Splotch
“Look kid, my point is...to another person, that’s all you are.”
I want to argue with him. Tell him I know that can’t be true because he isn’t just another person, not after this summer.
Instead, I glance down at my sneakers, mostly white, save for a fading splotch of BBQ sauce I haven’t been able to fully scrub out since I spilled a bowl of the stuff on my feet in March.
--
“¡Límpialo, amigo!” shouted a line cook. Of course I was gonna limpialo, first my shoes and then the floor.
The floor of the kitchen at Reservoir Family Restaurant is since spotless, yet my shoes remain marked by that very same sauce.
You see, this whole shoe thing is really his fault anyway. He was supposed to receive that bowl of BBQ sauce, and I was extra careful carrying the replacement over to his table. That fat sonuva bitch was putting in work on Reservoir’s infamous Dam Big Burger Challenge. I never quite understood why Mr. Oliver— the Reservoir’s owner— was so fond of bad water puns.
The Dam Big Burger is an especially exciting tradition at the Reservoir, but when you’ve worked here for three years, there’s only so much excitement to be found in watching some thirty-something-year-old try to finish a six-pound burger topped with onion rings, french fries, and bacon strips within 30 minutes.
I’m not sure what made that day different. Other contestants have asked for condiments to aid them in their quest to conquer the food challenge. After all, it’s a strategic choice for any hopeful conqueror. But as I delivered this particular bowl of sauce, I was quickly ensconced in my tracks. I don’t quite know how one eats with confidence, but this guy sure as hell did it.
Diners gathered around him around the ten-minute mark, but he barely took notice. I’m pretty sure a woman even came up and planted a kiss on his cheek, an unorthodox way of saying good luck, I suppose. Still, he kept on eating.
His curly hair flopped up and down as he chewed, and he’d brush it out from in front of his eyes every couple bites.
“¡Amigo!” I knew I was being summoned; everyone else around here had a name.
“No nos pagan por ver los clientes, amigo.” It’s funny, I never really considered anyone at the Reservoir much of an amigo. I grabbed a broom and began to sweep, my eyes scanning the dining room, my mind still fixated on our newest challenger.
Golden tables and red chairs abounded in the dining area, with just a few booths lining each wall. Despite their scarcity, customers always asked for a booth, but the cushions were so firm that they weren’t even that comfy anyway.
There was always at least one kid running laps and screaming around the restaurant, and today was no exception. Although even he joined the crowd to watch the burger challenge.
The man actually didn’t finish the behemoth of a burger. He got within a bite or two, but time was not on his side. The crowd let out a sigh and quickly dissipated. The man paid his bill and left quietly.
I shot a glance towards the kitchen. Seeing no one, I dropped my broom and followed the defeated man outside.
“Hey!” My greeting is cancelled out by the engine of a passing motorcycle, so I try it one more time.
“Hey!”
The man turned around and his curly hair bounced.
“Good try in there,” I begin. “It’s not easy. I’ve only seen one other person ever finish.” That’s a lie. I’ve seen twelve, but one is a lot more comforting than twelve.
Although perhaps it wasn’t comfort the curly-haired challenger was looking for. He let out a chuckle that turned to a belly laugh.
“Good try?” he let out between red-faced guffaws. “I appreciate it kid but an unfinished burger ain’t a ‘good try.’” He put up air quotes for that last part.
I guess I looked upset or something because he soon apologized and told me his name. I remember thinking he was lying at the time because what kind of name is Coin?
Coin explained that the Reservoir was just a stop along his cross-country quest to conquer food challenge after food challenge. That night was his first failure, but it wouldn’t be his last.
“Is there a reason?” I ask. “There’s gotta be a reason you’d want to do all this.”
Every movie I had ever watched told me Coin was a honoring a dead parent or sibling, but his response was slightly less dramatic.
“Because I fucking want to kid, that’s why.” I was starting to prefer being called amigo.
I appreciated his honesty, even if the answer felt incomplete.
I nodded and remembered that I had been standing outside for a while now. Right on cue, shouts of “amigo” echoed out of the Reservoir and into the parking lot. I turned around to see a coworker brandishing the broom, but I didn’t want to sweep. I didn’t want to deliver BBQ sauce or stain my shoes.
I wanted to eat giant burgers, get kissed by pretty girls, drive cross-country.
“Amigo” after “amigo” flew at me, and although they may have been getting louder, they only seemed to fade for me.
“You like working at a place like this?” Coin asked.
I shrugged and Coin tilted his head towards his car, somehow tugging me towards him.
The “amigos” turned to expletives, in both English and Spanish, as I opened the passenger door to Coin’s car.
We drove to my house, where I packed a bag and told my family I was going to visit a friend at school for a little while. They were confused, but they never concerned themselves too much with what I do.
“How long will you be gone?” my dad asked, feigning apprehension.
“The whole summer?!” my mom shouted as if to suggest a resistance that would surely never come.
“Don’t die,” my sister joked. I was going to miss her just a little.
--
Coin and I spent the following months eating five-pound cuts of steak in Denver, nine-pound racks of ribs in Kansas City, and thirty-inch pies of pizza in Chicago.
But it’s the fiery bowls of chili in Cincinnati that I’ll always remember.
We entered the challenge on a hot streak, having downed six of our last seven meals.
“We haven’t done spicy yet, kid,” Coin began. “These babies are a whole different beast.”
Coin always spoke of our meals like they were our prey. But for me, they were escapes. Moments in which scores of people knew your name, chanting that rather than “kid” or “amigo.”
My nostrils flared as our waiter set the bowls down in front of us. Hints of habanero and ghost pepper wafted through the air. Coin even winced upon his first bite.
We had an hour to finish the hefty bowl, and we were allowed a single glass of milk.
I only needed ten minutes, however, to gulp down my milk, throw up on the table, and sprint out of the restaurant.
I paced back and forth, my nose running and my face redder than Coin’s. I sat on the curb and waited for Coin. Wasn’t he worried about me?
I thought about the time I had to clean up a customer’s puke at the Reservoir. At least that guy finished his meal.
About an hour later, Coin met me outside. “What the hell happened, kid?”
I looked at him and burst out into tears.
“I finished the damn thing, thanks for asking.” Coin said.
He pushed out his stomach and placed both his hands on it, a self-congratulatory gesture of sorts.
“Let’s hit the road, kid. You’ll knock tomorrow’s meal out of the park.”
I lifted my now dampened face and looked at Coin. “My name isn’t kid, you know.”
He stared back at me long enough to make me feel stupid, but I continued.
“It’s not kid, it’s not amigo. It’s—”
“Give it a rest kid!” People like Coin are just too proud to see the world how others do.
“My parents haven’t called me once since we left, Coin. Not once!” I was lying to him again. They did call. Once. I just didn’t answer.
Coin let out a deep breath and sat down on the curb next to me. “Let’s get you on a bus back home,” he said. “You don’t need to be out here and, quite frankly, I never really needed you here at all.”
I prepared to yell at him. What did he mean he never needed me? I needed him. I needed this. But I kept my mouth shut.
He put his hand on my back, making us both uncomfortable.
He started to talk about all the stories I told him. Like the one where an old lady yelled at me because she found an eyelash in her soup. And the one where my ex visited me at work just to dump me. He explained that I’m no one’s “kid” and no one’s “amigo.” Was this supposed to make me feel better?
Coin looked at me and let silence surround us both.
“Look kid, my point is...to another person, that’s all you are.”
I want to argue with him. Tell him I know that can’t be true because he isn’t just another person, not after this summer.
Instead, I glance down at my sneakers, mostly white, save for a fading splotch of BBQ sauce I haven’t been able to fully scrub out since I spilled a bowl of the stuff on my feet in March.
I look back up and think about it some more. I wipe away a tear, and then another, and then look at Coin.
“Gracias amigo.”
Coin lets out a guffaw like the one he did back at the Reservoir, only this time I sense he’s laughing with me. “Well I guess I don’t really like the sound of ‘amigo’ either kid,” he says through his chuckles.
I start laughing too, although I’m not sure why. “I’ll tell you what; you can call me ‘kid’ if I can call you ‘penny’ from now on,” I suggest.
The hand on my back turns into a playful jab into my side. Coin stands up, still recovering from his bout of laughter. “Nice try,” he says. “What do you say to just one final stop? No better way to end this thing than with some dessert.”
I nod, stand up, and follow Coin to his car.
--
We end the night on the side of the road in who-the-hell-knows-where, Pennsylvania. The next day, we arrive at Martha’s Ice Cream Bar, and embark on our final feast.
“Alright kid, how are we attacking this?” Coin asks, lowering his hand ever so slowly so as to not let his four-foot ice cream cone topple over.
“I think what you’re doing is OK,” I respond. “Just start from the top and work your way down.”
“Here you go,” a girl says from behind the likely once-white counter, handing me my very own four-foot cone. It barely fits through the service window.
I reach into my pocket to grab my wallet.
“You guys take card?” I ask the girl.
“No, I’m sorry,” she says, pointing to a bolded sign that could have saved me the breath.
“Hey Coin, you mind spotting me? I’ll stop at an ATM later and get you back.”
“Finish the damn thing and it’ll be free,” Coin barks.
I glance back at the ice cream girl to confirm that is the case. She leans her head out of the service window and says “I’m sorry but it needs to be paid for upfront anyway.” You’d think she is growing impatient, but she maintains a friendly smile. Still, my time at the Reservoir makes it easy for me to feel the girl’s pain.
Coin lets out a growl and reaches his left hand into his pocket. As he pulls out his wallet, he briefly loses sight of his towering ice cream cone.
Splotch.
The whole thing topples over, leaving just a wafer cone in Coin’s hand. He lets out a few curses as the cone crumbles in his fist. The ice cream girl’s smile begins to fade.
Coin lets the crumbs fall from his right hand, and throws a few bills onto the ground with his left. “Take your fucking cash.”
I bend down to grab the money, but I keep my eyes on Coin. I have never seen him so angry.
“Thanks Coin,” I say. “Everything alright?”
“I can get you another one, sir,” the ice cream girl offers.
It’s a reasonable offer, the best she could give considering the circumstances, but Coin kicks at the gravel beneath his feat and starts to storm off.
I scream his name but to no avail. I consider running after him but I don’t want to drop my cone like he did.
Without even turning around Coin shouts “I’ll see you later, kid.”
But he won’t. He doesn’t. Despite a waning appetite I finish my ice cream, I get Coin’s money back, and I actually spend the night on ice cream girl’s living room sofa. She asks me what happened back at Martha’s.
“You guys seemed like close friends, right?” she tries to confirm, but I quickly explain.
“Yes,” I say. “But to another person, that’s all you are.”