I woke up Sunday morning, emphasis on the morning, replaying that Friday night in my head. I was the only person in my truck when I awoke, but the black Trans-Am was also gone. I hadn’t spoken with anyone who could confirm or deny my hazy memory. I still wasn’t sure whether it were reality or a Xanax daydream. At any rate, I spent the entirety of that weekend cursing myself for my decency.

But Sunday is truck day, and I had to get myself to work. There was no time for a vaguely recollected jerk session. I was supposed to be at work by 7:00, and it was already twelve minutes to and I hadn’t showered. Not that it mattered. Work was quite physically a two minute drive away, and that included the thirty seconds it took to pick out the right song before work. I hopped in for one of my famous ninety-second showers, got dressed, and was in my car with enough time to take “the long way” so I could enjoy a whole song and half a bowl before work.

I worked at the only grocery store in town. For a high school student, it was a totally decent job. It was only minimum wage, but we got in more hours than the rest of the employers of the local youth. But since I had been employed for more than a year, I was on the Sunday morning truck crew. That meant getting to work entirely too early for my taste, but I got out at three, so it evened out. I pulled up to the store at 6:58, a little buzzed and proud of myself for being early. The rest of the morning crew, minus the store manager, were waiting outside the front door for Jerry to show up. I parked the Silverado in my usual parking spot, finished what was left in the chillum, and doused myself in Axe before I rounded the corner to join the waiting.

“Another beautiful Sunday, huh?” Toby said when I got to the crowd gathered at the front door.

“Yeah,” I halfheartedly responded. We sat in relative silence for a few minutes before we saw Jerry’s S-10 come pulling into the parking lot.

“Sorry to keep you guys waiting,” he apologized as he fumbled with his keys and unlocked the doors. The delivery truck was nowhere to be found, so we sat in the break room and drank coffee until we heard the dock door open about twenty minutes later. None of us were what would be considered morning people, so the morning crept by in silent misery. The truck was unloaded and gone within a half hour, and Toby, Greg, and myself got to work on unloading the pallets and getting the merchandise to the proper aisles.

I was pleased to have real work to do. It helped pass the time in an otherwise boring and unfulfilling job. No shoppers were in the store until the Pentecostal rush starting about 10:30. After a few trips sacking groceries, I was almost done stocking the pet food aisle when Toby came by and suggested we take a break together. He said he had some breakfast waiting for us. So I finished up with the few boxes I had left to shelve and made my way to the picnic table in the back. As I rounded the corner, I saw a plate full of apple Danishes, and knew immediately there were people hiding behind the soda machine.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I said sarcastically, as I came into sight of Toby, Stephanie, and Kip. “As soon as I think everyone has forgotten about that, one of you assholes reminds me that they haven’t.”

They were all giggling so hard they couldn’t speak.

“What? Are you not in the mood for a Danish, Ben?” Toby asked, unable to keep a straight face. I was mildly irritated, but had to admit it was funny.

“Wait,” Kip said. “So the rumors I heard in junior high were true?”

Stephanie, Toby, and I exchanged awkward glances. They were at the party, but absent during what has come to be known as The Danish Encounter. None of us could keep from laughing.

“Well, Kippy. Tell me what rumors you heard, and I’ll tell you if they are true,” I informed him.

“I heard you fucked a Danish,” he said point-blank.

“Yes, that is true. However, I had a perfectly valid reason for doing such a thing,” I confessed. The moment came rushing back to me as I relayed the story to my young co-worker.

* * * *

It was freshman year. My parents were friends with some of my other friend’s parents, so there was an understanding that on occasion one group of adults or another would furnish us with alcohol so long as we didn’t raise too much hell and there weren’t a whole lot of drunken minors involved. There were only five of us at my house on the night The Danish Encounter occurred.

As always, Toby and I started early. I cracked my first beer with my dad right before we went to pick him up at six. When we got back to the house, we hit it hard, and when the girls showed up my parents took their leave. They were that trusting. At the time, our crew was pretty well solidified. Toby, myself, and Dan Thornton were mirrored by Stephanie, Candace, and Kelli. Dan was absent for this particular get together, but all other parties were present.

The evening started as most of them did. We sat in my living room and played a drinking game before we stepped outside for a smoke. Then we put in one of the tapes from my growing pornography collection. Toby and Stephanie had been dating for a while, so after they caught a buzz, they disappeared. This left me alone with the other two girls and a porno going. By this time, I had single-handedly outdrank the rest of the group.

With the two lovebirds gone, the girls and I started playing Strip Drinking Monopoly, which is even more fun than it sounds (particularly when you’re fifteen). The girls were topless and I was wearing a tube sock when we realized we had the munchies. A quick survey of the pantry turned up some chips, cereal, and a box of apple Danishes. American Pie was big in the box office that year.

“Ben, how funny would it be if we left one of these with a hole poked in it for Steph and Toby?” Kelli asked. Candace and I laughed.

“That would be hilarious,” I said. “We have to do it.”

“Why don’t you actually poke a hole in it?” suggested Candace.

“Oh my god, Ben. You have to,” Kelli said. Suddenly, a giant light bulb over my head lit up like a beacon.

“Yeah, but I’d have apple filling all over myself,” I said, planting the seed.

“What are you getting at?” Candace asked suspiciously.

“I just might need a little help cleaning up,“ I answered.

“What kind of help are you looking for?” Kelli asked, glancing at my rising tube sock.

“I think you know what I’m getting at,” I said, afraid to spell it out for them.

“Yeah, Ben. What kind of help are you looking for?” Candace asked, following Kelli’s eyes.

“I’m going to have apple pie filling on my cock,” I said plainly. “You girls like apple pie filling, don’t you?”

The girls looked at each other and had one of those silent conversations that always seem to puzzle me. They turned around and in unison said, “OK.”

“But don’t think this is us saying we’ll give you a blow job,” Candace said.

“Yeah. We’re just going to help you get the filling off,” Kelli added.

“But you will be using your tongues for this?” I asked.

“You’d better hurry before we lose our nerve,” Candace replied.

By this time, I was harder than a diamond in an ice storm. Candace reached up and removed my tube sock, and Kelli handed me a plate with a Danish on it. I picked it up, looked at it for a moment, then lowered it to crotch level. I held it there for about three seconds before plunging my bit through the pastry, removing my hands, and turning to the girls. The girls exploded with laughter.

I took the mangled pastry off my manhood and put it on a plate. I turned toward the girls. “Can I get a little help with this? It feels so sticky.”

Kelli reached toward the sink, grabbed the dishtowel, and tossed it toward me.

“But you said . . .” I stammered.

“We just said we’d help you clean up. That’s help,” she said. And I shrunk up like a soda bottle on a campfire.

* * * *

“Yeah, so while you guys were out fucking on my patio furniture, that’s what you missed,” I told Toby.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say we missed it,” he sarcastically responded.

“Jackass,” I pathetically shot back.

“So you actually did it?” Kip asked.

“Wouldn’t you have?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“But nothing,” I stopped him. “So, since we’re back here we might as well eat something. Who’s going to Subway?”

“Fuck Subway,” Toby said.

“Dude, it’s two for one footlong day,” I said, offended by his profanity.

“Why spend any money at all?” he asked.

“I almost forgot. Jared is managing at Golden’s now.”

“Yeah. Go get us some chicken,” he commanded.

“Send Kip,” I said.

“He won’t give Kip a big sack of free tenders. He will give you such a thing though,” he reasoned with me.

“You’re right. I’ll be back in less than five,” I said.

I walked out the dock door and made my way to the Golden Fried Chicken next door. Just as suspected, Jared Miller was running the store.

“Ginnings, what’s up my man?” he asked as I approached the counter. There were a handful of customers scattered throughout the store.

“It’s break time,” I said.

“Oh yeah. You and Toby getting finished with the truck?” he asked.

“Yeah, the closers are starting to get there. It’s high fucking snack time.”

“I hear ya,” he said. “Give me just a minute.”

Jared turned and twinkle-toed around the kitchen for about forty-five seconds. He returned with a five pound bag of chicken tenderloins, French fries, and yeast rolls.

“Two fifteen,” he demands while extending his left hand. “Enjoy your break,”

I smiled and paid the man. I retraced my steps around the back of the building and back to the picnic table by the soda machine.

“Good call Toby,” I said while slapping the bag in the middle of the table.

“Good god.”

“Yeah, Jared hooked it up.”

We sat down and started devouring the contents of the bag. About ten minutes into the feast, we are all to the point of bursting when Tyler walked into the break room with an astonished look of amazement slapped all over his face. His entrance dominated the room to the point we all looked up from our plates at once.

“Look what came in today,” he said, reaching out an oval-shaped jar with flesh toned contents.

“It can’t be,” I said, understanding the look of awestruck horror in my coworker’s eye.

“Yes,” he paused. “Pickled pigs feet.”

Grunts and groans of disgust were exchanged for the better part of the minute. Then a stark realization came over me.

“If we got some in,” I thought aloud. “Then that means. . .”

“Someone was buying them,” Toby finished. “And if someone’s buying them. . .”

“Someone’s eating them,” I said. A wave of repulsion bounced around the room. Then Tyler let out the proverbial flap of the butterfly’s wings.

“Would you rather eat a pound of pigs feet,” he started. “Or a pound of mayonnaise?”

“I don’t know,” peeped Kip. “Mayo is disgusting. But pigs feet?”

“I would do the pigs feet,” I said confidently. “At least they’re meat.”

“You know what we should do,” Toby added.

“Yeah. We should definitely do that.”

“What should we do?” Kip asked.

“We should have ourselves an eating contest,” I answered.

* * * *

The rest of the day was spent doing the same monotonous duties we did five days a week. But the whole time we were thinking of the challenge that was before us. Mayonnaise or pigs feet? Which could we stomach more of?

The rules of the competition were finalized throughout the rest of
a rather typical Sunday at the grocery store. It would be simple. Each contestant would have an eight ounce jar of mayonnaise and two pickled pigs feet. Anyone who made it through without vomiting would have free reign to mock and ridicule anyone who did not. The only requirement for contestants was a sense of adventure and a five dollar entry fee. The contest was held on Stephanie’s back porch.

The whole crew decided to participate. Toby, Kip, Dan, Tom, and myself gathered around the rod iron patio furniture. We each had our jar of mayonnaise sitting in front of us. Stephanie then gathered paper plates for the pigs feet. When she opened the jar, she made the universal “I just threw up in my mouth” face.

“Oh my god,” she said, clinching her nose with one hand. She dug the rest of the pickled pink things out of the brine and divvied them evenly among the five plates. The smell was atrocious. Awe and befuddlement filled me as I contemplated eating these things for anything other than a contest like the one we were having.

“To win the prize money, you have to finish the jar and the pigs feet,” I started. “And you have to hold it down.”

“What if we all puke?” Dan asked.

“We all get our money back,” Toby answered.

It was clear everyone was preparing themselves mentally for the task at hand. Kip even made the sign of the cross. Funny how everyone turns Catholic when the chips are down.

“Alle cuisine!” Stephanie started us.

There was no rule about the order in which to eat the items, so strategies varied. Tom, Toby, and I went straight for the pigs feet. The Nancy boys started with the mayo. The first bite in sealed my fate. Already Tom and Toby had made their way to the trash can. After thirty seconds of chewing, I followed suit. The sight of three people blowing chunks was enough to get Stephanie going.

“Dude, stop being a pussy and just do it,” Toby said between barfs.

“We’ll never let you live it down if you don’t,” I added. “Besides, you forfeit your cash if you forfeit the contest.”

Dan was the first to put his foot in his mouth. Kip soon did the same. So the five of us spent the next fifteen minutes passing around a trashcan full of physically manifested repulsion.

“Can you believe anyone eats these for pleasure?” I asked, wiggling one in front of the group. Kip didn’t think it was as funny as I did. He lost it once more.

“Could you not do that?” he pleaded.

When everyone had calmed down, we threw the rest of the mayo and pigs feet into the trash can.

“You know what would be funny?” Toby queried. I already knew where he was going with this.

“Candace lives right down the street,” I said. The ignited facial features of my comrades let me know we were about to carry through.

“No man, that’s so mean,” Kip said.

“Like that bitch doesn’t deserve it,” Stephanie added, solidifying our plan.

“You don’t have to go,” I said. “But we’re doing this.”

“Did I miss a conversation?” Tom asked. “What are WE doing again?”

“Throwing this bag on Candace’s car,” Toby and I said simultaneously, pointing at the bag of vomit and pickled pork product.

“Oh,” he said, slightly relieved.

The plot quickly unfolded from there. I would act as wheelman. Toby, Dan, and Kip would be in my truck bed with The Bag. I would let them out at the corner of Lafayette and Bond, then make the long block to the corner of Lafayette and Park. That way no one in the house heard my truck. Between Bond and Park, the boys were on their own. The plan went off without a hitch. I dropped them off, then drove slowly to the rendezvous point and waited. When I felt three things jump into the back of my pickup, I hit the gas and headed straight for Stephanie’s place. When we got back, we celebrated.

“Did you see the puke dripping down the windshield?” Kip asked Dan.

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a nightmare to clean up in the morning.”

“I hate to say it, but I probably ought to leave,” I told the guys.

“What the hell for?” Toby asked.

“Well, this vehicle is not exactly incon-fucking-spicuous now is it?”

“Ah.”

“Fucking right, ah. I just think it would be better for all of us if it weren’t parked here.”

“Righty-oh,” Kip said.

“Besides, it’s getting high time to get high and hit the hay,” I said as I made my rounds shaking hands and throwing up the peace sign. “See you guys tomorrow at school. It should be a fun day for the rumor mill.”

I pulled out of the yard/parking lot and took Ruby past the church on the way to F.M. 368. I didn’t light up until I turned back toward town on Old Electra Road. I cruised through the curves, listening to System of a Down and smoking from my chillum. When I got back to the house, all was quiet. I retired to my room, put on Nirvana’s Unplugged and laid down.