Wiretap - Tales of Excess

Episode Date: July 20, 2020

A man spends the morning eating himself sick with pie only to remember, in a flash of terror, that he's due to compete in a pie-eating contest in an hour. Full to bursting, the man sets out, ready to do his best.

We're in the midst of the dog days of summer. And it's called that because during this period, Sirius, the dog star, rises with the sun in the morning. Not because it feels like several dogs are breathing their humid breath on you all the time. Can you tell he's a cat person? Hello, I'm Neil Kerkstel. And I'm Chris Houghton. We're the co-hosts of As It Happens.

But throughout the summer, some of our wonderful colleagues will be hosting in our place. We will still be bringing you conversations with people at the center of the day's major news stories here in Canada and throughout the world. You can listen to As It Happens wherever you get your podcasts. This is a CBC podcast. You're listening to Wiretap with Jonathan Goldstein on CBC Radio 1. Today's episode, Tales of Excess, in which a Picasso is destroyed, yachts are torpedoed, and pies are annihilated.

It was Sunday, 10.30 a.m. and I was deep into my seventh pie. Blueberry, which I was eating with my hands like a wild raccoon. Just woke up frisky for pie is all, and a free man indulges his heart, mind, and stomach. It had been weeks since I'd had a slice. Happens to me occasionally that I forget there exists such a thing as pie in the world, but this morning I remembered all right. Remembered too that if a man has the moxie why pie was just lying around waiting to be eaten. Good thing I kept a supply in my storage freezer. Eating since 7 a.m. I had found my groove,

riding the easy rhythm of a sandbagging line, moving pie from freezer to microwave to mouth to gut. The enzymes and toilet pipes, that was God's part of the deal. Peach, banana cream. pecan, pecan. I just couldn't stop myself. Pie. What a thing to forget. There'd been other times I'd forgotten, like the morning I was on my way to work and spotted a bubby's pie truck beside me in traffic. Pie! I'd winnieed, hitting the steering wheel. Of course! After phoning in sick, I had rode up to the country, stopping for roadside pie every half mile. It was made by the locals who

advertise their wares with pitiful hand-painted signs that looked as though written by illiterate hillbillies with broken arms. But as I soon learned, the more decrepit the sign, the sweeter the pie. This was the kind of wisdom I hoped to one day pass along to Leo. Leo, my son, my only child. My God, of course! That's why I had pie on the brain and was thus filling my custard hole accordingly. In a flash of sinus clearing terror, I realized that today was the day of the County Fair pie-eating contest. How could I have forgotten? I was facing off against my nemesis, Peter Peckish for Pickles, Davenport. Back in 89, Peter broke a pickle speed-eating record at a Cincinnati food court that stands to this day. Decades after destroying the 21 jars

of Gurkins. He destroyed my marriage. Peter used to be my best friend and mentor. He first scouted me sitting at a soda shop counter, knocking back root beer floats by the Tuesdays. Pretty soon, Peter was shepherding me into the world of competitive eating. Gaining membership to the Gurgitators, a gentleman's association of competitive overeaters that Peter presided over, was one of the proudest moments of my life. Rubbing shoulders with the likes of Phil, cinnamon, raisin, Danish, Dubois, Jeffie, no onions, Melman, and Frenchy, French toast, French, made me feel like a million bucks, like I finally belonged.

We had windbreakers with cursive writing on the back and matching headbands. And man, when we ate, we were beautiful. All ancient history now. It was at last year's county fair that Peter stole my wife on Dean. I wasn't competing that day due to a jaw dislocation incurred in an exhibition cheese steak event earlier in the week. Old Pete was in the middle of eating a Dutch boisenberry, a lattice-style single-top crust pie that I've always believed requires delicate tongue thrusts and speedy teeth work, not unlike undoing a complicated European

brazier with your mouth, but here Pete was, thrusting his snout right in while grunting like a tomcat in heat. On Dean licked her lips, dabbed at her forehead with a KFC moist towelette, and shot him looks only appropriate for a man looking upon fresh-baked pie, looks of unbridled lust. Harvey, I had a lovely time today, she told me on the car ride home. She spoke the words through Boisenberry colored lips. It was pretty soon after that that I was out and Peter was in. living in my house with my wife and sleeping in my waterbed. Lying in my trailer at the Pine Trees Estates Motor Lodge,

I'd masochistically imagine them taking a break from copulating to eat pie off my trophy pie plates, washing it down with milk from my five-old Goes West Pizza Hut collector's cups, the ones I only used on Simca's Torah. As if stealing my wife wasn't enough, Pete had kicked me out of the gurgitators. Everyone knew it was because he couldn't stand the guilt of seeing my face, but officially it was from my radical views on chipmunking,

a competitive eating term referring to the practice of putting as much food in your mouth as you can during the final seconds of a contest. I believe that once food is in your mouth, what you do with it is your own business. Stomach or mouth, it's all part of you. Since my membership was revoked, I've been forced to overreed illegally, off the grid, competing in underground parking lots. corn dog eating events mostly. Depending on the name of the game, I was often made to eat the whole damn stick, regular freak show. But today was my chance to make things right, to win back

the respect of the townsfolk, my fellow overeaters, and most important of all, my 10-year-old son, Leo. The face-off had been Peter's brainchild. I still loved Don Dean, and sometimes when I dropped Leo off, I'd go in to use the bathroom just to smell her products and ointments. Sometimes, lost in the moment, I'd pop the cap off a can of L'Oreal hair moose and release half the bottle down my throat. The last time I was there, walking out of the bathroom, wiping moose from my lips, Peter approached me with a proposition. He was wearing my bathrobe, my slippers, my reading glasses, and for some reason carrying my high school diary. As we stood in the foyer, stomach to stomach, Peter grunted that me and him, we had unfinished business.

Some people say what I'd done ain't right, he said. Without a fact, I said. Now, my daddy always raised me to do what's right, and right's right, am I right? Go on, I said. I'm suggesting a pie-eating contest, just you and me, and we play for speed. You win? I'll let you back into the club. You lose? You quit the poor little me routine, lick your wounds, and move on. What about On Dean, I asked. We're not negotiating cattle here, Harvey. The woman loves me and I love her. Now my hardware store will sponsor the event, of course. Pay for the pies, notepads for the judges scoring and such.

What do you say? What could I say? I shook his hand, wincing under the squeam. of his bunyanesque digits, and agreed. And now here I was. Weeks later, with the tournament due to start in an hour, and instead of consuming heads of boiled cabbage and drinking water to stretch my stomach as any athlete should, how was I spending my time before the pie-eating contest? Why, eating myself sick with pie. I didn't dare vomit. Not a little bit. Not only Not only did the idea of non-gurgitation offend my moral sense, but if the judges so much as smelt barf on my mouth, I'd be out of there faster than pie on a window sill at a hobo

convention. Damn it all! I tore through my closet looking for my stretchy Chinese buffet overalls, only to find them covered in plum sauce and rice wine. Must have forgotten to wash them. It was a good thing I kept a spare moo-moo in the car trunk. Mum-moos. That was another thing my gurgitating brothers pecked at me first.

but I liked going pantless. While a pantway spoke of finitude and perimeters, a moo-moo spoke of the infinite. These are ideas for which I have been mocked in my time, but I will pass them along to Leo, and hopefully my son will grow up in a more enlightened, tolerant age. On the way to the fairgrounds, I ran my hand over my aching stomach. I was full to bursting, and normally that was a feeling I cherished.

Completion, warm and comfy. Eating satisfies me in a way that ordinary life seldom does. Seeing those empty pie tins or hot dog wrappers pile up makes me feel like I've accomplished something, more than a hard day's work, more than even loving someone. As a kid, the only thing my mother ever seemed proud of me for was what a damn good eater I was. In that way, I took after my father,

A man buried in a pipe-organ shipping container, God rest his soul. The long silent hours we spent eating corn together, the meticulously gnawed cobs piling up between us like tooth-decade walrus tusks were some of the happiest memories from my childhood. Eating is how Pop dealt with things, and I am my father's son. But as much as I eat, there's always more emptiness to fill. With his goon squad in tow, Pete sidled up to me as I was getting out of the car. He was sporting corduroy overalls in a sailor's cap.

This was the man Andean loved more than me, because his bro cleavage was deeper. Because overall, he was more grimace-shaped than I could ever be. I felt so small. Well, hello, my lady, spat Pete as he eyed my moo-moo. What a pretty gown you're wearing today. Just back from the beauty salon? This is a Samoan feasting tunic, I lie. In fact, strictly speaking, it wasn't even a moo-moo.

It was my mother's housecoat. Whatever it is, I hope you're ready to have your pie crust crumbled. Pickles ain't pies, Pete, I said, hitching my thumbs into what would have been my pants if I were, in fact, wearing pants and not a housecoat. Biggest helping of pie you'll be eating today is humble pie, said Skeeter, the master of mustard von Epps. God's truth, said,

bill crazy for crazy bread Saunders. Don't you dare blaspheme in this fairground parking lot on the Lord's Day I cried. Now come on, Harvey. Pete looked into the skies as though trying to remember what came next. Remind me, what's that middle name of yours again? They all broke out in a laughter. Among the many things the gurgitators lambasted me for was my not having an eating middle name, but I didn't want to limit myself to just one food like that. I mean, sure, I enjoy meat lasagna, but I'm not so insecure as to need it printed on the deed to my trailer home. Suddenly, out of the crowd, raced Leo.

To my dismay, he too was wearing little corduroy overalls and a sailor cap. He did his best to clutch his little arms around my girth. It filled me with warm apples. Where's your mother? I asked. She's making herself pretty to watch you, fight with new daddy, said Leo, squeezing me tight. It's not a fight, son. It's a contest. A contest to see who's the best daddy. There was much I wanted to explain to the boy, but he was still so young. Careful not to expose my privates, I squatted down beside him. Now listen here, Leo, I said.

Whether I can out eat pete or not, you need to know that I will always love you, and I will always be your father. But daddy, you're so big and fat. I just know you can win. Mommy said I was going to be the cheerleader for both my daddies, but I want you to win most. Well, I said, tears welling in my eyes. It's just that Daddy's feeling a little full right now. But what about your hollow leg?

Remember how you said that was how you could eat like such a pig? Looks like my legs all filled up too, son. Suddenly there was a voice over the PA. Uncle Pete's Hardware Emporium would like to invite. you over to the big top tent to watch the pie-eating duel of the century. Come see Peter Peckish for Pickles and Pie, Davenport, square off against Harvey, no middle-name Wilkins. I took my boy by the hand.

Together we made our way to the table. There was pie that needed eating. So, we finally found a podcast that speaks to you. Pure bliss. It's so good that when you finish the final episode, it leaves a hole in your heart and your schedule. What now? Personally, is here for you. It's a collection of true stories that explore what it means to be, well, human. The best part, there are six incredible seasons to dive into, with more on the way. Personally, get lost in someone else's life. Available now, wherever you personally get your podcasts. Gentlemen, spoke Judge Bill, hungry for hungry, hungry hippo Solomon, a former glutton bowl coleslaw eating champ. Get ready to gurgitate! Pete stood next to me, spraying his lips and gums with non-stick Pam, like it were a giant

can of bonaca. We knelt down before the table. Judge Bill went around behind us to bind our wrists. standard practice for high-stakes competitive eating events. Sure is a fine day for force-feeding oneself pie, said Judge Bill, as he laid down the first pie before us. Boisenberry. Oh, cruel fortune!

Each bite would be like kissing on Dean's adulterous lips. Just the sight of it was enough to give me the dry heaves. Excess debris after the contest may result in a deduction from the eater's final totals, Understood? Pete and I nodded our heads. The ceremonial pie-eating pistol was fired, and we dug in. After only the first bite, I felt myself grow queasy. Pretend your salmonella, Daddy! Destroy all food! Destroy all food! cried Leo. I mashed my face into the fruit filling. My plan was to close my eyes and inhale pie, as though I were drowning and pie were air. If I could just eat fast enough,

Perhaps I could keep myself from vomiting. Cram your pie holes, the crowd cheered. I laid my head down sideways on the plate, as though tucking in for a nap. Maybe I could get some pie in my ear. From the sideways angle, I looked over at Pete, his face as blue as a choking oompa-loompa. The sight of him made my gag reflex twitch, even more than the food being hoovered down my yob. You can get it down, Daddy. Just pretend I'm standing on your shoulders with you.

plunger covering your mouth and nose cramming it all down like a clogged toilet. Just think of a clogged toilet, Daddy. I rammed my ears into the pie as hard as I could, trying to wall off Leo's voice. It was around then that I became what Pete used to call pie-eyed. In this hypnotic state, my eyes glaze over like I'm in a trance. I become a vacuum on autopilot, And in these moments, the fair doesn't exist, pie doesn't exist. Frankly, even I don't exist. It's like I'm just a leaf, floating along the surface of a lake. No thoughts, no stomach or mouth, nothing.

It is a state of egoseness described by the Hindus as a breakthrough to the pure divine, and it is the reason I love stuffing my face so. Well, that and the taste, of course. I suppose it was the sight of Andean that broke the spell. She was in the crowd, beautiful, and her yellow sundress. I'm eating everything, Andine, I thought. The space between us, our legal separation papers. I am eating our pain, On Dean.

But most of all, I am eating pie. Ten coming up on ten, said Bill. Against all odds, I'd somehow made it onto my tenth pie. Coconut custard. Looked like Pete and I were neck and neck. Frantically, I packed as much as I could into my mouth, but try as I might, it would not go down. It was as though my throat was an elevator shaft, packed solid with lard. And then, with my mouth filled to capacity with custard, The closing gun went off, sounding through the fairgrounds. Half of Pete's pie was still on his plate. There was nothing on mine.

All of it was in my mouth. The crowd roared. Why, you chipmunking SOB, Peter panted. I was frozen in fear. According to the International Federation of Competitive Eater, said Bill. Once the gun goes off, you have two minutes to swallow what's in your mouth. Do you understand? Slowly I nodded my head. My cheeks puffed out like water balloons about to burst. Dizzy Gillespie better not blow, said crazy bread. Chunks, that is, said mustard. I was afraid

to move an inch for fear of exploding. It was as I stood there, my eyes closed and body still as a statue that I felt tiny arms grasped me around the waist and squeeze. My eyes popped open. It was Leo. While the shock of his hog might have been enough to squeeze all the pie out of me like icing out the tube, it had the opposite effect. I inhaled sharply and somehow managed to suck the remaining custard down my gullet. Oh, my dear son, I whispered, as my body involuntarily doubled over and I began to spasm. Looks like we have ourselves a winner, said Bill. Daddy, cried Leo.

You're king of the fatso's. The next thing I knew, they were loading me, shivering and green, onto an extra wide gurney, where a contingent of gurgitators begrudgingly draped a satin club windbreaker over my belly. And just before they slammed the ambulance doors is to rush me to the ER to have my stomach pumped,

I watched my wife and son walk away, arm in arm, with Pete Davenport. And these were my thoughts. We are born into this world but pie crust. It is life that offers us filling. You just have to decide what kind of pie you want to be. God-fearing pie, hard-working pie, crying pie, suffering pie.

Maybe you're more of a pie-a-mode kind of. a guy and want to be crying and suffering pie. But me, that's never been my style. No, I've always known for certain that I am what I always wanted to be. A pie pie. I cannot make Andine love me and warm my heart, but I could make pie go into my mouth and warm my belly. And that was a start. After the hospital, they'd send me home, as they always did. And once there, I'd vomit, shower, and then maybe vomit some more. Then I'd settle in for the night in front of the TV with a warm cup of hot water perched on my stomach. Maybe a little after that, I'd rummage through the old ice box for a little something to peck at,

something light, crackers, maybe a smear a cheese whiz. Harvey, the chipmunk Wilkins, was going to be just fine. Hello. Oh, hey, Josh. What's going? I haven't heard from you in a long time. Yeah, man. How's it going?

Good. What's been going on? I've just been keeping busy, I guess. You know, won the lottery, of course. That took up a lot of my time. You won... What do you mean you won the lottery? I told my butler to send you a telegram.

Back up here. How much did you win? John, rich people are like women. We don't talk about our figures. Oh, I see. No, but seriously, what kind of money are we talking about? North of a million dollars. That's insane. Yeah, it's amazing. You didn't even phone me or anything? I had other priorities.

Like spending that filthy lucre as fast as I could, man. I was busy. When did you win this? I don't know, about two weeks ago. About two weeks ago. It would have been nice had you, you know, included me and in on this. Look, I didn't want to, I didn't want to be a burden to you. How was that, how is you're having money a burden to me?

A friend's success is really hard to stomach when the other friend is, shall we say, less than fully successful or a failure. You're not successful. Winning a lottery doesn't make you successful. John, did you buy a lottery ticket two weeks ago? In fact, yes, yes, I did. I often buy lottery tickets. And you lost.

I won. I beat you, in fact. I beat you like a rented mule. You're a loser. You're a loser. I'm a winner. Josh, But you know what?

I didn't want to lord it over you because I like it. You're my wingman. Okay, well, anyway, this is great. So, I mean, uh,

shouldn't we go out and celebrate or something? Absolutely. Where are you taking me? What is that supposed to mean? I spent all the money. What are you talking about? I spent all the money.

You're not telling me that in the past, in two weeks you spent all of your money. No, absolutely. That is actually not true. I would say the first week and a half. The last couple of days I've just been living on beans.

I mean, did you make some investments? No, no. Why would I do that? That's not fun. Well, all right. What are some of the things you spent the money on? I got a tattoo. You got a tattoo. It cost $20,000. What does a $20,000 tattoo look like? Well, it was a tattoo that said this tattoo cost $20,000.

And that was it? Well, actually, I mean, to be perfectly honest, it cost me $40,000. Why was that? $20,000 to remove it. It made my tuchess look enormous. What else did you get? I got collagen injected into my earlobes. Why?

Well, have you seen my earlobes? I never noticed your earlobes. That's exactly right. You didn't. Chicks dig lobes, man? I don't know if that's true. You've heard of Beastung Lips? Yes. It looks like I stuck my ears into a hive.

What else did you buy? I bought a diamond-encrusted diamond. I've never heard of that before. It's like a chicken fried steak, but more like a chicken fried chicken. Uh-huh. Yeah. And so do you still have that at least? No, I don't.

Because... I gave it as a tip to my personal masseuse. See, you had it personal masseuse? Well, I had a number of personal masseuses, and that lasted for about a week. I got a continuous massage for a week, 24 hours a day, even when I slept. Bought a yacht. And what became of that? Yeah, you know, I was having a great time partying with Jared and his friends.

Well, who's Jared? He's my nephew. Oh, you're okay. We're having a good time. Jared was in charge, right? Right. Probably, in retrospect, not a good idea. Maybe not.

And the yacht sank. How? It collided with my other yacht. What else did I get? I got a Lamborghini. What happened to that? It sank on the yacht. What, okay.

What else did you get? I bought a bird. Rare, endangered. Oh, and so? It met an untimely demurial. What'd you do to it? Are you familiar with the artist Picasso? You got a Picasso?

I did indeed. Which one? I don't know, a person, something, something on a thing. Anyway, it doesn't matter, because quite frankly, it should be retitled bird poop on canvas. You mean the... The bird went on the Picasso. Which is why I killed the bird. You killed the bird?

I didn't kill the bird. The guy I hired to kill the bird, killed the bird. And believe me, he didn't come cheap. And then he stole the Picasso. Do you have anything at all left? Actually, just... Here, hold on. Yeah, I got about...

Yeah, I'll probably have enough for lunch for both of us. You know, I want to share the splendor of my riches. Let me take out to lunch. You're going to take me out for lunch? Well, this is an occasion. Hey, nothing fancy, right? Just a couple of McRibbs in the park or something. Okay, that sounds nice.

I'll feel as though, at least I've seen... somehow shared in your good fortune. Although I suggest you get over here pretty fast. Because... I'm getting a hankering for buying a lottery ticket. On wiretap today, you heard Rob Cordry reading a short story by Jonathan Goldstein. For more Rob Cordry, check out his TV show, Children's Home, hospital on Adult Swim. You also heard Joshua Carpatti. Wiretap is produced by Jonathan Goldstein,

with Mira Birdwin Tonic and Crystal Duhame.