Two weeks ago I was driving through Beverly Hills on the way to…somewhere. I don’t remember exactly, but I know there was purpose for my being there. Oh, now I remember, I had to find a Wachovia to withdraw some money, and it turned out the location listed on their website was a new location which was still under construction. So actually, there was no purpose to my being in Beverly Hills. If my wasted afternoon had one positive aspect I could glean from it, it was the fact that I saw a large banner announcing the annual Beverly Hills Farmer’s Market Chili Cook-Off was coming, and it would held this year on August 5th.
I marked it down on my mental calendar, and reminded myself on a daily basis, slowly growing more and more excited about the cook-off. I thought about going to Target and buying a wooden spoon. I thought about going to one of the western-themed shops and buying cowboy boots. I thought about constructing my own trucker hat with a little maneuverable clock on it that said, “Time For Chili.” I even spent five minutes before bed every night looking at my old photographs from the Savannah, Georgia Chili Cook-off I attended in November of 2005. Just before closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep, I would say goodnight to theoretical bowls of chili that I would soon be tasting. I guess I was a little bit excited about the chili cook-off.
I woke up yesterday and quickly showered. No breakfast — I wanted to leave optimal room for the chili. I sat down with Fawn and Brian and watched the remainder of JFK, and then decided it was time to leave. This was shortly after twelve noon. I got directions to the Farmer’s Market and sped down Temple, and then Beverly Boulevard. I reached my location and saw a row of cars parked along the street. Maybe fifty yards away, the road was blocked off to traffic, and two patrol officers were watching the entrance to the market. I quickly removed myself from my car, and hastily walked towards the market.
As I walked past rows of vendors, I noticed something. They were all packing up their cars and trucks with produce, as if they were preparing to leave. My pace quickened. I searched for signs of chili, and found none. When I reached the end of the block, I turned left, and my heart sank. A row of booths covered in red cloth and burners sat empty. At the end of the row, workers were breaking down the booths and piling poles and tents into large trucks. I searched frantically for a sign of chili, and found none. Only discarded cups and spoons dyed red from what I imagine was life-altering chili. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I missed the motherfucking chili cook-off. I fucking hate myself. I want to flip on one of those burners and put my face into the fire. I deserve it. How could I be so stupid. How could I be so fucking retarded. Was I retarded? Was it even possible to contract late-onset mental retardation? Is retardation something that one can possibly contract? My thoughts were varied, violent, and self-effacing. At that moment, I hated myself.
I walked slowly between the remaining booths, reading the ingredients for various chili concoctions which, according to a worker, had been available free for consumption mere minutes before I arrived. I think I hung around the deserted chili cook-off just to punish myself for being so, so stupid. When I finally decided it was time to leave, I noticed that hunger pangs were setting in, and now I had nothing to ease my starvation.
I wanted chili. I wanted chili at any cost. I wanted to find a place that sold chili, and I wanted that chili slathered on something disgusting. I began to drive, and scanned the streets for a sign of chili. If I passed an ice cream shop, I thought of chili-flavored ice cream. If I passed a vegan cafe, I thought of…how glad I was not to be vegan. At burger stands, I wanted to order chili fries, a chili burger, and a chili cola. I found myself at Tommy’s original famous burger stand a few blocks from my apartment. I ordered a double cheeseburger and chili fries. And this is what it looked like.
It tasted like cardboard and looked like watery diarrhea. It was the worst excuse for chili I’ve ever tasted. To make matters worse, the second to last chili-covered fry had a nice, long, nappy hair wrapped around it. Upon noticing the chili-flecked hair dangling in the air, I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for all the good chili I had missed. I thought about dead babies, the Holocaust and cancer, and I still couldn’t cry. So instead, I went home and then over to an acquaintance’s apartment for homemade ice cream.
Today I came home for dinner, and Fawn said she had a surprise for me. I looked in the refrigerator and saw a container of homemade chili from the local supermarket. I asked if it was vegan, and she said, “Of course not.” She’s the best roommate ever.
