smirking. This was him. This was the real enemy. I could feel Bertha's own disgust as I watched him smirk and walk to the back to unload his supplies.
"I sure do hope this is the year, City. I don't think she can handle another loss." Bucky looked like a worried father in the hospital awaiting news on his child. "I just don't think she can."
I put a supportive hand on his back. He was right, I knew. This burger was her Everest, and like many of the climbers who had tried that feat, she could perish.
The hours moved as slow as my bowel movements since I had arrived in the town. Each stroke of the clock sent my heart racing. The air was thicker and I couldn't decide if it was because of the heat or my own nerves.
The crowd was gathering early and there was very little talking as five-thirty rolled around. This time, there was no loud cheering, not even from the out-of-towners. Everyone knew the story and the legend. This wasn't a moment for zeal. This was a moment of anticipation and unspoken fear.
The "Big Chowers" were set up in their usual order with Bertha in the middle. She had her beer, but Bucky informed me she never dared drink it after year one. It was there for support - for show. Her own lucky charm.
None of the "Big Chowers" looked excited as they awaited the burger drop. The blonde man himself was the one who set the plate in front of Bertha, with the same smirk I knew she so dearly wanted to wipe off. She didn't look up at him, but I could see the sweat on her brow. It was the first sign of perspiration I had seen on the woman who had an affinity for dark denim in the Calhoun heat.
The burger was as monstrous as she had described. It wasn't only larger than the plate, but I couldn't understand how physics allowed it to stay standing. Bucky informed me this burger was eaten by the handfuls and not even picked up. I could clearly imagine why. Picking that burger up seemed impossible, let alone try to wrap a mouth around it.
I felt my own body begin to tremble. I looked at Bertha, and for a brief second her eyes met mine. I showed her my pad and my paper. Preparing to chronicle the scene of what I hoped was her victory. She appeared to relax slightly at the sight, and she smiled and flicked her hair back behind her collar.
The bell rang and echoed through the air. The crowd stayed silent.
She grabbed a piece of the burger and shoved it in her mouth and did the same almost immediately after. Piece by piece she chipped away at this burger like an artist sculpts marble. She was Michelangelo and the meaty, cheesy-fried, loaded concoction on the plate before her was her David. Other Big Chowers used the same tactics, but her handfuls were the biggest by far. Even then, her efforts seemed to barely make a dent in the monstrosity. Onion rings hung from her mouth like the skin of an animal. She tore into each bite like a prehistoric raptor, long before man even made an appearance.
This was art and I was watching the master work.
Five heart-pounding, artery-clogging minutes had passed and it barely looked like Bertha had taken a bite out of the Bitchin' Burger. She wasn't to be deterred. Her eyes spoke what her heart was thinking, "If I die, let it be the joy of victory that takes me."
Thirty minutes in and she had only made it halfway. The crowd started cheering. The blonde guy didn't appear nervous. That smirk hung above his goatee. I understood the hate, as I fantasized about smacking it off. Three Big Chowers had "tapped out," leaving only Bertha and one person on either side of her. At minute 45 there was only one other Chower left. By minute fifty, he, too, had abandoned ship and left her with a little less than one-fourth of the burger on her plate.
His smirk was less pronounced than it had been before, but in seeing her begin to slow down, it widened ever so slightly. She started to chew more and take deep breaths between each bite, like a diver finally needing to come up for air.
With five minutes left, maybe fifteen percent of the burger remained on her plate. It was now or never. I could see it in her eyes that she had almost reached her limit. Her skin was bright red, and her sweat, mixed with ketchup, soaked the bun.
The crowd was silent as they watched her stop completely and stare defeatedly at it. Oh no.
At that moment, the blonde man's smirk widened into an ear-to-ear grin that made me scream in frustration, breaking the deafening silence.
"Beat it, Bertha!" I bellowed. "You can beat it! You can do this!"
Her eyes met mine and they had the look of a wounded animal. I pointed to the blonde man. Her curls hit her collar as she turned to face him. She saw the giant smirk.
Suddenly, her eyes filled with determination, and she turned back to her plate with a renewed vigor. The crowd joined me in chanting, "Eat it Bertha!" and "You can do it!"
"Bertha! Bertha!" the crowd continued to chant.
As her bites got bigger, his smirk grew smaller. I saw fries and onion rings disappear into the black hole that had replaced her mouth. Pulled pork and cheese stuck to her face as her fingers entered her mouth as quickly as they exited.
At one minute left there were ten bites to go. Each bite was shoveled into her mouth and chewed so rapidly that my vision blurred. The sun had started to set in the background, and it appeared to be hanging in the sky awaiting her very last bite.
With thirty seconds left, she shoved the final bite into her mouth. The crowd went wild as Bertha stood up to chew and swallow a single fry and a chunk of patty. A judge came up behind her, looked at her plate, and then up at her in anticipation. At 13 seconds Bertha opened her empty mouth nice and wide, and the judge stopped the clock. Bertha had won. She beat the Bitchin' Burger.
She locked eyes with me, and then ran over to the Blonde Man. His face was twisted. Lips were curled in on themselves, face red. He had turned to leave when she grabbed his arm. Towering over him, his blonde spikes barely reaching her chin, she brought her face close enough to whisper in his ear. Rather than whisper, however, she leaned down and used his collar to wipe the remnants of his creation from her face. He could only stare before turning on his heels and walking off. I had a deep suspicion this may be his last year, his legacy shattered.
Before she exited the stage, she paused to grab her beer and came down to the front where I was standing.
"Did ya git it, City?" she asked me excitedly. I nodded and proudly held up my pad and paper, filled with the day's events.
"Hell yes!" She motioned for me to grab a beer, so I did, and we cheered together. Cheered her victory over the blonde man, over the Bitchin' Burger, and, most importantly, over herself.
And later, when I asked her what victory tasted like, she told me it was a poly-cotton blend and a hint of Old Spice.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/fG3O2h5
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On each visible streetcorner - all four of them - there were small charcoal grills and a small crowd of people gathered around each one. At the helm of each grill stood an extra sweaty man, donning an apron like a Captain's hat. Since the dusty car had pulled up, their attentions were directed away from their vessels and onto it. Onto me.
Dirty white t-shirts seemed to be the uniform of Calhoun, I noted as I begrudgingly exited the four-door station wagon that had ferried me from the airport to the town boasting a population of 950. I pulled my roller bag from the car, its wheels kicking up a wall of sand. My driver, Randal, with one L and none of that "fancy northern shit," was offended by the sound. I bid him goodbye and was rewarded with a grunt before he sped off, the wood paneling disappearing into the distance.
I took in the air, or, more accurately, it enveloped me. The eyes from the nearest street corner regarded me with suspicion. My clean, long sleeve white shirt was very much out of place. I should have taken my editor's advice and done more research. In my defense, I tried, but there were very few entries for Calhoun, Texas, population 950. The only article I did find pertained to the reason I was here - which was, of course, the legendary Burger Burn Bonanza.
The Burger Burn Bonanza was this small town's claim to mild, and slightly disregarded, fame. Each year, burger makers from all around the great state of Texas, and many of its neighbors, traveled to this mini-mall of a town. They brought their best meat, a small suitcase of spices, and usually their own grill - though the town would provide one at the mere cost of $100 and a six pack of Bud light a day. I thought the latter was a practical joke, but now, after seeing this town, it may very well be the preferred currency. In fact, each set of eyes on me was also accompanied by a flash of the light blue can in each person's left hand. It was sort of beautiful. Poetic, even, against the tan backdrop of this town.
The Burger Bonanza allegedly boasted tens of thousands of attendees, which was hard to imagine seeing it in its current state. Sweat had already begun escaping from my upper pores and streaming down my face. It brought with it a sting from my hair gel and a hint of derision.
I began my trek to a place known as "Bucks". It didn't appear anywhere on my maps, and no address was listed on Yelp, though it must exist from the two reviews it has received. "Beers cold", was what one simply read and "It gets reel busy put near 9" boasted the other. Five stars from both.
Randal informed me that though he didn't know, he heard it was near one of the two gas stations in town, so I hoped he had dropped me at the correct one. The other, he said, was clear across town, about four hundred yards "that a way" he had pointed off-handedly to his right. This gas station was the nicer one, with three pumps, only one of which said "Out of Order" in faded marker on a tattered cardboard sign held firmly in place by what once was gray duct tape.
I started rolling my bag past the gas station down "Main Street", and with each turn of my wheels I felt everyone's eyes narrow. As the sweat started dripping down my back after only one minute of walking, I debated taking my chances and asking the man propped up on a stop sign at the corner of "Main" and "Alternate" if he knew where Bucks was.
"Excuse me, sir?" I started asking him. His brow furrowed, and I worried that my words offended him. The smell of the meat on his grill hit my nose like he had punched me. The heat was so strong that any hunger I had faded into sheer desperation for water. I wondered how I would survive when, in less than 72 hours, the town became what their newspaper boasted as "Burning more burgers than rubbers since 1971." I suspected that, with a population of 950, it had to be a typo.
My mouth was very dry, and I craved the beverage whose skeleton he just discarded on the ground next to him. "Do you know where Bucks is?"
"Why? You a tax man?" he growled the words at me. I suspected not many well-intentioned people came to the town dressed as I was. He flipped the meat patty on his grill and the sizzle sounded like what my skin was doing.
"No, I'm here to do a story on the Burger Burn."
"Burger Burn Bonanza," he corrected me.
"Yes, I'm sorry. Burger Burn Bonanza. I'm supposed to be meeting someone there to interview them."
He eyed me suspiciously. At least I had confirmation that this five-star spot was indeed real and not a fable told me by the legend I was supposed to meet. He looked at my bag, now turned tan by the dust and looked back at me.
"You dress real stupid for weather."
I nodded in agreeance. I did, in fact, dress real stupid for weather.
He sniffed and pointed behind him. "Go 'bout a quarter mile up Alternat'. You'll past Miller's Drug on your right. If you hit the Dust Bin you gone too far."
He picked the patty up off the grill and placed it on an already ten-deep stack next to it. He reached into the cooler at his feet where some patties in Styrofoam were already floating. I wondered to myself if he was going to eat these or merely make a never-ending meat tower. Would it be displayed at the Bonanza?
I looked around and saw that the others at each corner had similar stacks going. I told the man thanks, he grunted what I believed was now the normal salutation in this town, and I started up Alternate Street.
The sidewalks were a cooler relief as I could feel the dust fill my socks, which had started to recede deep in my loafers. I passed by a mother and her whose ice cream cones were dangerously close to teetering over. As I passed she pulled her kids close to her. I heard the boy ask, "Why's that man dressed all funny?"
"Maybe somebody died," his sister offered.
"No one died," I heard the mom say. "He might be from the IRS."
I wondered briefly how she could be so sure no one died. The town would probably realize a dip in the population that would be 949 if I was there on such business.
To my right there was a dusty white store whose glass sign said, "Millers Drugs and More." Glancing in I spied two patrons at a counter, drinking a milkshake. It was something out of a black and white TV show. Immediately I felt jealous as I realized what they were drinking would evaporate into nothing more than a vanilla scent out in this heat. Glancing at my watch, I saw I only had twenty minutes until I was supposed to meet the legend; I pressed onward.
About 100 feet and two sock slips later, an all-brown building came up on my right. I looked for a sign on the window, but it only said "Open". Inside were four men clutching glasses of beer, so I took a risk. I pulled open the - what appeared to be heavy - oak door. It flew right open, held in place by a single hinge. I moseyed inside; it was reminiscent of the John Wayne movies my grandfather had me watch as a child on their TV with seven channels. I felt as if all I was missing was a cowboy hat and a piece of straw hanging from my mouth to be the great man himself.
As the stale air conditioning hit my sweat-covered body, I almost expected to hear the distinct jingle of spurs. The illusion was soon broken by the sound of my bag hitting the old, hard floor inside, causing the handful of patrons to look up at me.
They eyed me with the same suspicion as the Main/Alternate street grillers. The man wiping the bar stopped mid stroke. He looked more like John Wayne - he was pushing about sixty and his seven remaining hairs were slicked back on his reddened scalp.
"You lost?" he asked. I glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person I was supposed to meet. I did not know what she looked like, but I knew she was female, which none of these patrons were. There were two men on my right who had stopped playing pool to glower at me. I suspected a wrong answer could turn this into a western shoot out. I couldn't see any guns, but I reasonably suspected they had them.
"No, I'm meeting someone here." The pool players went back to their game and the other patrons back to their beers. The bartender wasn't as pleased with my answer.
"You from the government?" he asked
"No, I'm a journalist."
"So, you report news?"
"Yes sir."
"Who you meetin' here?"
"I'm meeting Bertha." I heard the scrape of a pool stick against the felt and a collective gasp came from the small crowd. The man closest to me who had been drinking beer choked as the amber liquid in his glass collected in his beard. The bartender was now slack-jawed, his eyes as wide as the glass the beer-bearded patron was holding.
"You are here... t-t-to... talk to Bertha?" he stammered. He went from John Wayne to 'yellow' in mere seconds. The men playing pool were frozen in their positions. The dusty air was filled with anticipation for my next words.
"Yes... Burger Bustin' Bertha," I said, her name rolling off my tongue with the fluidity of the heat within the building.
Each man looked at one another, seemingly in awe.
"Bertha don't come out so close to game day," said the man who was obviously unaware of the alcohol that dropped from his beard like my own sweat did along my neckline.
"Bertha don't talk to no one before the Bonanza." The bartender was now whispering, yet somehow his voice echoed. A chill went down my spine. The sweat was now cold against my skin. From the palpable tension and the air conditioning hanging delicately in three broken windows I could see my sweat sizzle as it hit the counter.
"...Why?"
The two men playing pool groaned. It was the sound of townies having to educate a newbie on their local history.
"She getting ready," the bartender said, lifting the separator to come stand close to me. He smelled of dust, beer and Carmex. "She spends weeks gettin' ready. This is her big day. This is like when those big shots go do them games."
"The Olympics?" I questioned.
"The Daytona 500," the man who now used his sleeve to wipe away the beer droplets from the fuzz on his face offered up.
"Yea, that one," Bartender said. I nodded my head, knowingly.
"It's been even worse the past few years," piped up the guy who was now leaning up his pool stick so his hands could be free while he talked. The other patrons shushed him.
"Why?"
The crowd was now silent. BeerBeard looked around him, checking to make sure the coast was clear. "Ever since that man brought that damn burger to town."
Another shush came from the crowd.
"Are you talking about the -" I began.
"Don't!" The bartender found his voice again and startled me so much I almost fell back on my bag, which threatened to roll me into the street. "Don't say its name," he said, his voice coming down to a whisper.
"But that's why I'm here. She said she wanted to talk about it."
The two men playing pool now started whispering to each other in hushed tones. A man sitting in the back with a trucker hat on came and joined BeerBeard so they could converse. The bartender was now inches away from my face. It was Carmex, with a hint of mint. Not overpowering, just light enough to detect.
"You better not be messin'," he said. I identified the scent as mint-flavored Rolaids; there was a roll sticking directly out of his shirt pocket.
"I'm not." I pulled out my phone to show the message I had gotten from her on social media when I reached out to her. Bertha was hard to find. When I did find her, the only picture that was on her profile was of a single meat patty. I showed him the message, which was ominous, but listed the dusty bar I was in, with the time 2pm.
The message simply read. "I'm ready to talk. Meet me here at 2pm. I don't do cameras. I don't do pictures. Only you. - Big B."
He nodded. "Yep. That's her. I imagine she'll want her usual table, which is in the back corner over there." His finger led to a back table where a robust gentleman sat with a pitcher and a glass.
"Bubba! Git up. Bertha coming."
He moved quicker than a man his size should have been able. His meaty hands grabbed the pitcher, hugged it close to him, and scurried over to the same table where BeerBeard and TruckerHat sat. The bartender grabbed his rag and furiously began cleaning the table.
I tentatively followed him. As I went to sit on the further side, the Bartender stopped me. "No. She always sits facin' the door."
Again, I nodded and sat across from where the legend herself was supposed to sit. I looked at my watch. Five till.
The bartender told me he was going to ice a pitcher and left me there to ponder my thoughts. The air conditioning could still be felt, and I spied a bathroom that said "Everybody" on it. I thought briefly about patting myself down and rinsing up, but I didn't want to be absent when she came. It was obviously a special occasion and I wasn't going to mess it up.
I felt eyes and turned back to see all the patrons now gathered at BeerBeard's table. As soon as my eyes met theirs, they turned back to their huddled whispering. I heard "city", "tax" and "that damned burger." I pulled out some paper and a pen. If she didn't like pictures, she would probably be suspicious of laptops or tape recorders.
At a minute to the time I heard a motorcycle roar up the curb. The whispers behind me stopped so I turned to face the door. Outside the dingy windows a cloud of dust had bloomed. I didn't have to see her figure to know that she had arrived.
The door swung open with vigor and in she stepped. At first, I could only make out a silhouette because the sun and the dust blocked my vision. I heard a definite stomp, followed by a thump as a leather jacket hit the bar top.
"Usual," a husky voice said and I saw Bartender scramble to the back. I started to see her clearer with each clunk of what I suspected were work boots on the hard wood floors. She didn't even look at the table of huddled men who appeared minute in comparison.
She was at least 5'11 if not 6'. She had dusty blonde hair, either naturally dirty or from the dust outside. It hung short in the front, coming up just above her ears and longer in the back extending past the collar of her denim vest. Her face counteracted her haircut and was strictly business. Her eyes may have matched her jacket, but there was no way to tell.
Her size was surprising because her accomplishments up until this point led me to believe she was as wide as she was tall. She was not a small lady, but maybe pushing 250 versus the 4 to 500 pounds I had previously suspected. On her right bicep there was a tattoo of a snake wrapped around what appeared to be a burger. It said "Live to Eat".
I stood up as she approached me.
"You the reporter?" she asked, stopping square in front of me. My eyes met her nose, which had a ring directly in the middle.
I introduced myself and she greeted me with a grunt before sitting down. As soon as her body pushed the table towards me the bartender placed a glass of whiskey in front of her.
"You getting anything city boy?" she asked.
"Can I just get a water?" I looked up at the bartender who now looked very offended.
Bertha laughed so hard it shook the tire that was hanging on the wall directly above us. "Water? This ain't Hollywood. Git this man a beer. Closest thing this place has to water other than the ice cubes." The bartender laughed with her, though his laughter accompanied a slight shake in his hand.
She took a sip of the whiskey and smiled. "All I drink up until the Bonanza, City." City was my name now and I wasn't about to refute it. "I gotta git my muscles ready."
Nodding, I said, "Is there anything else you do to get ready?"
She thought about that for a moment. "Rolaids. Everybody around here chews on those days up to the Bonanza. You don't want to get stopped by nothin' as small as a damn burnin' heart."
I remembered the bartender's pocket and took notes. Rolaids, I wrote and underlined.
"How are you feeling this year?" The patrons behind me had slowly started whispering again.
She took another sip of her whiskey. I noticed two rings on her hands. Both on the ring fingers and both appeared to be cattle's heads with crossbones. She pulled a cigarette out of her upper jacket pocket and lit it. I watched the paper recede just as my socks did earlier into my shoes.
"You mean, do I think I'm gonna beat the Bitchin' Burger this year?"
The place fell completely silent again. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. That was the name I had been forbidden to say earlier.
"The Bitchin Burger." I repeated and began to write, just so I wouldn't make eye contact. I heard her groan and felt her lean back.
"That's the burger," she said in a gruff voice. Her stare was far away as she swallowed what was left of the whiskey and took a long, exaggerated drag on her cigarette. "I've encountered it four times in my life and it has bested me each time."
As soon as her empty glass hit the table, the bartender was there with another, and my beer. I took a sip. She leaned back further as the bartender grabbed her glass and left us again.
"I've eaten every damn so called monster burger that's crossed my path since I was fifteen years old." As she exhaled, I caught the whiff of the whiskey she had been drinking, mixed with cigarette smoke and Rolaids. I furiously scribbled on my pad, not wanting to miss a word, as I was drawn into her, and the story I was about to hear.
"I've been to burger eating contests all up and down this state. My pa used to take me to restaurants that had signs that said 'A burger no man can eat'. So he'd park his hog out front, take me in and be like, 'Yeah? I betcha fifty dollars my girl can eat your burger in less than twenty minutes.' I'd go in there and they'd look at me and sometimes do that huff that means someone thinks they better than you. I'd sit on down, strap on my bib and wait. I remember each one of those faces as they watched me finish every damn bite of their so called 'uneatable burger.'
"Pa was the one who started up this Burger Burn back in '72, two years before I was born. So it's in my blood, see?" She pointed then to her tattoo. I wished I could take a picture, but rules were rules and hers were strict. "It started off small, we had maybe ten or fifteen burger places comin' in from out of town. Now? Now we have at least two to three hundred. One for every pound of me." She laughed deeply again, and I saw her drain half her whiskey before wiping her mouth off with a sweatband on her wrist.
"Four years ago..." The laugh faded into the memory as her eyes stared at her glass. "Four years ago this man come into town. He looked no different from the rest of them. Short, chubby, some bleach blonde in his hair. A face you just want to punch, ya know?" Her eyes met mine and I nodded as I wrote "face you want to punch" on my notepad.
"Each day the judges decide who has the biggest burger of the day. That's the burger that the "Big Chowers" compete to eat. Three days of this for the past twenty years I've been winning every single challenge every day. You ain't competin' against each other you see?" she said, and finished her whiskey. Like magic, the glass was gone and another full one appeared. "You competin' against yourself."
"You vs. You" I jotted down.
"Four years ago on the last day, this man puts a burger down in front of us. He was smilin', smilin' so damn big..." she inhaled sharply, obviously pained by the memory of that sight.
"It was four patties thick, each of them this big, I shit you not." She made a motion with her fingers to show me that each patty was at least three inches thick.
"He put onion rings in between the first layer, macaroni and cheese on the second, fries on the third and topped it off with..." she stopped herself, inhaling again, "shredded pork."
I heard a groan escape the bartender who was obviously listening to our conversation. He, too, was pained by the description.
"Then to top shit on top of shit," she said, frustrated by explaining it, "the bread he uses is some fancy French that's nearly as thick as the patties themselves."
She slammed her first on the table then, shaking her whiskey and my beer. "It ain't just about the patties with this guy. He puts all this extra shit on it. He knows what he's doing when it comes to trippin' me up. I swear he made this damn thing to torment me."
The table was still rattling and for a few seconds it was the only noise in the bar. She picked up her whiskey glass and sipped on it.
"Does it taste good?"
She glowered at me from across the table. "Did you not hear how I described it? 'Course it taste good. How does something with all that on it taste anything but touched-by-the-hand-of-God-himself good?"
"Of course," I said, still scribbling, mostly to keep from making eye contact.
"The point is, the first time I only got about halfway through." She hung her head in shame. "Halfway through. I had to see him look at my half-eaten plate and smirk at me. I've never felt so defeated in my life."
Sadness filled the air like the air-conditioned dust. My heart sank for her.
"I practiced all damn year. Ain't no one here equipped to make such a thing, but they did their best. When he came around, year two, I thought I was ready. But again... again I finished barely more than half.
"It was the same story. Last year I got at least three fourths of the way through. Still, though, he smirked. He smirks every damn time I fail to lick my freakin' plate clean."
"This year, though." She smiled at me. The smile of someone who saw victory through the bottom of her whiskey glass. "This year, I'm gonna git him."
"That's why I wanted you to come. I want someone to be there when I claim my victory. When I put the final big piece of onion cheesy pork burger in my mouth, I want you to write about it. The cheers from the crowd. The smirk leavin' his big old bleached face. The moment when I wipe my face on his clean, white collared shirt. I want you there. I want you close enough to smell the ketchup."
"Ketchup" I wrote and I met her eyes. "This burger. This is like your white whale then?"
She glared at me again. "I ain't eatin' no fish, City."
I heard a patron behind me snicker. "No fish" I wrote.
"City," she leaned in close enough that I could see her ears get red. "You tell my story, even if it kills me, ya hear?"
I nodded. "Of course."
She nodded and grunted in response before kicking back the last whiskey. "It starts the next three days. You need to go to every day, not just the last. You need to feel it. You got me?"
Again, I nodded. She slammed forty dollars on the table and got up to walk out. I heard her pick up her jacket and grunt goodbye to the bartender.
I finished my beer, grabbed my notes and picked up my bag. No more rolling for me. I had to become part of the town now.
As I stepped out into the dusty sunlight, a fast-food bag rolled in front of me like a tumbleweed. I felt empowered. It was a sign. Time to get my story.
The Burger Burn Bonanza was everything that I had heard and more. The air was thick with the smell of meat for three days. For those seventy-two hours there were crowds of thousands milling the otherwise desolate streets of Calhoun, Texas. It was easy to spot the outsiders from the townsfolk. The outsiders wore bright colors, shorts, flipflops and smiles. The townsfolk wore stained t-shirts, jeans, and had a look of anxiety. They weren't here for the burgers anymore. They were here for the win.
Everyone spoke in murmurs about the day three event. The Man hadn't even arrived in town yet. Bucky, the bartender/owner, who introduced himself over the next few days, told me that after the first year he only showed up on the third day.
"It's like he's too good to be here all three days," Bucky said, pouring me a beer.
"He sounds like an ass," I said, taking the beer.
"You gettin' it, City." Bucky smiled at me. "You really gettin' it."
I smiled at the approval. Roller bag was tucked safely away in my air conditioned, attic hotel room. I had been lucky enough to get a spot in town. Most people stayed in the bigger cities surrounding Calhoun - populations of three to four thousand. The hotel was owned by Bucky's uncle, who was also Bertha's mechanic. He and Bertha went way back.
"I sure hope she get him this year," Bucky said.
"Me too." I had tried to blend in with a white t-shirt and jeans, but both were still too clean. Bucky appreciated the attempt though.
On day one I tried only three different burgers. At the end of day one a burger named "Colossus" came out. At the end-of-day competitions, the "Big Chowers" came out and one hour was put on the clock. The "Colossus" burger was three patties thick, with layers of cheese in the middle. The burger was big enough to cover the plate.
"Bertha gobbled that one up in twenty minutes last year," Bucky told me as I stood in the front with the onlookers.
It was magic to watch her work. Her first bite took a chunk out of the burger that I didn't even think possible. Her eyes widened, her jaws seemed to unhinge, and before her forearms even hit the table she swallowed and went back in. Flecks of burger flew and hit the person next to her in the face. He didn't even seem to notice, too focused on the mountain of meat in front of him. I watched in awe as she would swallow each dollar sized bite with the ease of a child popping a jellybean into their mouth.
She didn't even break a sweat when she was halfway done. The crowd roared with enthusiasm as she sat it down to take a big gulp of the beer next to her. After half that glass was gone, she dug right back in. The cheese pouring down her mouth seemed to symbolize any nerves she may have had, all of it melting in front of the crowd. The ketchup represented the blood of her enemy. Each chew brought her closer to victory. Every swallow a step nearer to the finish line. Each swig of beer was just an added breath of fresh air.
Seventeen minutes. She beat her time. Her victory over herself was declared. The crowd roared in approval as she stood up, sauce coating her face, not even bothering to wipe it off. It was the blood from the hunt. It was her trophy.
Instead of simply stepping down, Bertha did something that to this day, when I'm sitting at home by myself still sends goosebumps up my arm. She started cheering on those around her. The man next to her, with her own burger flecks still sitting on his face, was who she started with. Her fist pounded the table as she yelled at him to go. The crowd joined in and soon this man, like her, tasted victory. Then he followed her lead and they both started cheering on the others. She had already defeated herself. She had no enemy. These were her friends. Her burger battle buddies.
Day two was even hotter than day one. The beer flowed as freely as the smell of meat through little Calhoun. The next burger was called "The King Chower." It seemed to overflow off of the plates in front of them and as thick as Bertha's biceps combined. This one looked more daunting than the prior. It was new to the competition, Bucky informed me.
"Psssh," he said when I expressed concern. "Child's play."
Child's play indeed. The whistle blew and the same crowd was off. Her bites were just as big as yesterday's but didn't make quite the dent. This didn't seem to bother her or slow her down in the least. Each bite was taken with the same ferocity as the one prior. The heat filled the air, but she was not going to be filled. The size didn't intimidate her. The quantity of spreads - this one had fried pickles and layers of mayonnaise - didn't cause trepidation. She was a woman on a mission. A mission which she finished in thirty-one minutes flat.
Again, the crowd roared. The sun was setting in the background, which was merciful to me and the other out-of-towners. It seemed the sun in Calhoun, Texas was more potent than anywhere else I had been.
"It's like this every Burger Burn Bonanza," I heard a passerby say. "Not a wisp of a cloud in the sky. Like the world wants this to happen."
Finally, day three arrived. The tension was almost as palpable as the heat, which was now calculated at 105.
"Prime Burnin' weather," Bucky commented as we had our noon beer. Five and a half hours until the moment of the truth.
"Oh shoot," Bucky said and motioned for me to get up with him on the stop of his pick-up truck that he had parked at the edge of the Bonanza. "There's the bastard."
I climbed up next to Bucky and across the parking lot a big black truck was pulling in. It had a wagon behind it and two long horns sticking out from the front. All the windows were black, but the wagon on the back was clearly displaying an angry bull, and the side read "Bitchin' Burgers."
I inhaled deeply as the truck parked, and out stepped a man with bleach blonde hair, a clean white t-shirt, and sunglasses. He was already smirking. This was him. This was the real enemy. I could feel Bertha's own disgust as I watched him smirk and walk to the back to unload his supplies.
"I sure do hope this is the year, City. I don't think she can handle another loss." Bucky looked like a worried father in the hospital awaiting news on his child. "I just don't think she can."
I put a supportive hand on his back. He was right, I knew. This burger was her Everest, and like many of the climbers who had tried that feat, she could perish.
The hours moved as slow as my bowel movements since I had arrived in the town. Each stroke of the clock sent my heart racing. The air was thicker and I couldn't decide if it was because of the heat or my own nerves.
The crowd was gathering early and there was very little talking as five-thirty rolled around. This time, there was no loud cheering, not even from the out-of-towners. Everyone knew the story and the legend. This wasn't a moment for zeal. This was a moment of anticipation and unspoken fear.
The "Big Chowers" were set up in their usual order with Bertha in the middle. She had her beer, but Bucky informed me she never dared drink it after year one. It was there for support - for show. Her own lucky charm.
None of the "Big Chowers" looked excited as they awaited the burger drop. The blonde man himself was the one who set the plate in front of Bertha, with the same smirk I knew she so dearly wanted to wipe off. She didn't look up at him, but I could see the sweat on her brow. It was the first sign of perspiration I had seen on the woman who had an affinity for dark denim in the Calhoun heat.
The burger was as monstrous as she had described. It wasn't only larger than the plate, but I couldn't understand how physics allowed it to stay standing. Bucky informed me this burger was eaten by the handfuls and not even picked up. I could clearly imagine why. Picking that burger up seemed impossible, let alone try to wrap a mouth around it.
I felt my own body begin to tremble. I looked at Bertha, and for a brief second her eyes met mine. I showed her my pad and my paper. Preparing to chronicle the scene of what I hoped was her victory. She appeared to relax slightly at the sight, and she smiled and flicked her hair back behind her collar.
The bell rang and echoed through the air. The crowd stayed silent.
She grabbed a piece of the burger and shoved it in her mouth and did the same almost immediately after. Piece by piece she chipped away at this burger like an artist sculpts marble. She was Michelangelo and the meaty, cheesy-fried, loaded concoction on the plate before her was her David. Other Big Chowers used the same tactics, but her handfuls were the biggest by far. Even then, her efforts seemed to barely make a dent in the monstrosity. Onion rings hung from her mouth like the skin of an animal. She tore into each bite like a prehistoric raptor, long before man even made an appearance.
This was art and I was watching the master work.
Five heart-pounding, artery-clogging minutes had passed and it barely looked like Bertha had taken a bite out of the Bitchin' Burger. She wasn't to be deterred. Her eyes spoke what her heart was thinking, "If I die, let it be the joy of victory that takes me."
Thirty minutes in and she had only made it halfway. The crowd started cheering. The blonde guy didn't appear nervous. That smirk hung above his goatee. I understood the hate, as I fantasized about smacking it off. Three Big Chowers had "tapped out," leaving only Bertha and one person on either side of her. At minute 45 there was only one other Chower left. By minute fifty, he, too, had abandoned ship and left her with a little less than one-fourth of the burger on her plate.
His smirk was less pronounced than it had been before, but in seeing her begin to slow down, it widened ever so slightly. She started to chew more and take deep breaths between each bite, like a diver finally needing to come up for air.
With five minutes left, maybe fifteen percent of the burger remained on her plate. It was now or never. I could see it in her eyes that she had almost reached her limit. Her skin was bright red, and her sweat, mixed with ketchup, soaked the bun.
The crowd was silent as they watched her stop completely and stare defeatedly at it. Oh no.
At that moment, the blonde man's smirk widened into an ear-to-ear grin that made me scream in frustration, breaking the deafening silence.
"Beat it, Bertha!" I bellowed. "You can beat it! You can do this!"
Her eyes met mine and they had the look of a wounded animal. I pointed to the blonde man. Her curls hit her collar as she turned to face him. She saw the giant smirk.
Suddenly, her eyes filled with determination, and she turned back to her plate with a renewed vigor. The crowd joined me in chanting, "Eat it Bertha!" and "You can do it!"
"Bertha! Bertha!" the crowd continued to chant.
As her bites got bigger, his smirk grew smaller. I saw fries and onion rings disappear into the black hole that had replaced her mouth. Pulled pork and cheese stuck to her face as her fingers entered her mouth as quickly as they exited.
At one minute left there were ten bites to go. Each bite was shoveled into her mouth and chewed so rapidly that my vision blurred. The sun had started to set in the background, and it appeared to be hanging in the sky awaiting her very last bite.
With thirty seconds left, she shoved the final bite into her mouth. The crowd went wild as Bertha stood up to chew and swallow a single fry and a chunk of patty. A judge came up behind her, looked at her plate, and then up at her in anticipation. At 13 seconds Bertha opened her empty mouth nice and wide, and the judge stopped the clock. Bertha had won. She beat the Bitchin' Burger.
She locked eyes with me, and then ran over to the Blonde Man. His face was twisted. Lips were curled in on themselves, face red. He had turned to leave when she grabbed his arm. Towering over him, his blonde spikes barely reaching her chin, she brought her face close enough to whisper in his ear. Rather than whisper, however, she leaned down and used his collar to wipe the remnants of his creation from her face. He could only stare before turning on his heels and walking off. I had a deep suspicion this may be his last year, his legacy shattered.
Before she exited the stage, she paused to grab her beer and came down to the front where I was standing.
"Did ya git it, City?" she asked me excitedly. I nodded and proudly held up my pad and paper, filled with the day's events.
"Hell yes!" She motioned for me to grab a beer, so I did, and we cheered together. Cheered her victory over the blonde man, over the Bitchin' Burger, and, most importantly, over herself.
And later, when I asked her what victory tasted like, she told me it was a poly-cotton blend and a hint of Old Spice.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/fG3O2h5
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