by E. M. Tran
The first day of filming Big Fat Losers’ fifteenth season, showrunners drove the contestants to Malibu in a chartered bus. A stage and audience bleachers had been set up on the beach. They were corralled into the hastily constructed green room with tables of food for the crew and cast. Minh ate dozens of miniature corn dogs while waiting. He dipped them in ranch and Dijon mustard. The night before, he filled out a contestant questionnaire for the show (as well as a stack of contracts, which he wondered if he should have signed at a lawyer’s office). One of the questions was, “What are your top ten favorite foods and why?” He had trouble answering it, even though he spent all his time thinking about food, whether he should eat or not eat. Now, as he filled his plate with corn dogs, he wondered why he hadn’t put corn dogs on the list. He only listed Vietnamese sandwiches, bánh mì, because, when he thought about Big Fat Losers all he could think of was eating those bánh mì in his aunt’s cold condo in Biloxi after the Nguyen Family Reunion, where he watched the show for the first time, shirtless on her leather couch.
A production assistant dragged two large garbage bags through the green room, her headset askew. “Everyone grab a jersey and some shorts. Come on, we start rolling in an hour!” she said.
“How do we know what size to take?” Molly, a contestant from Nevada asked.
“They’re all double XL,” the production assistant said.
“We’re all supposed to wear the same size?” said Molly.
Minh recognized the panic on Molly’s face. Wearing the right size was a concern that distinguished each day, characterizing a horrifying cycle: have no clothes because you’re fat, go to the store to buy new clothes, feel like a hideous beast because nothing fits, drown your misery in food, have no clothes because you’re fat. Minh wore the same clothing almost every day because it was too humiliating to shop for anything new. He got no joy from the daily event of individuality. It had been years since he last tried something on because he thought it might look good—a V-neck shirt in emerald green, a color his mother told him looked good with his skin tone. He’d tried on the largest size they had, XXXL, only to see in the mirror a human-sized sausage, torso stretched against the seams like a closed Ziploc bag full to the brim with water.
The garbage bags were bursting with sunshine yellow, double-mesh jerseys, “Big Fat Loser” screen-printed across the breast in hot pink. The matching yellow shorts had elastic waistbands and exposed a significant stretch of thigh. Minh could already tell the clothes were too small. He was glad there was no mirror. The jersey held his love handles and skin folds together to create a kind of malformed, sculpted blob. The waistband of his shorts tucked under the overhang of his belly. Taut against his skin, these clothes reminded him of the reality of his body.
“God, you’d think they’d ask us what size we were,” said Molly.
“Yeah,” said Minh. “I wonder if it’s on purpose. You know, psychological games.”
“You just have to own it. Love your body the way it is!” said Veronica, another contestant. “And when we all lose the weight, we can love our bodies even more.” She had already put her jersey on. Her chest was barely contained. When she saw Minh looking, she put her hands underneath her breasts and buffeted them up, shimmying her hips and shoulders. “I’m big and beautiful, honey.” Minh felt repulsed by the fatty jiggle of her cleavage, the visible stretch marks near her armpits.
Molly grumbled as she adjusted her straps, which had twisted on her shoulders when she had pulled the jersey over her head. She looked at Veronica, judgmental, but only rolled her eyes. “My daughter better be damn happy I agreed to do this.”
“She’s in the audience today,” she continued. “She made a giant sign that says my name on it. I’m hoping the camera pans her way and catches it.”
“That’s really nice,” said Minh, and he meant it.
“Who’d you give your live audience tickets to?” said Molly.
Minh had sent his tickets to his parents and to Hanh, but Hanh, his sister, wouldn’t answer his calls. His parents had confronted him at dinner before he’d left for Los Angeles. His mother had ended up crying.
“Why do you do this?” she said. “Why go on TV? Everyone will know you are fat.”
“Everyone knows I’m fat, Mom.”
“It bring humiliation on our family,” Minh’s father said. “That is how American do. This is not how Vietnamese do.” His father had gotten jollier with age. He laughed more and yelled less. But, now, he looked like the father Hanh and Minh had had when they were younger—unforgiving, solemn, and tired.
“How am I humiliating the family?” said Minh. What did this have anything to do with them? He couldn’t understand.
“You are part of us,” said his father. “How can you not humiliate us by doing this?”
“Don’t you want to be like skinny baby?” his mother said.
“I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn,” Minh said.
“You don’t understand because you too busy being American.”
Minh persisted. “There’s a lot of money. I can win prizes.” His father always saw the benefit if there was money involved. But even then, his father shook his head. He’d looked more disappointed than anything else—more than angry, more than upset.
“Money mean nothing if you have no respect for yourself or your parents.”
Telling his sister had gone worse, if that were possible. When he broke the news about his Flamingo Hollywood interview, which he’d done over webcam, her brows drew together in a severe line.
“Wait, what are you doing exactly?” she’d said.
“Going to Los Angeles next week for my in-person interview with the casting producers of Big Fat Losers.”
“But I thought you doing that whole application was a joke. You said so.”
It was true, he had framed it that way when she arrived back at Aunt Kim’s condo after the Nguyen Family Reunion at Nine Dragon Restaurant.
“Well, they want me to be on it.”
“You’re not going to do it, right?” She snorted after saying it, a disparaging and incredulous laugh. A laugh that assumed Minh must’ve agreed with her, that it was ridiculous, the whole thing.
It was ridiculous, he knew that. He’d watched the show only once, and he knew even then that the entire thing was entertainment for skinny people like Hanh. But that was exactly it, wasn’t it? Skinny people like Hanh. He felt his every effort was entertainment for skinny people like Hanh. The gym, the grocery store, his parents’ house—he was on display like an intriguing and disgusting animal, a separate species. Why not do something like Big Fat Losers? She had no idea how desperate he felt every morning when he opened his closet, empty except a few giant shirts. He’d tried to lose it on his own, but it was so much more difficult than anyone knew. It was like learning Vietnamese, a comparison he’d once shared with Hanh. Every time he practiced, he was ridiculed for his horrible accent rather than commended for his efforts.
“Aunt Kim told me I sounded retarded. Can you believe that?” Minh said.
Hanh’s response had been so predictable. “You could learn if you tried harder,” she’d said.
Likewise, he had made smoothies for a weeklong cleanse, but was derailed on day three at the grocery store while browsing the produce section. A woman had reached across his body, which had been blocking the aisle, to daintily pick up a carton of strawberries. The look alone was ego-crushing, but then she stage-whispered to her children, “That’s why you should eat your veggies, kids.” He left the store and went to Burger King, to which he had an only vague memory of driving, and ate a Whopper meal in his car in the parking lot. It was always like that: when he tried to change his eating habits, he was doubted, even mocked for his labors. Why change when it was easier to do what people expected of you anyway?
Hanh meant well—she bought him cookbooks and gym membership trials, she sent him healthy living blogs and at-home workout YouTube videos—but she fundamentally did not understand. She was better than their parents, though, who put his fatness down to laziness and a bad zodiac combination. Hanh was the favorite child. Minh knew because their mother always harped on about her favorable dragon sign, and their father literally said before every meal they had together, “Hanh, you’re the favorite. You eat first.” He’d jab his chopsticks at the communal dinner plate and insist she take the first serving. But how Minh really knew was the way they looked at her. He recognized the way his parents looked at him in contrast, because it was the same way he looked at himself those rare instances he stripped down and stared into the mirror.
“Why wouldn’t I do the show,” said Minh to his sister. “I’m fat, right? According to our family, I actually am a big, fat loser.”
“It matters to them, Minh. They’ll be humiliated if you go on a reality show about fat Americans. Can you imagine what Mom’s sisters will say?”
“Well, it matters to me when they call me fat and American.”
“Haven’t you looked at any of the books I bought you?” she added. Had he read any of the books? Had he done any of the diets? Had he even tried to go to the gym? Had he eaten any vegetables today?
“I donated the books,” he said, though he hadn’t.
“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to lose the weight?”
Even now in the green room, Minh couldn’t stop thinking about that last conversation with Hanh. The words Don’t you want to lose the weight? echoed long after he’d kicked her out of his apartment. He thought of them now, as Veronica showed Molly the professional modeling photos she’s paid for last year. He could see Veronica on the glowing screen as she swiped through the album on her phone, bulging body encased in evening gowns and leather and sequins. Minh was revolted by her, chest and sausage legs splayed out in defiance against green screen backdrops. The seed of his revulsion stemmed from knowing he looked no better. He had no right to judge her. Of course he wanted to lose the weight. A ludicrous question asked by his 110-pound sister. Perhaps he shouldn’t have shouted at her, or thrown his plastic cup full of water at the door after it had slammed shut, but he couldn’t decide what was worse: Hanh’s judgment, or Hanh’s pity. Don’t you want to lose the weight? As if it were a matter of desire.
At the reunion more than a year ago, family discussed his appearance as if he weren’t in earshot and talked to him like he was an idiot. Fat doesn’t mean dumb, Minh thought. Aunt Kim didn’t even say hello before squeezing his arm and oinking. “My favorite thing to eat is Vietnamese charbroiled pork!” she said.
“It just the Vietnamese way,” his father said after Minh complained about Aunt Kim’s cruelty.
“Don’t take it so personally,” his mother said. “Very Vietnamese to say the truth like that. You know that you’re mập qua, so if you don’t like, lose weight.”
“I’m trying,” he said.
“What happen? You use to be skinny boy,” she said.
“I was never a skinny boy. Ever.”
“Yes, you use to be. Very skinny. You very fat now because American food. You speak American language and don’t care about Vietnamese culture. You eat fried food and burger.”
“You never taught me how to speak Vietnamese,” he said. “Also, bánh mì is just as unhealthy as a burger.”
“You did know,” she said, ignoring his bánh mì comment. “Remember, you speak it when you were a baby? You were very skinny baby. You remember?”
“No, I don’t remember being a baby.”
“Did you read the email I send you? It a pill that melt fat,” she said. “You don’t respond to my email, I never know if you read it.”
“I don’t want to buy a pill.”
“I send you a website, too. It has a lot recipe for brown rice. Brown rice good for you. Help you lose weight.”
Uncle Binh saw Minh from across Nine Dragon’s banquet hall, face ruddy from Remy Martin. He walked through the dance floor, waving his glass of cognac in the air to make sure Minh didn’t look away from him. He squeezed Minh’s shoulder, and then his cheeks, and asked him a series of questions in Vietnamese. Minh could feel the blood in his face while his mother stood behind him. Uncle Binh’s eyeballs stretched against hooded lids as they did every time he had had this exact conversation with him.
“Ối trời ơi!” he said. “You don’t know Vietnamese?” Vidda-meez, he said.
“Sorry, Uncle Binh,” said Minh.
“Ối trời ơi!” he said, again. “Fat boy don’t know Vietnamese, huh?”
Minh’s mother said apologetically, “I don’t know what wrong, Anh Binh, he use to know. We taught him when he was a skinny baby.”
Minh had been at Nine Dragon an hour. Hanh had convinced him to come to the reunion. “They ordered like, twelve trays of bánh mì đặc biệt,” she’d said a few weeks ago, after they both received their evites. The crusty loaves were shoved full of jellied meat and Vietnamese pork baloney, and slathered in paté and garlic mayonnaise. Minh had already eaten two full bánh mì sandwiches, baguette crumbs stuck to his cotton polo.
Hanh was across the room surrounded by cousins. They loved to ask her for financial advice, questions about investments that had nothing to do with Hanh’s job as a bank teller. Minh didn’t know why she insisted he come, or why she’d want to be seen with him. Was it because she looked so much better in comparison? He immediately felt guilty for thinking it. It wasn’t her fault everyone liked her, but he couldn’t ignore his jealousy. If he wasn’t being ogled at like a monster, then he was invisible.
“Hanh, I gotta get out of here,” he said outside the ladies’ powder room. He had waited for Hanh to extricate herself from the crowd of cousins.
“Please stay for another hour. Please? Cousin Xuan wants to ask you for advice about buying a new computer. I told you, everyone wanted to see you.”
“Uncle Binh already pretended he didn’t know I can’t speak Vietnamese.”
“He probably did forget.”
“Mom brought up her skinny baby theory again.”
“You just need a drink. I took shots earlier, where were you?”
“I don’t want a drink. I want to leave. Aunt Kim called me Thịt Nướng and oinked while she molested my arm.”
“That’s kind of funny. No, I’m kidding, Minh, don’t look at me like that.” Hanh saw she’d made a mistake and told him: everyone wants to see you, no one ever sees you, I never see you.
“You could visit me, you know,” he said. “Biloxi isn’t that far from New Orleans.”
“You should come to stay with me. It might be nice for you to get out.”
“I don’t like getting out,” he said.
He left the reunion without saying goodbye. The short walk to Aunt Kim’s condo had winded him, and the sun made his skin feel hot enough for him to want to strip to the bone. He took off the polo, crumbs scattering on the tile floor. His family would be at the reunion for hours. He avoided the reflection in the entryway mirror. He could feel his skin folds move against each other, lubricated by perspiration. The condo was chilly and impersonal, his Aunt Kim having pulled up the previous floors and replacing them with white tile. Aunt Kim’s furniture didn’t fill the space properly, reproductions of French colonial furniture mixed with leather La-Z-Boy couches and a silk mural of a nondescript Asian landscape that covered an entire wall. She’d left her 75” flat-screen TV on, a Vietnamese variety show on high volume, echoing against the condo’s hard surfaces when he walked in from the Mississippi heat.
He sat down on the olive leather couch, wet back and legs slipping against the smoothness. A woman wearing a lime green traditional áo dài dress sang a Lady Gaga song in Vietnamese. He turned off the DVD, the screen blinking into regular cable.
“And how much do you think you weigh, Anthony,” Carson Daly asked a man wearing sweatbands around his head and wrists. Anthony stood on a stage, the first in a long line of people. They wore ill-fitting athletic jerseys and shorts, which were all emblazoned with the words “BIG FAT LOSER.”
“I’m 330 pounds,” he said. He had a heavy southern accent. On an information bar on the bottom of the screen, Minh read: Anthony T., Macon, GA, Used Car Salesman.
“Would you step onto the scale, please?” Carson indicated towards the elephantine scale to his left, which had a large digital screen attached to it. Anthony stepped onto the scale. Red numbers went up and down at random, pinging accompanying the screen’s indecision. The number 344 flashed accusatorially on the scale’s screen, and the live audience groaned.
“Oh boy, you were fourteen pounds off. Anthony, how do you feel? What has your journey been like to get to this point?”
“Carson, to be honest, I hate myself,” he said. The live audience let out a collective wail of pity. “My wife died ten years ago, and I haven’t been able to get my body back to where it was. When I feel sad, I eat. That’s what my psychiatrist told me, but you know, knowing don’t help none with the weight loss. I know I’m fat.”
Carson patted Anthony on the back. “Well, Anthony,” he said, looking directly into the camera, “are you ready for your first Big Fat Loser weight challenge?”
Anthony’s expression hardened, a determined set to his mouth. Minh felt a stirring in his gut. He wondered if he could feel that way. “Yes, Carson. I never been more ready.”
“Do you want to lose the weight?” Carson said.
“Yes, Carson. I want to lose the weight.”
The rest of the program’s season premiere introduced contestants and asked them to do an athletic challenge course. The personal trainers, Jenny and Eric (a married couple who had started the fitness brand HYPERfit together), jumped out at the end of the episode, purple spandex stretched across their bodies, bodies which reminded Minh of his aunt’s cold, hard tile. He was enthralled by the camera’s perspective, its closeness to the bodies of the contestants.
Minh ate the three bánh mì sandwiches he’d taken from the reunion, then took a shower. He usually tried to shower quickly, time spent cleaning a horrifying and unavoidable task in acknowledging his body existed. But this time, he scrubbed between his folds, between his thighs, he reached for his back, he expended extra effort washing his hair even though his arms got tired being up, and then, when he got out, he took time fully drying. He stared at his blurry form in the fogged full-length mirror, and after getting dressed, he sat down at his aunt’s virus-riddled PC that he had promised to clean for her, and found the online application for Big Fat Losers.
Sand blew onto the stage, little grains stinging Minh’s skin. Carson Daly wore a more casual hosting outfit, a pair of khaki linen pants and a blue Hawaiian shirt to match their beach theme. They faced cameras and rigged lighting and dozens of flat-screen TVs and microphones and the audience. The wind and silence of their natural setting felt disturbed by Carson’s script and the audience’s prompted cheers or groans.
“Do you want to lose the weight, Molly?”
“Yes, Carson. Yes, I want to lose the weight!” She shouted and punched the air.
Minh was next in line. A producer behind the camera motioned Minh to approach Carson. The stage and the sand and the blazing sun felt surreal, his body floating toward Carson in his billowing leisure wear.
“My name is Minh, and I’m from Biloxi, Mississippi,” he said. He wondered what the info bar would say once the show aired. That he was a PC expert? A Geek Squad tech? He couldn’t remember what he’d written on all the forms.
“And how much do you think you weigh, Minh?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Just try to guess, Minh.”
“I really don’t have any idea.”
“Just give it a shot,” Carson said. “Just try.”
“I don’t know,” he said. He was reminded of his mother’s insistence, or Uncle Binh’s smug ridicule, and it made his heart thump, his neck hot, his hands sweaty. The producer stood beyond the camera and motioned with her hands, encouraging him to say something, anything.
“Well, if you have trouble guessing now, just wait ‘til our first Big Fat Loser weight challenge!” Carson said, and the audience tittered. “Minh, will you step onto our scale?”
He stepped onto the black rubber platform with his back to the audience, head thrown back so he could see the numbers on the screen as they flashed. The number appeared, glowing in tandem with audience moans. Fat chink, those moans seemed to whisper.
After Minh had submitted his application, he had forgotten all about Big Fat Losers until the call from Flamingo Hollywood while on a Geek Squad house visit. Ms. Nancy, who was 81, had called and scheduled appointments with the Geek Squad more than ten times since buying her new Dell desktop three months ago.
“Ms. Nancy, your computer was in sleep mode,” Ron, his co-worker said.
“It don’t work,” Ms. Nancy said. She stood over Minh and Ron clutching her large embroidered floral purse. “There’s still something wrong with it,” she said. And she was right, Minh realized, as the screen began to fill with a never-ending loop of popups.
“Ms. Nancy, this is exactly what happened during our last visit,” Ron said. “It’s going to keep happening unless you change your computer habits.”
“That’s what the Asian boy told me, too, but I don’t trust no computer fixer who can’t see out his damn chink eyes.”
No one had ever called Minh a chink to his face. Perhaps he’d feel something if it had been some asshole shouting out of her car, or a younger woman, but Ms. Nancy was old and stooped. He felt sad for her when they walked into her cluttered and dusty home, a place so much the product of neglect and loneliness.
“Ms. Nancy, that was Minh. He’s here again today, too,” said Ron.
“I can see he’s here. I’m old, not stupid,” she said. Minh couldn’t help empathizing with her assertion of intelligence. I’m fat, not dumb, he thought, all the time. “How could I miss him? He’s so fat it would be easier to go over top of him than around him!”
Minh’s body tensed. The bent old lady stared at him, a violent hatred that teemed from her shriveled body. “I never saw a chink so fat!” She took her hand off her cane to gesture and lost her balance, thin ankles twisting just enough so that she crumpled to the floor in a heap of knit shawl and carpet slippers. Minh realized his right leg was lunged forward. Her fall had stopped him from springing toward her. He tried to mask his moment of wild rage, pretending he’d moved to help. She rejected both Ron’s and his assistance and pulled herself up by the cane.
“Look, Ms. Nancy, I noticed in your browser history you’re going to some pretty sketchy websites,” said Ron.
“Like what? All I do is email my granddaughter.”
Minh’s phone began to ring as Ms. Nancy began to yell. “Hello?” Minh said.
“Ms. Nancy, those websites are the reason you keep getting these viruses,” said Ron.
“Hi, Minh? It’s Sherry from Flamingo Hollywood. We took a look at your application for Big Fat Losers, and you seem like exactly what we’re looking for.” Sherry’s voice, even heard over Ms. Nancy’s shrieks, had the distinct lilt of Los Angeles blasé.
“Flamingo Hollywood?” said Minh.
“I don’t click on anything Jesus wouldn’t click on,” said Ms. Nancy.
“Yes, with Big Fat Losers. You submitted an application for the reality show.”
“Ms. Nancy, there’s no shame. You just need to visit… er, more reputable websites. Don’t click on those pop-up ads.”
Ms. Nancy began hitting Ron with her embroidered purse. “Get out of my house before I call the police.”
“Oh, hi, Sherry. I forgot I did that,” said Minh.
“I’ll call the police,” Ms. Nancy said. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Can you do a video interview with us, and then fly to L.A. for a final casting?” Sherry said.
“I’ll tell the police you and that fat chink are trespassing!” Fat chink. Don’t you want to lose the weight? He felt lightheaded. He’d sent that application so long ago.
“Hello?” said Sherry.
“Yes, I can do that,” Minh said.
“Ms. Nancy, now really, I think we can sort this out for you if you just let us,” said Ron. He had the look of someone speaking to a child throwing a temper tantrum.
“Don’t talk to me like that. You think I’m stupid, old and stupid.”
They faced the ocean for their first Big Fat Losers weight challenge. He could see a platform in the distance, where tables sat heaping with food. Jenny and Eric, the show’s trainers, waved from the platform. They both wore neon green HYPERfit workout clothes.
“Our first challenge today is called ‘Too Much of a Good Thing!’ Our Big Fat Losers will have to swim to that platform, about one full Olympic lap, climb the platform and find the plate labeled with their name. Each plate has what our contestants listed as their number one favorite guilty pleasure junk food,” Carson said.
Minh could see a plate piled with hot dogs and one holding a tall, iced cake. Another, it appeared, had a large serving of fried chicken.
“Today, we’re going to ask our contestants to guess the number of calories on their plate. If they guess within 10 calories, they can swim back to shore and will receive $500 worth of HYPERfit workout gear! But, if they get it wrong… they have to sit and finish the entire plate of food before swimming back to shore.”
The audience let out a fearful sound. “If our contestants have… too much of a good thing,” (here, the audience said the words with him), “they may leave today feeling they can never eat their favorite, unhealthy food… ever again!” Carson’s perfectly lined little teeth glinted in the morning sun.
A foghorn blew and they dashed for coastline. Minh kicked up sand; his feet fell hard with each stride, fettered by their own weight as he struggled to pick them back up. He waded through the water, its chill raising goosebumps along his back, and then dropped down to begin swimming. His legs kicked and arms moved the way he knew they were supposed to, but within the third or fourth stroke, frenetic gasps for oxygen impeded on form and speed. He didn’t really know how to swim that well. Saltwater stung his nose and throat, sharp in his lungs. Unable to seize control over erratic arms, unable to push the water back in order to propel himself forward, he was in the middle of the lap and realized he could not stop until reaching the platform. Minh submitted to a slow doggy paddle, noticing that Molly had made it to her plate heaped full of lasagna.
He hung onto the platform’s step ladder, sucking in air and clutching his chest. The little peaks of his nipples could be seen behind yellow mesh. He was dizzy from the exertion. As he walked along the platform, the plate stacked high with bánh mì looked like a mirage. “Minh” was printed in elegant script on the placeholder before it. The other contestants were sitting down near their plates, attempting to breathe. Veronica sat at the last table, dry heaving over her casserole dish of lobster mac and cheese. Finally, the last swimmer pulled himself up onto the platform and lay there for a moment where he had landed.
“Alright, Richie! It looks like your plate of food is right here,” Carson said, indicating a plate containing the family-sized portion of fried chicken. Richie got up with difficulty, Jenny and Eric having to heave his body into standing position, a wet trail of water pouring from his shorts as he walked to this seat. When had Carson arrived on the platform? Minh wondered, the dreamlike sheen of breathlessness not yet gone.
Carson, Jenny, and Eric stood behind each of the contestants, asking them to guess their plates’ calories. Carson would read from his notecards the correct number, and Jenny and Eric would add various nutrition facts that Minh guessed would be a part of the show’s delivery of practical health information (“You can replace carbs in pasta with certain squashes, like spaghetti squash or zucchini noodles!” Eric suggested). There were gasps and laughs and applause from the audience as each number was confirmed. Molly had guessed her plate of lasagna and cheese fries was 1,300 calories. Carson revealed she had six servings of lasagna on her plate, and a 9 oz. serving of cheese fries, which amounted to a total of 2,590 calories. (“A great alternative to French fries are baked sweet potato fries,” said Jenny. “But remember, sweet potatoes are still a starch! Eat in moderation.”) Richie had guessed his plate of fried chicken and its sides of mashed potatoes with gravy and coleslaw was 2,100 calories. Carson revealed the plate contained two breasts, two thighs, two drumsticks, and two wings. The total calorie count for all the plate’s contents was 2,250. The contestants’ plates all had different amounts of food, preventing them from guessing the same numbers the further down the platform Carson got. (“Above all, self-control is key!” Eric said, in reference to Richie’s plate of chicken.)
“Minh, how many calories do you think this plate holds?” said Carson.
There were ten bánh mì sandwiches stacked in a pyramid on his plate. The jellied meat and baloney glistened, wet with fat. Pickled carrots and cilantro peeked out in the jumbles of brown meat and crusty bread. How many calories did a baguette have? Or seven slices of meat? What even was a calorie? The food had always sat before him as means of escape and comfort, and now the sandwiches taunted him, trapping him in this televised hell.
“I don’t know,” said Minh. “Maybe 3,000 calories?” He’d picked a random number.
“Unfortunately, Minh, that is wrong. The answer is 5,960 calories! That’s the most so far, folks.”
“Remember, our favorite ethnic foods can be bad for you too,” said Jenny. “Just because it’s not a hot dog and fries, doesn’t mean it won’t add on those pounds!”
Everyone had failed to provide a single correct answer. They stooped over their plates in anticipation of the foghorn blow, prepared to eat. “If you finish last, you might be eliminated from the show,” Carson said. When the sound blasted, faces appeared consumed by food. Molly’s jaw was covered in red marinara sauce and Velveeta. Richie tore chunks of meat off his chicken drumsticks and threw the bones into the ocean. Fatty bits of pork melted in Minh’s mouth as he gnashed bread and salted meat and tart pickled daikon. The sun was at its mid-morning height, and the French loaves remaining on his plate had an unreal luster. The top of his mouth felt cut and sore from the bread’s crusty sharpness and his haste to eat. He wasn’t hungry. And yet, he continued to pick up the sandwiches, to eat them bite by agonizing bite, even though he knew the heat in his face wasn’t from the weather. Cameramen walked along the platform, getting closer to their bodies and mouths.
“That’s over five thousand calories,” yelled Eric near Minh’s ear. “Remember how horrible this feels the next time you want to eat!” The cameraman hovered nearby until Eric moved on to scream at the next person. He could hear through his gnawing mouth Trainer Jenny’s shrill bark.
“Carbs are bad!” she shouted at Molly.
He wondered if his parents might watch this after all, see that, actually, he hadn’t requested an American burger and fries. He continued to push the bánh mì against his mouth and felt validated at the thought that his mother had been wrong, had completely misread the reason for his fatness.
He stood up after finishing, disoriented as the last, saliva-softened bite moved like a sandy, wet cotton ball down his throat. He tripped on a chair leg and fell into the water, body hitting the surface, stinging and cold. He swam the Olympic lap, arms and legs and chest burning quicker and more than the first lap. Meat, fat, and yeast gurgled in his stomach, the trail of food down his throat burning, acidic and hot. When he came up for air, his mouth and lungs pulled in desperate, uncontrollable gulps, lips often not closing fully before he put his head back in the water. Salt and the earthy taste of ocean sludge filled his nose and swirled on his tongue. He struggled to keep his head above the water, dunking and flailing. He stopped to doggy paddle, again, in place. There were no lanes or ledges to hold on to, and he looked to shore, so close. He put his face in the water, arms and legs so tired the burn had almost disappeared, aching drowned by the distracting cramp in his gut. Dragging behind him a deep well, he crawled onto the sand to vomit. It pooled before him, lumpy and brown, bits of cilantro and carrot speckling the sour mass of regurgitated food. Spots of light appeared before him. He couldn’t believe he’d made it.
Minh rolled onto his back. A cameraman lingered in double vision above him. Dozens of screens glowed from cameras and televisions positioned around the set, and they all showed Camera #5, the crowd-panning camera. His parents’ faces filled the screens, their blinking eyes and taut lips. He was trapped in a tunnel of screens, his mother and father closing in around him. Was he hallucinating? He wiped the spit from his chin with the back of his hand and stared into the white sun, wet mesh jersey and grit stuck to his skin and fleshy folds, his body that ached and felt and suffered.

E.M. Tran is the author of the debut novel, Daughters of the New Year. Her stories, essays, and reviews can be found in such places as The Georgia Review, Literary Hub, Joyland Magazine, the Los Angeles Review of Books, Prairie Schooner, and Harvard Review Online. She completed an MFA at the University of Mississippi and a PhD in Creative Writing at Ohio University. She was born, raised, and currently lives in New Orleans, Louisiana with her family.