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A monologue from the play by Sherry Kramer
Brent is a truck driver. He is uneducated but not unintelligent. He picks up hitchhikers along the road,
and finds that if he listens to their stories carefully, he always learns something interesting.
At present, he is accompanied by a particularly interesting rider, a banker who is hitching his way to get hitched, as his last macho fling before getting married.
Brent has just thrown up after eating the 72-ounce steak and all the trimmings prior to telling his story.
He is in the living room of a woman who lives next to the steak house, a woman who he slept with once,
a year before, and who he knows, from stories on the road, is desperately in love with him. He is very proud of his triumph over the steak.
It will be a cruel moment when he realizes that the woman he is telling it to has heard the exact same story dozens of times.
Brent
You let them know, right when you walk in under the big cow, through the swinging doors, so they give you the special table.
It’s the best table in the house. You get your own waiter too. As soon as you sit down you have to sign this release.
I guess they’ve had guys croak on them, choking on a piece of meat.
They’ve got this real sharp knife hanging on the wall behind the table, and the maitre d’ knows how to use it in an emergency,
so you have to sign this release saying if he botches it, if he tries to save you and he botches it, you agree not to Sue.
I guess their normal restaurant insurance covers them if you strangle eating a normal dinner, on your own.
You got to eat the 72-ounce steak, the tossed salad, the shrimp cocktail, the vegetable medley, the twice baked potato, and the pie a la mode, all in an hour.
You eat it all in an hour, you don’t have to pay. You get it down, they carve your name with a branding iron on a big wooden plaque.
They show you the rules: No talking to customers at other tables. No eating on the floor. No throwing up.
Your waiter accompanies you to the John and I mean accompanies. They got a large stall built special.
He watches you like a hawk. Checks the toilet paper when you blow your nose. You throw up even a little bit, you got to pay.
You also got to pay you want anything other than coffee or tea, like a Coke or something. They let you order it any way you want.
They ask you, do you want it rare. Medium rare. Raw. Well. I ordered it extra well. I mean you go to McDonalds, you get a quarter pounder,
that’s a quarter pounder before cooking, right, and what do you get, you get nothing, right?
So I figured, seventy-two times ounces, that’s four and a half pounds, that’s eighteen times nothing. The waiter made this funny face when he took my order.
I got comfortable at the table. I made sure every thing was as it should be. I tested the steak knife hanging on the wall behind me.
It was sharp, all right. It was something like a surgeon would use. It was much sharper than the knife next to my plate.
The platter hit the table. In that instant I developed my strategy. I would cut the steak into fourths, and eat one fourth at the top of every quarter.
I would finish out the rest of the time in the side dishes.
The waiter, who was clocking me with a large stopwatch and a true professional, I might add—graciously agreed to sound a small bell at appropriate intervals.
I picked up my fork and my knife. You talk about your fatal errors. You talk about your fatal flaws. Everybody has them.
Seventy-two ounces of shoe leather. Seventy-two ounces of gristle and fat and flesh, charred beyond recognition.
Seventy-two ounces of open-hearthed, petrified prime. I tossed my knife and fork over my shoulder. They were as good as useless to me now.
I was able to rip the thing in half. I had to stand up to do it—they let you stand up. I was reminded, and inspired, by a painting I once saw of Jacob wrestling with the angel.
It was a lot like that. That funny look was pity. I started chewing on the larger half. I wanted to give myself an edge.
My waiter sounded the first quarter. I’d barely made it past the outer crust on the pointed end. I started to panic.
The waiter reached across and wiped my forehead with the napkin he had draped over his arm.
I’d never actually seen a waiter use the napkin they’ve always got draped over their arms, so I was doubly grateful.
I realized I needed a psychological boost here, something to keep me going, give me hope. The shrimp cocktail caught my eye.
It was only four jumbo gulf shrimp, drenched in a plentiful helping of sauce. I reached for my fork—
it’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime—then picked up the dish and tossed it back. I could feel the shrimp gliding, coasting down my throat.
Once again I nodded at my waiter. I felt sure the extra sauce had been his doing. I took up the chunk of meat in my hands.
I dove into it, buried my face in it, determined to eat my way through to the light. The bell rang. It had a far-off sound, as if it were coming from another world.
I stayed where I was, chewing, ripping, swallowing, submerged. Again the bell. Fifteen minutes left.
I stuffed the rest of the flesh down my throat. I gagged, kept on swallowing, come on, come on, you can do it.
My fists struck the table. One. Two. I was in trouble. I saw my waiter glancing nervously in the direction of the razor-sharp steak knife.
Three!!! I got it down. I took a deep, beautiful breath. “Close call,” my waiter said. We both looked at the knife hanging on the wall behind me.
I jumped up. My hand snaked out, reaching the knife an instant before his did. I tore if off the wall. Our eyes met.
“My decision,” I said. I was able to slash the remaining half of the steak into eight slices before the knife gave out.
I ate one of them. Then two. Then three. The tossed salad. That looks easy. Sure, that will go down, all that dressing.
Two handfuls, in, swallow, can’t feel it going down, that feels good. Two pieces of meat, don’t chew, no time to chew, just swallow, swallow.
Damn you, swallow. Another. Swallow. Another. (Brent panting, looks around, disoriented.) The baked potato.
Yes. Won’t fit. Won’t fit. Tear it in half. Vegetables. Don’t forget your vegetables. Okay. Okay. What? What? {Despair. ) One minute? One? (Hysterical.)
One minute! Apple pie—^where’s that b*tch—^that apple pie—^Jesus Christ— Thirty seconds?
Two slices left— swallow, swallow—^fifteen seconds—one piece left, one— (Brent choking, gagging.)
—get it in— get it in! swallow!!! Five seconds—^five—^four—^three—^two—one —swallow!!! The bell!!! The bell!!!
The waiter slammed me up against the wall and pinned me while the maitre d’ pried my mouth open and looked inside with a flashlight.
But I was clean. It was every bit of it gone. They frisked me quickly, quietly, efficiently. They knew their business.
Mac McClellan himself came over to congratulate me. My waiter hugged me, and went off to heat up the branding iron.
They blew the whistle, so everybody stopped eating during the engraving ceremony, and when it was over, everybody cheered.
Now I ask you. Have you ever heard a story like that before?
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