by Pete Hautman
“You gotta stay in shape,” he says.
“Or out of shape,” Cyn says. She takes a bite of her sandwich. I made us grilled cheese sandwiches, just one each, and gave Mal a bowl of potato chips. He’s sitting under the picnic table sharing them with Arfie.
HeyMan says, “You need to keep stretching your stomach. Here, have half of my sandwich.”
“I’m not that hungry today.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
I shrug. “I’m probably going to lose to Egon Belt anyway.”
“No way! He’s an old man. Besides, I have an investment in you.”
“Maybe it was a bad investment.”
“Don’t say that! You took my money!”
“Okay, fine. You want out of the deal, I’ll pay you back.”
“With what?”
“I’ll pay you back when I can.”
“Yeah, in like ten years.”
“Cut it out, Hay,” Cyn says. “David will do his best.” She looks at me. “Right?”
“Right.”
HeyMan says, “Did you hear about your hero Jooky?”
“No. What?”
“He didn’t even make the top five at the hot-dog contest.”
I can’t believe it — I haven’t even looked up the results of the Nathan’s Famous contest, and that was days ago.
“Jooky gave up after twenty dogs. He just stood up and walked off the stage.”
“He must have been Gurged.”
“The Gurge was a no-show.”
“The Gurge got himself barred,” Cyn says. “That’s what I was going to tell you at the qualifier before I got interrupted. They caught him stuffing egg rolls in his pants.”
“It’s against the rules to put egg rolls in your pants at a hot-dog contest?” HeyMan asks.
“No! That was a couple weeks ago. At an egg-roll contest in Philadelphia.”
“That sounds like the Gurge,” I say. “Not that it does me any good.” I think about the Visa bill behind the bureau in the hall.
Cyn, reading my mind, says, “Did your mom’s credit-card bill come yet?”
I nod.
“What are you going to do?”
“Hide it until after the contest.” Saying it out loud makes my plan sound even stupider. HeyMan and Cyn are giving me pitying looks again.
“Dude,” HeyMan says, “you better start eating.”
After Cyn and HeyMan leave, I follow Mal up to his room. He brings with him only the rose petal and the maple leaf — the twigs did not meet his standards. I leave him to his work and go downstairs to clean up the kitchen. Dad will be home soon; until then, I don’t have much to do except keep an eye on Mal and contemplate my doom.
There are two ways it can go. Either I lose the contest and my life is over, or I win the contest and pay Mom for the Visa bill and my life is still over because they will never trust me again. Because Bridgette is perfect and Mal is Mal, and I will always be a disappointment. I’m not going to be able to eat my way out of it, and eating is the only thing I’m any good at.
I hear my phone chirp. Probably HeyMan texting me to eat again. I ignore it. A few seconds later, it rings. I check the display; it’s Derek.
“Hi,” I say, infusing my voice with maximum apathy.
“Hey, David! How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Listen, I had an idea. I heard you kicked butt at the qualifier. I think you’re a winner.”
“I didn’t exactly win,” I say. “Egon Belt was ahead all the way; then he stopped.”
“Yeah, Hoover told me. But that Belt guy is an old man. You’re just coming into your prime! There’s big money in eating contests, you know. And I’m not just talking about Pigorino’s. I figure with the right management, you could really rake it in. I could make that happen for you. You know how much money Joey Chestnut makes?”
“No idea.”
“That’s why you need a manager. It’s not just winning contests — there are endorsements, sponsorships, honorariums, all kinds of ways to monetize your skills!”
He’s talking so fast I wouldn’t know what he was saying even if I knew what he was talking about.
“I don’t need any more gift cards, Derek.”
“I’m not talking gift cards. I’m talking cash. You don’t even have to pay me — I’ll take it out of your earnings, starting with the Pigorino Bowl. Fifteen percent.”
“Listen, Derek, I’ve got to go.”
“Okay, but you think about it. We’ll make a great team.”
I hang up. There is no way I want Derek for a manager. I open the refrigerator. I still have a whole head of cabbage in the crisper. I peel off the wilted outside leaves, cut it into wedges, and start eating.
It is the month of eating; it is the month of Mal.
Heads of cabbage, loaves of bread, giant bowls of spaghetti, a ten-pound watermelon, and gallon after gallon of water, juice, milk, and soda — I am a mouth, a tube, a human garbage disposal.
Mal loves to watch me eat. I’m sure he would pin me to his Wall if he could.
I am teaching Mal to eat new things. It’s all about understanding the Rules.
It was actually HeyMan who helped me figure out Mal’s Rules. He came by a couple of days ago while Mal and I were eating lunch. I had made myself a sub out of a loaf of French bread piled with salami, cheese, lettuce, and onions. Mal was eating potato chips and Cheerios out of separate bowls. Mal does not mix his foods.
“Does he eat anything that’s not brown?” HeyMan asked.
“He eats Cheerios, potato chips, Ritz crackers, and fish sticks,” I said.
“All brown,” HeyMan said. “Light brown. He never eats anything green?”
“No. He also eats pizza crust, but only if it doesn’t have a hint of sauce. And he won’t eat the burnt parts.”
“What about cookies?”
“I’ve seen him eat plain sugar cookies. He won’t eat cookies that have chocolate chips or nuts.”
“So his food has to be light brown and, um, homogeneous.”
“Homogeneous?”
“The same all the way through.”
“What about the fish sticks?”
“That’s the exception that proves the rule.”
“That saying makes no sense. If there’s an exception, then there’s no rule.”
“Exactly. What about spicy? Does he like pepper?”
“He’s more into bland. He does like a little crunch. I think he likes the sound, only it can’t be too loud. Tortilla chips are too noisy for him.”
“So it has to be light brown, plain, and just a little crunchy. You know what I bet he’d like? Waffles.”
HeyMan was right. After Dad got home that night, I walked over to the store and bought a box of frozen waffles. The next morning I popped four in the toaster. I put one on a plate and set it next to Mal’s Cheerios. Mal pretended not to notice. If he senses eyes on him, he will not try anything new. I turned my back and stood at the counter and ate the other three waffles. When I turned around, Mal’s waffle was gone and Mal was smiling into his Cheerios.
Since then, Mal and I have been experimenting with different foods. So far I have discovered that he will not eat French toast, cereals other than Cheerios, or fried shrimp. But we have waffles on the menu now, and I call that progress.
When Mal was six, we tried sending him to school. Not a regular school — a special school for kids with developmental disorders. It was a complete disaster. Mal wouldn’t stop screaming.
Ever since then, we’ve been homeschooling him. A little over a year ago he learned to say “Okay.” Since then, he hasn’t learned much of anything. I know he’s smart, but it’s a different kind of smart. When he’s in his room working on his Wall, it’s clear that he is thinking complicated thoughts. But out in the real world his thoughts are overwhelmed by all the stuff coming at him in every direction.
Taking Mal for a walk outside is a major production. First, he has to wear
his favorite black Iowa Hawkeyes hoodie, even if it’s ninety degrees out. His shoes have to be tied just right — if they’re too tight or too loose he won’t go. He needs a handful of Cheerios in his pocket, and he needs his music. Mal likes music. Specifically, he likes this one song from the movie Frozen. I bet he’s listened to it ten thousand times. After the first thousand times, Dad bought him a pair of headphones with an MP3 player built in so he can listen to it all he wants without driving the rest of us crazy.
I tie his shoes. I dig his Hawkeyes hoodie out of the laundry hamper. It’s a little dirty, but Mal won’t mind. I pour Cheerios in both his pockets. Mal puts on his headphones and turns on his song.
“You all set, buddy?”
“Okay!” he yells. Mal shouts when he’s listening on his headphones.
We leave Arfie at home, because walking Arfie and Mal together is impossible. Arfie doesn’t like being left behind, but he understands. We set out on our usual route, once around the block. There are many Things to examine. Mal collects a monarch wing, two willow leaves, and several dandelion blossoms. We discover a busy anthill and watch for a while. We do not step on any cracks. We eat some Cheerios. We meet Mrs. Rhodes walking her dachshund. Mal pets it on the head. Mal is good with dogs. Walking once around the block takes half an hour; we are almost home when I sense a change in Mal. His steps become erratic, as if he has forgotten the rhythm of walking, his fists clench, and I can hear his breathing.
“We’re almost home, buddy,” I say. Another hundred feet, Mal. Keep it together, dude! “We’ll be home in a minute. You can work on your Wall, okay?”
His jaw is tight and his breathing becomes louder as he strains the air in and out through clenched teeth.
“Almost there, Mal. We had a good walk, didn’t we? Saw all those ants? Petted a doggie? Found some leaves? Come on, buddy. Arfie’s waiting for us. We could have more waffles, right?”
Mal stops. He is rigid, fists at his sides, his entire body quivering with meltdown energy.
“Aw, crap, Mal. Do you have to?”
Mal screams.
I get behind him and clamp my arms around him.
Mal howls.
“Mal, it’s okay. We’re almost home.”
And shrieks and bucks and stomps and kicks at my shins. We fall, landing on the Johnstons’ lawn, me hanging on as tight as I can because I don’t know what else to do. This is a bad one, I think, an instant before his head slams back into my chin. I almost let go, but I know I can’t because if I do he’s likely to run, and I don’t think I can catch him if he does.
I roll onto my back, Mal on top of me, kicking and squirming and screaming. My head knocks Mal’s headphones off. It takes a second for me to realize that there is no sound coming from them. No music. The battery must have died. That was what set him off.
I start singing. I’m not a good singer, but I’ve heard “Let It Go” from Frozen so many times I know it by heart, and I do my best. The first verse changes nothing — Mal is slamming his head back into my shoulder and kicking ferociously at my legs. Fortunately both his shoes have flown off. I keep singing, and as I sing and hold him, a part of me is thinking that it would be nice to be Mal.
Sure, he has his meltdowns, but only two or three a week, and they don’t last long. He never seems to be bored, he always knows what he wants, and he has me and Mom and Dad to take care of him. Mal could have knocked my teeth out with that head butt, and nobody would have blamed him or tried to make him feel bad, because he is just Mal and although Mom still hopes he will start talking one day, we will always love him and accept him no matter what. Getting mad at Mal is like shouting at the moon.
In a way, Mal is invincible, immune, blameless. And here I am rolling around on the grass getting kicked in the shins and head-butted and singing a song I hate from a movie I hate, and I have my arms around my brother and I won’t let go because he is Mal, and I am me, and I am weirdly envious.
Halfway through the second verse, Mal stops shrieking and goes limp, as if somebody hit a switch. I keep singing. Mal is crying now, doing that sobbing, shaking thing that sometimes follows his meltdowns. I finish the song and start singing it again from the beginning.
“Okay,” Mal says.
I let go slowly, ready to grab him if he goes berserk again. He seems to be okay. I look around and collect his shoes and the headphones. Stupid battery. Mrs. Johnston is looking out her window. On the street, a car is stopped, the driver staring at us. It’s Al Chasen, a retired farmer who lives on the next block.
“You guys okay?” he asks.
“We’re fine,” I say. Tears are streaming down Mal’s face. I rest my hand lightly on his shoulder. “Just a little meltdown.”
Al nods, waves, and drives off. He knows about Mal. Everybody in Vacaville knows about Mal.
That night Dad brings home takeout Chinese: General Tso’s chicken and fried wontons. I make toaster waffles for Mal, and I tell Dad about his meltdown. Dad listens, nodding because he knows what it’s like. We’ve been dealing with Mal meltdowns for years.
“That was smart,” he says. “Singing to him.”
“Thanks,” I say. I don’t often get told I’m smart.
Mal finishes his waffles and heads for the den, probably to watch Frozen for the umpteenth time. I open my fortune cookie.
“I passed up an opportunity a few days ago,” I say.
“Oh? What was that?”
“Derek offered to be my manager.”
“Bridgette’s Derek?”
“Yeah. He says there’s a lot of money in professional eating.”
“You told him no, I hope.”
“I don’t think I need a manager. Besides, he kind of bugs me.”
Dad smiles. “He can be a bit irritating.”
“Mal doesn’t like him.”
Dad nods. “Sometimes I think Mal knows more than he lets on. You know, David, we’re very lucky. Mal is easy, compared to some kids in his situation. I have a friend at work — his thirteen-year-old son, Andrew, is autistic.”
I’m surprised to hear him using the A-word, because usually we don’t. Mom hates it. Even though she knows that Mal is autistic, even though she has shelves of books about autism, even though Mal’s doctor has diagnosed him with autism, she won’t use the word herself.
“In some ways Andrew is more developed than Mal. He can talk. But he can’t be left alone for even five minutes.”
“Why?”
“He hurts himself. He gets frustrated and bangs his head and hits things. It happens every day. Mal’s episodes are mild by comparison.”
“They sure don’t feel mild when they’re happening.”
“I know.”
“If he could just talk, he could tell us what’s wrong. We could fix it.”
“Like you fixed it this afternoon, by singing.”
“I just made a lucky guess about what was bothering him.”
“It was a good guess.”
“Mom always talks about teaching Mal to do things, teaching him to act a certain way, teaching him what’s okay, teaching him to use a spoon and how to tie his shoes . . . but it’s really us learning about Mal, learning what works for him. We have to learn Mal’s Rules.”
“Mal’s Rules.” Dad nods slowly. “I like that.”
“He sees things different.”
“You’re saying his autism is how he sees the world, and he’s trying to teach us.”
“Today he taught me to make sure his headphone battery is charged.”
Dad laughs. “A good lesson,” he says. “So how are you?”
How am I? The question takes me by surprise.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Getting ready for the contest. Mal’s helping me.”
“How’s he doing that?”
“He watches me practice. If I’m eating something boring it’s easier if I have an audience. Like, he watched me eat two heads of cabbage.”
Dad manages not to frown. I can tell it takes some effort.
“You ate two heads of cabbage?”
“It’s good for expanding stomach volume.”
“David . . . I know this contest is important to you, but you have to be careful. When you talk about distorting your internal organs, I get concerned.”
“It’s temporary. I’ve read up on it.”
“Online, I suppose.”
“There’s a lot of good information there. I’m not doing anything crazy like eating lightbulbs or scrap metal.”
“But eating an entire head of cabbage . . .” He shakes his head and sighs. “Why couldn’t you have just taken up basketball?”
“Why would I eat a basketball?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Eating is what I’m good at,” I say.
He thinks about that for a moment. “You know what I used to be good at? Ollies.”
“Ollies? You mean the skateboard trick?”
“Yeah. When I was in high school, I had the highest ollie in Des Moines. I could jump that board onto a picnic table.”
He grins at my shocked expression. I never knew that Dad skateboarded, and ollies are hard. If you do it right, you can jump your board onto a curb — or something higher — and it looks as if the board is glued to your feet. I could never do one.
“My dream was to go pro,” Dad says. “But I broke both my ankles doing a kickflip off the courthouse steps.”
“So you quit?”
“Once my ankles healed I got back on my board, but I’d lost my edge. I was scared to attempt the more dangerous maneuvers. So I gave up my dream of becoming a skateboard hero and went to college instead.” He grins and shrugs. “Anyway, I know how it feels when you’re good at something. When you’re the best, you just don’t want to do anything else.”
The days pass. Mal and I get into a routine. Mal likes routines. We walk around the block every day, and there are no more battery fails and no more meltdowns. Mal is teaching me the finer points of Mal’s Rules, which seem to be mostly about the finer points of boredom.
You think the card game War is monotonous? Mal is teaching me a card game he made up that takes boredom to a new level. The game is called “Okay.” We take turns picking cards from a deck, and every time it’s a face card we say, “Okay,” and eat one Cheerio. We’ve been at it for half an hour, and I’m trying to sense whether he will have a fit if I stop playing.
