Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
And then there’s Samuel. “F-F-Fuck me,” he exclaims as he recovers from a single bite.
Cole lowers his sandwich, concerned. “You okay?”
“F-F-Fuckin’ fuck me,” he exclaims yet again, this time in a choked rasp. “Gosh-dang-it that’s hot.”
“Phew, that Tackle Burger does look awful spicy,” I say—with very little sympathy in my voice. “I can smell the jalapeños from over here, like knives to the nostrils.”
“These are not normal jalapeños.” He hisses his words, tears in his eyes. He goes for a huge gulp of water, sputters, then goes for another as he stares upward, eyes turning red.
I’m holding back laughter. “Now, now, that’s no way to enjoy a Biggie’s Bites burger, my friend. You’ve got to—how did you put it?—‘savor every bite’.”
Samuel glares at me over the rim of his glass, tears falling.
Cole sets his sandwich down, appearing truly concerned. “You look like you’re struggling. Try picking out some of the peppers. Or I can grab Mick and see if he’ll make you what Malcolm got?”
“No,” wheezes Samuel after swallowing his water. His eyes are wet and red. There is snot carving a path through the whiskers on his upper lip. It’s not pretty. “I am fine. I am fantastic, actually.”
Snot. After a single bite.
And he ordered two of those molten monsters.
He grabs hold of the burger again. “I can handle this. I can—” He squints suddenly, as if the mere memory of spiciness just stung his eyes. “I can handle a little heat.”
“Samuel …” tries Cole again.
“What I can’t handle,” he goes on, “is your condescending lil’ tone with me, like you’re talkin’ down to some kid. You and your perfect lil’ hairdo and … and politeness.” Samuel takes another bite of his burger, coughs, chews, coughs, chews, then forces himself to swallow it, after which he lets out a sudden howl that draws the attention of nearby tables. “I got this!” he rasps, makes a strange noise in the back of his throat, then grabs hold of his water and starts chugging again, determined to appear triumphant over the mighty battle that hot little burger is giving him.
But we all know who’s winning.
As Samuel continues his performance—and as I sigh and half-hide my face in mortification—Cole engages a completely different and unexpected approach. “Despite what you said earlier, Samuel, I think you do feel invisible after helping someone’s pet, as if your efforts may be forgotten.”
“Urmph,” replies Samuel—except it may be less of a reply and more just a noise his body made without his permission as it tries negotiating its way around digesting a literal bite of Hell.
“But not everyone forgets you,” Cole goes on. He smiles with kindness. “It was just a couple years ago, I think, when my dog got really sick. Porridge. I know, weird name, but I love her with all my heart, had her since I was eight. I was already given a bunch of sad speeches from my parents—‘You may need to say your goodbyes, Cole.’ ‘You need to prepare for the worst.’—all of that. But you took her in, Samuel, you and Mr. King did what you do best, and … I guess you’re the reason I can go home after this and expect Porridge to want to lick my face all over, happy and healthy.” Cole smiles to himself, then gazes at Samuel again. “I’ll always be grateful.”
The speech has left Samuel staring across the table at Cole in a total stupor. It isn’t clear whether it’s the burger that’s left him looking numb, or if the memory of Cole’s dog has just resurfaced, and a few detached puzzle pieces are now connected in his mind.
“Wow,” says Samuel softly.
I turn to him—to his snot-ridden, teary face. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I … I do remember Porridge. Omar called her Oatmeal one day on accident.” Samuel clears his throat. His voice sounds strained. “I … I just realized I—” He takes his glass, though it’s with decreasing enthusiasm that he drinks. Then he sets it down, eyes averted. “I just realized I have a thing I gotta get to. At the clinic. Slipped my mind. I … I should take this to go.”
I frown. “Samuel?”
He thrusts his hand down a pocket, fishes out some cash, then puts it on the table next to his glass. He stands up rather abruptly, lifts his plate, then stops. “Sorry for crashing y’all’s lunch. Have fun, guys.” Then he walks himself—and his plate—off to the little window that peeks out from the kitchen. I stare at him over my shoulder, concerned, wondering if I should get up, too. But after a mere twenty seconds, he’s already walking out the door with a container in hand. He doesn’t once look back.
Chapter 11
You’re So Gross.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the Porridge thing?”
Cole and I are slowly strolling down Main Street toward the downtown park as we let our meal digest. The cash Samuel left on the table covered nearly the whole thing, and I’m not sure whether it was intentional or he was in such a hurry to leave, he couldn’t bother to do the math. In any case, despite Cole and I continuing with our lunch, I think we were both stuck thinking about Samuel’s abrupt departure.