Horse Face
by
Lisa Warden
After
parking the car and grabbing our bags, we walked down the street. We were visiting my boyfriend’s sister in
Brooklyn for the holiday weekend. Eli
and I had been dating almost a year, but I had never met his elusive sister,
even though we had spent Christmas with his family.
A boyish looking girl with almond
colored skin and tight, black curls answered the door. Her hair was shaved on one side. As she hugged Eli, I saw that her skinny arms
were covered in tattoos. One was a
skeleton smoking, another was of a heart with their mother’s name. As I was studying the tattoos, Eli said,
“Lisa, this is Grace.” Grace reached out to hug me. I felt like I had to be careful since she was
so thin.
“Come in,” Grace said leading us into the
kitchen of the townhome she rented with three other people. Her best friend, Anna, was standing in the
kitchen when we walked in. I recognized
her from photos. She was short, and her body was amorphic. She had a bowl cut with her hair gelled
to the side, and she was wearing a suit, but without the jacket. She reminded me of a toddler boy on picture
day. Grace’s girlfriend, Isabella, was
also in the kitchen. Both of her
muscular arms were covered in tattoos to the point that I briefly thought she
had sleeves on. A giant eagle tattoo
spread across her chest, mostly visible with her low-cut dress. Her jet-black hair was meticulously styled
like a housewife from the 1950’s. Her
make-up was bold, smoky eyes and bright red lips. I was wearing a floral sundress, but it
didn’t expose any cleavage or tattoos because I didn’t have any. I didn’t usually wear make-up, but especially
not on a hot July day when it would just melt off. My reddish-brown curly hair wasn’t cut or
coiffed in an edgy way.
“You guys are
going to sleep in the basement,” Isabella told us. “Let’s go put your stuff down there and then we’ll head to
the contest.”
As
we were walking out the door Eli asked about their other roommate. “He’s nice, eccentric. He has a girlfriend and spends most of his
time at her place,” Grace said. “He is
going to go out with us tonight, though.”
After a few blocks we walked
through a small, triangular park. The
benches in the park were filled with Orthodox Jews, sitting and talking as
their kids ran around in the sun. Then
on the next block we passed restaurant after restaurant, overflowing with
hipsters waiting to eat brunch.
As we continued to the subway that
would take us to Coney Island, Eli asked Grace about her new master’s program. They talked easily, and I tried to
concentrate on not being miserable. Today
was disgusting, 105 degrees and humid as hell.
When we got on the subway train, I was dismayed to find it was an old
train that wasn’t air conditioned, and somehow underground was even hotter than
above ground had been. The ride to Coney
Island from Williamsburg was long and made even longer by an impromptu 45-minute
stop in the middle that the conductor kept blaming on the fact that it was the
4th of July.
I was miserable at this point,
drenched in sweat, and questioning what I was even doing here? Eli finds
competitive eating captivating, and every year for the past five years he has
been going to the hot dog eating competition on Coney Island, usually alone. His fascination with competitive eating began
around the time he was diagnosed with Crohn’s, an inflammatory bowel disease. Because of this condition, his diet is
severely restricted, and so I imagine that has something to do with his desire
to watch an eating competition.
When we finally arrived at Coney
Island and emerged from the hellish inferno, I started feeling a bit better. The women’s competition was first. We stood in the searing sun facing the stage
where eight female contestants were lined up in a row, each with a silver tray
in front of them and hot dogs piled so high you couldn’t see their faces. They each had a super big gulp sized drink to
their side. Before it began, an
announcer went through introducing each woman and listing her eating
accomplishments. I was amazed at the
array of eating competitions that existed; donuts, jalapeños, chicken wings,
cookies, grits, pancakes, and even fish tacos.
I was also amazed that none of them was fat. I thought competitive eaters would
be obese, and not one of them was. They
weren’t slender, but they certainly weren’t obese. Did they throw up afterwards? I found myself
wondering, is this something you practice? And if so, how were they not fat
despite consuming all those calories on a regular basis?
A woman with a mullet won the
competition by shoving 44 hot dogs in her mouth in ten minutes. Then there was a 45-minute break while they
set up for the men’s competition. Eli
was telling us how Joey Chestnut and Takeru Kobayashi had a long running
rivalry as they were the top two hot dog eating champions. “This year won’t be so exciting, though,” Eli lamented. “Kobayashi is renegotiating his
contract, so he can’t compete this year, so Joey Chestnut doesn’t have any real
competitors.” I was amazed to hear that competitive eaters had contracts, and
the power to negotiate them.
It was now around two o’clock and
the intense midday heat felt unbearable.
While we were waiting for the male competitors to line up behind their
trays piled high with hot dogs and their enormous cups filled with what looked
like Hawaiian Punch, somebody in the back of the audience passed out from the
heat. I was startled by how people
treated the fainting, like it was completely normal for humans to be standing
around in 100-degree weather watching people eat hot dogs and fainting was just
a possible consequence we were all willing to accept. The audience calmly passed the inert body of a woman in her early twenties to the front of the audience,
and we handed her limp body to security personal in front of the stage.
“Does this happen every year?” I
asked Eli, after handing off the limp leg I had been holding.
“It’s never been this hot before
when I’ve been here,” he said. Then the
announcer began the long list of accolades for each man before introducing him. I found myself wondering if competitive
eaters had resumes. Not just anyone
could compete in Nathan’s Hot Dog eating competition, so they must have
something to prove they’re worthy. This
whole scene was so obscene.
Then it was go time. I could see Eli’s hands clenched in fists and
his knuckles turning white as he watched.
I couldn’t help but be impressed by Joey Chestnut’s eating technique. He shoved the hot dog, bun and all, in his
red drink, which I guess maybe aided in digestion? Then he shoved the hot dog
encased in a bloated, blood red bun down his throat in a single shove. I don’t think he chewed. Then, without a pause he proceeded with
dunking the next hot dog and shoving it smoothly down his gullet. Now I realized why their cups needed to be so
big. His white Nathan’s shirt was
drenched in red fruit punch and sweat was pouring
down his face and body. Amidst the
tension, someone else fainted. Again, the crowd nonchalantly, albeit this time
maybe with a little agitation at being disturbed during the actual competition,
passed the limp body forward to the security guards. What they were doing with the bodies was
anyone’s guess. Were these people ever
seen again? Were they being taken to a cool room to be rehydrated? I thought
about rolling the dice and faking a faint in hopes the latter was what would
happen to me.
Joey Chestnut was out-eating almost
everyone on stage. There was one man who
was only seven or eight hot dogs behind him, but he wasn’t really gaining on
him. When the timer indicated ten
minutes passed, Joey had eaten 50 hot dogs.
Eli told us he had seen him eat seventy something before, but he was
probably taking it easy since Kobayashi wasn’t here. Just as they were raising the arm of the
champion, drenched in sweat and his stomach visibly distended beneath his red
stained shirt, a small Asian man jumped on stage and started yelling something. Eli gasped, “That is Kobayashi!” The crowd
went silent, trying to hear what he was yelling.
“He’s not the champion, I’m the
champion, but you won’t let me on stage to prove it!” he screamed at no one in
particular. It was all very exciting. Joey Chestnut seemed too exhausted from his
efforts and stuffed full of hot dogs to react.
He just stood there with his arm still raised, swaying like he was drunk
and might pass out at any moment. Security
scrambled on stage to grab Kobayashi, but he was agile and jumped down. The men ran after him, leaving the crowd
stunned.
“Is it over?” I asked hopefully.
“I want to hang out for a bit and
see what happens,” Eli said, but after ten minutes of nothing happening, we
shuffled away from the competition with the rest of the crowd.
“Do you mind if we walk on the
beach for a bit?” I asked. My mom’s
family grew up in Brooklyn and would go to the beach here. I was feeling nostalgic and wanted to see it. On 4th of July it was so densely
packed with people and umbrellas even up to the water’s edge that we were
having trouble actually walking on the beach.
Very few people were in the water, however, and so I did manage to wade
into the water up to my knees and walk down the length of the beach that way. The cool water made me feel like a new person.
We were walking back to the subway. Eli had his arm around me, and Grace had her
arm around Isabella.A group of drunk men walked by us, which wasn’t surprising
given we were in New York on a holiday. After
they passed, they stopped, turned back and started yelling something at us. It took me a moment to register that they
were yelling at us, and then to understand what their point was, but then it
sunk in, they were angry that Grace had her arm around Isabella. Grace looked so much like a boy that I wondered if they were angry that Isabella,
who was stunning, wasn’t with someone better looking? Was it that they were a
biracial couple? Did they realize that they were two women and that made them
angry? Or was it that Grace was living like a man that made them so
uncomfortable? I could only glean from their drunken mutterings and occasional
shouting that the situation they were witnessing was alarming to them, but not
specifically what about the situation made them so mad. Grace yelled back, “Mind your own damn
business,” in a voice that was unmistakably female, so if they hadn’t realized
she was a trans before, they did now. Their
anger mounted after she spoke. The way
they were acting was vile, but I just wanted to get away from them without getting
into a real fight where we would be at a severe disadvantage.
“Come on Gracie,” Eli, always level
headed, said sternly but sympathetically to his sister. The men started mocking her, and I could see
the anger in her face, disgust built up from years of being snickered at and commented on.
Even if not directly to her face, she
probably heard the comments floating down the street after she passed.
“Come on, they’re just jealous,”
Isabella said grabbing Grace’s arm. Realizing
there was nothing she could do, she swallowed hard, and turned as the men
continued hurling insults at our backs. We
walked very slowly, as if they were a predator and if we didn’t run, they
wouldn’t chase us. They didn’t follow us.
When we got back to Williamsburg,
we walked to the waterfront to watch the fireworks. Their roommate was meeting us there. Quietly, we sat on some cement dividers at
the edge of the park. None of us had
really spoken since the incident. There
were eccentric people all around us, but one stood out. He was tall and wearing a rubber horse mask. He would just stand near people, not
speaking, making them uncomfortable. Some
would laugh uneasily. Some would tell
him to get lost. One guy took a swing at
him. I was so mesmerized by this horse
faced person and what he was doing that I mostly missed the firework show. Why was he doing it I wondered?
When the fireworks ended and most
of the people were leaving the park, the horse faced man remained, sidling up
closer and closer to us. Eli jumped when
he finally noticed him by his side, exclaiming, “What the!” Then Grace and
Isabella start giggling, and then Anna as well, and we realized they were all
in on some joke that we weren’t. “This is our
roommate, Matt,” Grace said, shaking her head. I was a bit taken aback that this weirdo, who
had spent his 4th of July wearing a horse mask and making people
uncomfortable, was their roommate.
“Why are you doing this?” Eli asked
bluntly, unamused.
“I think the different ways people
react to it are interesting,” he said, speaking for the first time. He left the mask on as we walked home, and
people stared at and commented on the strange man in horse face the whole way. One drunk guy started yelling at him to take
his damn mask off, but Matt just kept walking, almost stoically ignoring him. I couldn’t help but think about how Grace was
different and just wished to be left alone, while here was Matt going out of
his way to be different because he enjoyed getting a reaction.
Matt walked off to his girlfriend’s
house before we got back to their townhouse, and he never took the horse face
off the whole time. Once we were in
their house sitting on their couch, reflecting on the long and exhausting day,
I picked up a book on their coffee table and started thumbing through it. Every page had a picture of a gorgeous man
with sharp features, blonde hair and blue eyes, posing differently in each shot. “What is this?” I asked intrigued.
“That’s Matt’s,” said Anna. “He’s a model. It’s a copy of the book his agent
gives out when trying to get him modeling jobs.”
“Huh,” I said in disbelief, and now even
more intrigued by the horse face.
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