All “I” Can Eat
I suppose there isn’t a clear indicator, an elementary style grading system, which would have defined success or failure in this endeavor. A chorus of half drunken frat boys might chime in that I should have “eaten all the fucking ribs in the world.” A ridiculous notion but one which holds a certain heartfelt, “110%”, sense of failure when I came close to do no such thing. Any who…
“A Night on the Town,” read the invitation. A delusional evening set up by some old college buddies that I failed to avoid through a series of poorly thought out, and then dubiously interrogated lies. Fine. I’ll make it for dinner, and then leave the “wherever the wind takes us” portion of the night to those who still give a shit.
Uncle Buck’s Ribs was founded in 1989, following the financial success of its theatrical predecessor. It has somehow remained since its inception and holds quite a following in some circles. Though certainly not mine. Cheap meat, cheap beer and a cheap sense of self worth occupied the volumetric space of 151 Broadway. Far from my home deep in the woods of Brooklyn Heights, I was a deer shot through the head and the carted over the river to be skinned and butchered by boys I used to drink with.
Late. Of course. Probably because I was the one man left from UPENN 91’ who still couldn’t afford to take a cab. A laundry list of poorly worded jokes followed my delayed arrival but they luckily fell upon weak ears. To their credit, however, the “boys” would find a way to paraphrase Dane Cook and Kevin James in the same way that a cricket finds it effortless to harp on one incessant note. What’s up with those mini-muffins indeed.
Pitcher after pitcher, no one could decide what they wanted to order. I do say, how can men of such exemplary upbringing be forced to choose between different cuts of the same slaughtered dairy cow. A travesty to say the least. Fortunately, that was alright with “Melissa.” It gave her mind time to visualize which slutty black tank top she would wear to work tomorrow.
I surprised myself. I am most definitely one to let the conversation pass me by, but a drop in my blood sugar and deep seeded wish to see the boys mouths stuffed with something, caused a tectonic shift in behavior. If it could not be my fist or more imaginatively, a grenade, “we might as well order food now.” Finally, the mob agreed. Burger. Burger. Burger with Bacon. Joke by Melissa. Sigh of discontent from myself. Burger. And then, it was my turn to pull the trigger.
“All you can eat ribs.” With what I would like to consider a stoic look on my face, I clearly articulated my choice. The boys laughed, but it was not a choice I made for their benefit. I embarked on this path because I needed something new in my life. Something ludicrous. How many ribs could I really eat? I don’t know. But what if, just what if, I was able to suspend the gastric limitations of my body and devour more ribs than God himself. I wouldn’t mind to die trying either.
Melissa, despite her flaws, anticipated my needs. Her lack of self-respect must have vanished in a trade with the Devil for an ability to predict how hungry a man truly is. She started bring the racks out two at a time. My “friends” grew weary. Someone heard there was a strip club without a cover nearby. Let’s go they harped. No thanks. I’m hungry.
They’d plead, but it’d wash over me. Fuck expense reports. I got ribs. Fuck shared cubicles. I got flesh. Fuck my boss. I got ribs. I got ribs. When I looked up again, my friends were gone. Thank god.
My ultra marathon of consumption did begin to slow, I was cramping. My body content with 10 racks of ribs. My heart and mind formed the opposing side, and the real battle began. I would eat, pause to physically repel the over flowing mixture of beer, ribs and stomach acid, pause again, then eat again. Repeat.
Closing time came. The kitchen shut down. The waiter’s stacked chairs. And Melissa waited for me to finish what amounted to the eighth head of cattle for the night. She offered to replace a Polaroid version of a fat lad named “Ralph” with one of mine, but I declined. I had come there to conquer no one else but myself. I by god, I think I’d done it. My mind and my body were a well greased machine. Precise, powerful, and efficient. I paid my tab and as Melissa returned the card and receipt to me, she spoke. “You can put your number on there too if you want.” An interesting development.
Her hopeful, Coyote Ugly, eyes were endearing. Perhaps she saw the inner turmoil I had calmed tonight. Perhaps she knew that I had turned over a new leaf in my life, I would no longer be content with what I had but rather, would strive for what I wanted. Or maybe she had slept with Ralph, and wanted to claim a piece of this champion as well. Either way, I wasn’t interested. Why deface a night of spiritual awakening with a romp with the village whore. I put it nicer to her, of course.
I would walk home alone, happier in mind and sicker in body than I had ever been in my life.
