Just Because

Yesterday at work my colleagues and I looked on in disgust and awe as a brutish, red-faced, “They build ‘em big in Colarado, honey,” man wolfed four and a half cheeseburgers and five orders of chili cheese fries in one sitting. His feast only interrupted by a large strawberry milkshake and a presumably belated toilet visit. Amazing.

He arrived at around 1:00pm and told one of our servers, Matt, that he was hungry, that he “needed something big.” He seemed somewhat buzzed but was otherwise entirely coherent – charismatic even, albeit a little creepy.

He finished his third helping in the time it took me to have three quarters of a camel red cigarette.

Three quarters because I had become jaded by Styles, a local 'street dude', asking where my accent was from.

Three quarters because I’ve told him New Zealand at least once a week for six months now. “You know, you’re really something!” he yelled, as I wandered back into the diner.

Having finished my side-work for the day I sat two stools from him at the counter and drank sparkling water and scribbled day-to-day nothingness in my journal. With my peripheral vision I watched his entire fist vanish into the milkshake tumbler, fishing out every speck of ice cream possible; reminiscent of a honey bear but not cute at all. Like, at all.

I remember shuddering a little when he began dabbing his face and armpits with a napkin. I remember shuddering a lot when he asked me if I was single with a dollop of mayonnaise hanging from his beard.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this. I’m not sure why I found the whole ordeal so entertaining and fascinating. I’m not sure why any of us did. It created a strange air of camaraderie between all of the staff, a welcome change to an unremitting tension.

For me, being a lactose-intolerant-vegetarian-with-a-finicky-appetite (and a history of problematic eating) I was as repulsed as I was impressed, but I was impressed. I was genuinely disappointed when he threw in the towel before finishing his fifth burger.

He walked out silently, his jeans suddenly a lot tighter and covered in barbeque sauce.

I’m sure there is some poetic and profound analog behind this that I could experiment with – the importance of knowing your limits, giving it your all, biting off more than you can chew.

But I figure it’s kind of like that time I got pissed on by a scared raccoon or the time dad and I watched a guy try to fly a kite in windless conditions at 2am: Really bizarre, undoubtedly memorable but means absolutely nothing.

Because contrary to popular and/or literary belief, there isn’t actually meaning behind everything. Chill out.

When I was stoned on my own later that evening I pondered the idea that he stores food like a camel and thus only eats once a month. That’s just silly though.

So yeah, the experience, unsurprisingly, didn’t trigger any deep or troubling thoughts or deliberations. But I’ll always remember it, just because.

That said, now?

It’s got me thinking, “Who does that? What was he trying to prove? How are so many American men so gluttonous and so peppy simultaneously? Why!?”

It’s got me thinking, “What the fuck. I’m going to miss this ridiculous place.”

St Francis Fountain: The scene of the crime, my beloved place of work