THE CHAMPION

By Matt Dinniman



The hitchhiker only had one leg and one arm, both on his left side, so I figured 
he couldn't be that dangerous. And if he did turn out to be one of those 
weirdoes, I knew I'd probably be able to kick the shit out of him anyway. 
Besides, I'd been driving for six hours straight, and I was bored out of my 
mind. I knew if my mom could see me, she'd be screaming bloody hell, but I 
pulled over anyway, the tires of my Cherokee kicking up dust on the side of the 
road. The guy, who looked to be about fifty, hopped over to the passenger side 
as I rolled down the window. 

"You don't have a cane or anything?" I asked. The man stood there, swaying like 
a palm tree caught in a breeze. He had black hair and a beard. His skin was 
pockmarked like he had really bad acne as a kid, but he wasn't altogether ugly. 
Not at all. Other than the missing limbs, he was probably considered a good-
looking guy. He wore black jeans and a blue T-shirt with a leather vest. The arm 
on the right side was folded over and pinned, kind of like the way you fold over 
a tube of toothpaste. Over his intact shoulder, he held a bulging, olive-green 
backpack. I briefly imagined it filled with human skulls--victims who had given 
him a ride before. 

"I get along fine without one," he said, pulling open the door to my truck. He 
deftly hopped into the air, swiveled, and landed perfectly in the seat, the 
whole time swinging his backpack around his shoulder and onto his lap. To my 
relief, it made kind of a metal clanging noise, like it was filled with cans of 
chicken soup or something--not bones. "You know where Hamington is?" He slammed 
the door.

"No idea," I said. "I'm just going north, towards New York." 

"It's about an hour and a half from here, right off the freeway." He held out 
his left hand. "I'm Wolfgang," he said.

I grabbed his hand in a reverse handshake. It was dry and callused, more like 
the bottom of a foot. "I'm Peter," I said, retracting my arm perhaps a little 
too quickly. I realized I was staring at him, like he was a lobster with three 
claws or something, caught myself, and quickly tapped the gas pedal. We jerked 
forward on the dirt, and I over compensated onto the road, almost driving off 
the other side like a damn idiot. I corrected the wheel and accelerated to 
seventy. 

We drove in silence for about twenty minutes. I desperately searched for a radio 
station, but there was nothing. Not even a stupid AM country station. I had 
forgotten to take all my CDs out of my bag, and it was way in the back. So we 
were stuck with nothing but the erratic tune of the grasshoppers as they 
exploded against the windshield. I felt my eyes continuously looking over at my 
companion's right pant leg, which was also folded over in toothpaste fashion. He 
stared straight forward, unmoving except to occasionally finger the clip that 
held his backpack closed. 

I couldn't take it anymore. "So, Mr. Wolfgang," I said. "Whatcha got in that 
bag?" 

He continued to stare forward. At first I didn't think he was going to answer. 
But then, without turning, he said, "Seven cans of Spam, a change of clothes, my 
brother, and a couple of carvin' knives."  

Shit. 

Right then, I pictured my mother, dressed in her best black funeral clothes, 
standing over my casket (which was closed because they never found my head), 
sniffling into a handkerchief. 

My options flashed like a disco strobe in my head. I was wearing a seatbelt. He 
wasn't. I could slam the brakes, and he'd go straight through the windshield. 
Maybe. Or I'd be pinned down by the airbag while he chopped off my fingers. I 
could pull over and try to kick him out. But that just might make him mad. I had 
been confident I'd be able to take him, but now I wasn't so sure. His arm was 
the size of a knotted tree branch. 

I laughed nervously. "Spam, huh? I didn't think anybody ate that stuff."

I immediately regretted it. This time he did turn his head. His eyes were 
ablaze, like I had enraged him. "You Jewish?" 

"What?" 

"_Are you Jewish?_" 

"No."

"Well if you were, you'd be dead if it wasn't for Spam, don't you ever forget 
that. The Nazis would've gotten your grandpappy for sure. Spam single-handedly 
won World War II. When I think of America, I don't think of apple pie, no sir. I 
think of Spam."

I thought I was going to piss my pants. I just knew for sure I'd be victim 
number thirteen on next Saturday's _America's Most Wanted_. "Okay," I said. I 
gripped onto the steering wheel extra hard so my hands wouldn't appear to be 
shaking. _Just smile and nod._  

Wolfgang opened his bag, reached in, and, thankfully, pulled out not a knife, 
but a small blue can of Spam. I let out a long stream of breath as he tossed the 
bag into the back seat. With the can between his leg and the seat cushion, he 
peeled back the cover with a loud _pop_. He discarded the metal onto my just-
cleaned dash mat and dug a finger into the nasty brownish/pink matter. He held a 
glob of it before my nose. "Try some," he said.

I almost threw up. "I've had plenty of Spam in my lifetime, thank you." The 
threat of imminent death suddenly made me very brave. "I prefer to keep those 
memories in my past."  

"Suit yourself." He scooped it into his mouth. 

"So, Peter," he said as he finished off the entire can. "I noticed you had 
Florida plates. Why you heading to New York?" 

"Art school. The Manhattan Academy for the Visual Arts."

"Wow," Wolfgang said. "Sounds expensive. Are you a sculptor?"

"No. I do mosaic."

"Mosaic? Is that where you put all those rocks and shit together like a jigsaw 
puzzle?" 

I nodded.  

"Interesting. I wouldn't imagine there'd be much work for a mosaicer these days, 
'cept maybe to do tile in restaurants and shitters." There was some rancid-
looking gel stuff left in the can of Spam, and he was squishing it between his 
fingers. "I'm a sculptor." 

"Really?" I said. My fear ebbed slightly. That would explain the carving knives. 
"What sort of work do you do?"

"I used to do ice sculptures for parties. My brother, Sebastian and me did them 
before he died. Now I'm retired. But I'm headed up to Hamington right now for 
their annual Spam carving contest." 

I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it. "Spam carving?" 

He didn't appear to appreciate my mirth. "It's been eight years since I've been, 
but Sebastian and me won it twelve years in a row. It's gonna be my grand 
return." He dropped the empty Spam can onto the floor of my truck, wiping the 
gel on his shirt. Out of some hidden pocket, he pulled a piece of newspaper and 
unfolded it. His dexterity amazed me. You always read about blind people who can 
smell their way around and hear dog whistles, but I never really thought about 
how many everyday problems could occur if you only had one arm. But it didn't 
seem to bother him at all. He put the article on the steering wheel so I could 
look at it.

"Conjoined Twins Win Annual Spam-Carving Contest for the 12th Year in a Row" was 
the headline. There was a color picture of the Statue of Liberty made completely 
of Spam. Holding the two-foot high carving was Wolfgang and his brother, 
Sebastian. It was the weirdest thing I'd ever seen. I've seen freak show 
pictures before, but I never really believed in them. I mean, I guess I knew 
that sort of thing really happened, but I'd never seen it before in real life. 
He was a Siamese twin. They were joined right down the middle, but the head of 
Wolfgang's brother was skewed to the right, and his arm was funny looking, 
smaller than it should have been. Wolfgang was clearly the dominant one. I 
wondered what had happened. Did they have two separate hearts? How did Sebastian 
die? How did Wolfgang lose his arm and leg? Did they cut them off? And what 
about Sebastian's head? Did they cut that off too? I shivered. 

I was swerving into the lane of oncoming traffic again, and I quickly jerked the 
wheel into place. "You okay?" he said.

"Yeah." My eyes kept wandering over to his right shoulder, but with the shirt 
and vest on, he looked just like a normal person who had lost an arm. I wondered 
how his flesh looked under his clothes. Were there parts he couldn't feel? Could 
he feel it when they chopped off his brother's head? 

"Well Sebastian's gone now, but I'm headed to Hamington for him. It was his last 
wish. It's gonna be my grand return." 

I couldn't think of anything to say. Wolfgang pulled a couple pills out of a 
pocket and popped them dry into his mouth. We continued in silence until we came 
to the exit for Hamington. "You should come to the festival," he said. "The Spam 
carving's only a part of it. They have all sorts of other things. Artists and 
stuff will be there." He scratched his head, and the sound was kind of strange, 
like someone stepping on frozen grass. "You could sell some of your jigsaw 
puzzles if you got any." 

It was tempting, but I was on a schedule. My mother had laid out my driving 
plan, and it was a strict, no-nonsense sort of thing. If I wasn't at the Holiday 
Inn by six, she'd probably send out the National Guard. But I did have several 
pieces in the back I could sell. I could always use the extra money. The school 
wanted me to bring them, but I had pictures of everything I'd done in my 
portfolio. Plus it was a pain lugging them everywhere. Mostly they were large, 
glazed bowls I had decorated the inside of. Not exactly the typical stuff for 
someone who does mosaic, but I didn't really care. Bowls were smaller than 
church domes, and they took a lot less time to do. Everyone was happy. The art 
freaks at the college liked it, it satisfied my mother, and I was moving to the 
club capital of the world. Just thinking about the parties made me want to 
accelerate to a 100 and not stop until I got there. 

But Wolfgang wasn't done trying to convince me. "There'll be pretty girls all 
over the place, too. I've never seen more boobs in my life." 

I picked up my cell phone, hit speed dial, and waited for my mom to answer. 
Thankfully, she wasn't home, so I left a message. "Mom, it's Peter. It's no big 
deal, but the truck is making a funny noise. I'm pulling into a town called 
Hamington to have it checked out. But I don't think I'm gonna make that Holiday 
Inn tonight. I'll call you after I find a hotel."

Wolfgang smiled.  

Hamington was a small town right off the coast. The "Welcome to Hamington" sign, 
completely covered with things like those cryptic shriners seals, said the 
population was 12,232. A banner for the festival was strewn across two buildings 
on Founders Street, the main thoroughfare for the town. The fair was called "The 
Hamington Celebration." In the distance, there were several tents set up on a 
large field of green grass. People were everywhere. I'd never seen more pairs of 
overalls in my life. It was something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. You 
always see those white-picket-fence towns on TV, but I didn't think any actually 
existed nowadays.   

We parked and walked to the entrance for the festival (Wolfgang actually hopped 
the whole way and didn't seem to get tired at all--even while carrying his 
backpack). Carnival rides and prize booths were set up on one half of the field. 
A roller coaster, nothing more than one giant loop, was filled with people 
screaming. Empty popcorn boxes were everywhere. A tall stage held a country band 
of very old men, and they were playing an exceptionally good rendition of "On 
the Road Again." Several tents contained displays of livestock, vegetables, and 
roses. There were also many booths selling art, just like Wolfgang had said. I 
bought a soda, and we headed for the registration tent. 

A short, plump lady with thick glasses was sitting inside of the small tent. She 
was at a table covered with all sorts of papers. She looked up at us, unsmiling 
as we entered. 

"I have returned," Wolfgang said. He held out his arm dramatically. 

The lady said nothing. They stared at each other for a very long moment. 

"Perhaps you don't recognize me," he said finally. "My name is Wolfgang. 
Wolfgang Adams. My brother, Sebastian, is no longer with me."

I thought maybe the lady was deaf. 

"I am the Spam carving champion, returned." 

"You saying you wanna sign up for the contest?"  

"I _am_ the contest," he said.

"Twenty dollars," she said. He handed her twenty, crumpled dollar bills. "Fill 
this out." She pushed a clipboard at him. About thirty other names were already 
on the list. "Hormel is sponsoring it this year, and they've delivered two 
truckloads of Spam with damaged cans. Therefore there's a forty can minimum for 
each sculpture." 

"_Forty_ cans?" he said. "That's ridiculous. And the cans are damaged? That'll 
destroy the integrity of it!" 

"You want your money back?" she asked. 

He shook his head. He bent over to fill out the form. He seemed sad suddenly.

To my surprise, I felt disappointed to learn the contest wouldn't be until 
tomorrow afternoon. There was no way I'd be able to stick around that long. 
Plus, there weren't any booths left for me to sell my art. They would have 
wanted $200 anyway, and it wouldn't have been worth it. But I was tired, and I 
decided to try and find a hotel room. Wolfgang offered to go halves with me, but 
I declined. I was starting to like the old guy, but I didn't like him _that_ 
much. Plus, there were Bettys everywhere, and there was a dance scheduled for 
later. If I was lucky, I wouldn't spend the night alone after all. 

This would have been an opportune time to part ways with him, but I found myself 
wandering around the festival with him. The guy had more energy in his one leg 
than I had in both mine. Many people stared at him, and it kind of made me feel 
uncomfortable, but I didn't want to just walk around alone. He waved at several 
people, but none of them seemed to recognize him. Later, after winning a small 
mirror with the Coors logo on it in a dart game, I left him and headed back to 
my truck, agreeing to meet him for breakfast at some diner called Yummies. 

There was a cop car double-parked next to my truck as I returned. The tall, 
black female officer was standing next to it writing on a tablet. She looked up 
as I approached. "You Peter?" 

"Yeah, is there something wrong?" 

"Not anymore." She put her tablet into her pocket. "Your mother called us, said 
you might have been kidnapped." 

"You've got to be kidding me."

"We told her you most likely stopped for the fair, but she was pretty worried. 
You should probably call her." The cop got into her car. "Have a nice day."

I had left my cell phone in the truck, and that had been my mistake. The LCD 
registered forty-six new calls, and my battery was almost dead. I plugged it 
into my cigarette lighter and called her. It picked up before it even rang on my 
end. 

"_Peter_?" 

"Mom," I said. "You sent the cops after me?"

"Oh my God, I was so worried. I thought I heard somebody in the truck with you 
on the machine. I put the answering machine tape into the stereo and put it on 
full blast. Martha came over and agreed with me. It sounded like a cough." 

She had finally gone insane. The scary thing was, I don't think Wolfgang _had_ 
coughed when I left the message. It's a miracle she actually let me out of the 
house in the first place. "I'm fine, Mom. The truck's just making a funny 
noise." 

"Have you gotten it checked out yet?" 

"No," I said. How was I going to get out of this one? "They were all closed for 
the fair." 

"Well find a hotel, and I'll call Triple-A. Anyone else will rip you off."

Great, I thought. They won't find anything wrong with the truck, and I'll be 
busted. As I talked to her, I started the truck and headed one block back toward 
the row of hotels we had passed on our way into town. 

"I don't want you staying there any longer than you need," Mom said. "They're 
waiting for you in New York, and I don't want them giving up your dorm room."

"They're not going to give up my dorm room," I said.  

"And Martha says she's been to this Hamington place, and it's crime-ridden."

My mom's best-friend Martha thought everything was 'crime-ridden.' "She's 
thinking of someplace else."

"No she's not. She says it's all white trash and niggers. I don't want you 
mixing too much with them." 

I sighed. I suddenly had a strong urge to tell her I had used her credit card to 
buy an aluminum trailer--complete with lawn ornaments. And I had an almost as 
strong urge to actually do it. I loved my mother, and I did most everything she 
told me to. But she was as dumb as a rock. Sometimes she just pissed me off. 
Fuck art school. I didn't even want to go anyway. I just wanted to live in New 
York. "All right Mom," I said, pulling into the parking lot of a hotel with a 
vacancy sign and free HBO. "I'll call you back." 

The truth is, I didn't like art. Not at all. I wasn't even that good at it. Most 
my mosaics were from cool pictures I found on the Internet. I messed with the 
picture in PhotoShop, so no one could tell, and I put the "Mosaic" effect on it. 
I'd print out the sheet, then match it up with real colored rocks. It really was 
like an easy jigsaw puzzle. The best thing about doing it on a computer was I 
could tell how the curved parts would look in different lights before I even 
started, and that was supposedly my "talent." The acceptance letter from 
Manhattan had said something about my "superb" use of concave surfaces to 
capture light. They were all idiots, and I had them all fooled. 

But my Mom had been telling me I was to go to art school since I was a little 
kid. I guess she had wanted to go, but they wouldn't let her in or she couldn't 
afford it or something. When my banker dad had died when I was three, we got all 
sorts of money from his investments and insurance. And he had been smart enough 
to put a lawyer in control of most of it, so my mom didn't blow it all on fur 
coats and stuff. A fund was set up for my college.  

Anyway, some guy from Triple-A called after I got checked in and said I could 
just drive the truck to this one shop tomorrow, but since it would be a 
Saturday, they didn't open until noon. I was tempted to just ignore him, but I 
feared something really would happen to the truck if I took off. Then my mom 
would _really_ be pissed. Plus, I'd be able watch the carving contest now if I 
was stuck here. 

I went to the dance, and I met a redhead named Lily. She was hot, but she was 
only sixteen. Wolfgang wasn't there. We danced most the night, but it turned out 
she was just using me to make her football-player boyfriend jealous. When he 
showed up with a bunch of his friends, I retreated to the hotel. I fell asleep 
watching HBO.

The next morning, I met Wolfgang at the diner. He was like a little kid on 
Christmas Eve. His hand shook as he drank his coffee. He pulled out about twenty 
pills of all shapes and sizes, and he took each one. Then he laid all of his 
carving knives on the table. He had ten of them, and they were all different. 
They were silver or something, and the handles were carved ivory. There were 
pictures of elephants, tigers, and other stuff on them. "They were my father's," 
he said. They shined like he had just polished them. "I practiced all night. I 
had to change my plans because of the stupid forty can minimum. That's almost 
twenty-five pounds of Spam, you know. Plus, I can't trust they'll be perfect 
rectangles."

"So what're you going to sculpt?"  

"That's just something you'll have to find out when I finish." He picked one 
blade up, a curved one with a rhinoceros on the handle, and wiped a splotch off. 
"Why don't you enter too?" 

"That's okay," I said. "I prefer mediums that don't make me want to puke. 
Besides, I don't wanna pay twenty bucks." 

"Come on, it'll be fun. I'll pay the $20. It's the least I could do." 

"If you're so rich," I said, "then how come you were hitchhiking?"

He was suddenly sad. "It's tradition. Me and Sebastian always hitchhiked." 

I couldn't imagine somebody picking up a hitchhiker with two heads, but I didn't 
say anything. "How did your brother die?" 

Maybe I shouldn't have asked, but it just kind of came out. He didn't speak for 
a minute or so. "We were having heart and kidney troubles. Our body couldn't 
handle the both of us anymore. I planned on going down with the ship, but he 
wouldn't let me." He took a long sip of coffee. "He killed himself." 

And that opened up a whole mess of questions, but I didn't pursue it. It really 
wasn't my business, I guess. He asked me again to enter the contest, and I 
relented. What the hell, I figured. So I'm late to New York. Over the past day, 
I had fallen into some strange, Twilight Zone-like world, and I might as well go 
all the way. I dropped the truck off at noon and told the guy to take his time. 
I walked back to the festival. The contest started at one. 

The contest had a total of forty-three entrants. We were put in random places 
around the festival, so I couldn't see Wolfgang. I was next to a little girl on 
one side and a guy wearing overalls and an eye patch on the other. We had three 
hours to complete our sculptures. The announcer (the same lady from the 
registration booth) welcomed us all and presented last year's winner, an Asian 
guy wearing a Spam T-shirt. Apparently last year he had won with a sculpture 
entitled "Abraspam Lincoln." The grand prize this year was a $100 gift 
certificate to Wal-Mart. No one mentioned, or even seemed to notice, Wolfgang's 
presence. 

Hormel had apparently decided this contest was a great way to get rid of all 
their damaged cans and be able to write it off as charity. Another truck had 
arrived in the night, and now everyone had to use at least seventy cans in their 
sculptures. It took me a half hour just to open them all and plop the stuff on 
my board. That pile was the most disgusting thing I'd ever seen before in my 
life. I thought I was going to pass out at first, but eventually the smell 
seemed to go away. I made a mental note to burn my clothes afterwards and take a 
long shower. One lady from the audience, wearing about a million beads around 
her neck, started screaming, "How many pigs? How many pigs had to die for this?" 
But people laughed at her, and eventually a cop pulled her away. 

We were given knives to use and several props: toothpicks, metal bars for 
support, pieces of wood, and spatulas. They didn't give us gloves, and I had to 
knead the stuff with my bare hands. The potted meat was the consistency of 
three-day-old vomit. It was easy to slice and shape, but the pieces didn't stick 
together very well. I still had no idea what I was going to make, so I started 
to mold it into a giant mound. Maybe I'd make a volcano. 

It soon become apparent the girl was shaping a giant rabbit (it was pretty good, 
too) and the eye-patch man was sculpting a big rectangle. Later, I realized he 
was recreating the Spam can, but he was having trouble getting the words to keep 
their shape.    

As time passed, more and more people gathered. Cameras flashed all over the 
place. The girl finished her rabbit pretty quickly, and after she wandered away 
with her father, an ear fell off. My sculpture changed from a volcano to a 
dinosaur. It was short and fat with big feet. I made its eyes, nose holes, and 
teeth with the gel stuff from the cans. I used the metal bars to keep the head 
on, and I shaped a long, spiked tale. I took a couple extra cans off the truck 
and spelled out "SPAMZILLA" on the board in front of it. I put the empty cans 
around it, like they were tiny buildings. I spent the last fifteen minutes 
smoothing the surface and carving details. In the end, I was pretty happy with 
myself. It probably wasn't good enough to win a prize, but I have to admit, I 
had a lot of fun. Too bad I had left my camera in the truck.   

The horn went off, and we all had to stop. The three judges (the plump lady and 
two other men) started with our sculptures. The giant Spam can had failed 
miserably. The man titled it "Damaged Spam Can." The girl named her creation 
"Charlie the One-Eared Rabbit." I followed the judges as they wandered from 
carving to carving. A lot of them were really impressive. Most had the word 
"Spam" in the title somewhere. "Green Eggs and Spam," "Moon Over My Spammy," and 
"Spamela Anderson," were just a few. Four people made volcanoes, and two of them 
were called "Mount Saint Spam." There were several that didn't look like 
anything at all ("Dead Kangaroo Made of Spam" was one). One woman made a 
topographical map of the USA ("The United States of Spam"), and another man 
sculpted a Ferrari ("The Edible? Car"). The guy who had won last year did a very 
detailed, half-sunken boat called "Sailing the Seas of Spam." 

And then we came to Wolfgang, and I was blown away.

If there was ever such thing as a masterpiece made of Spam, this would be it. I 
don't know how he had done it, but it was a sculpture of an angel, complete with 
spread wings. Its title was "Ascension into the Promised Land." I couldn't 
believe he had done it in only three hours. It was smaller than the others, 
about waist high, but it was the most detailed, the most expertly done sculpture 
I'd seen in a long time. At first I thought it was a self portrait, only with 
two arms and two legs. The resemblance was uncanny. But then I realized what it 
really was. It was a sculpture of his brother. In one arm, the angel cradled a 
small, black ceramic pot of some sort. An urn. Amazing. Absolutely Amazing. 

The judges and the others continued to look at the last few sculptures, but I 
stayed. Wolfgang stood there, swaying slightly, looking at me. 

"I didn't plan on having the wings spread," he said. "There's no reason why they 
shouldn't have fallen off by now, but something just told me to make it that 
way, and they wouldn't break." He was cleaning his carving knives. He turned to 
his statue. "We made it," he whispered. "They said I'd never last this long, but 
I did. I did it for you, my brother." I felt kind of awkward, so I walked away.

Most everyone gathered by the stage for the award announcements. A couple 
reporters were there too, snapping pictures, talking to the entrants. Everyone 
was smiling and laughing. Wolfgang appeared and stood next to me. He was 
obviously nervous. The plump lady stood at the podium. Everyone quieted down. 
"Well," she began, the microphone blaring feedback. She adjusted it. "This was 
certainly a stellar year for Spam carving, thanks to Hormel's generous donation. 
It was a difficult decision, but we have the winners."

The audience cheered. 

"For third place, we have a tie." She paused dramatically. "The United States of 
Spam _and_ Charlie, the one-eared rabbit!" The little girl started screaming and 
jumped up and down. She and the other winner went up to get their trophies. A 
reporter took their picture. The older woman looked more embarrassed than 
anything. Personally, I would have voted for "Spamela Anderson" in the third 
spot, but I suspect the rabbit won because the artist was the only little kid 
who had entered. 

"For second place, we have last year's champion, Sailing the Seas of Spam." The 
guy walked up, smiling graciously, but I could tell he was disappointed. He was 
handed a trophy and a Spam T-shirt identical to the one he was already wearing. 
He looked over at me and Wolfgang. He was good, but he knew who had beat him.

"And finally, the moment you've all been waiting for."

The audience roared.

"If you've seen it already, I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone." 
She looked directly at me and Wolfgang. "This year's grand prize winner--
_Spamzilla_!" 

I felt sick. 

Me? It had to be a mistake. Wolfgang looked at me like I had stabbed him the 
stomach. Suddenly there were hands on my shoulders, and I was raised into the 
air. The cheering crowd carried me proudly through their ranks, plopping me onto 
the stage. I turned to face them, and Wolfgang was already gone. The lady pulled 
me next to her on the podium.

"I... I don't know what to say." My head was spinning. 

"Nonsense," she said. She shoved the trophy and an envelope into my hand. The 
trophy had a golden can of Spam on the top. "And as a further award, Hormel's 
granting you a year's supply of free Spam!" 

"Thank you."

"Okay everyone," she said into the mike. "I'll meet you back here in two hours 
for the pig calling contest." 

The audience clapped and eventually dispersed. A reporter clicked my picture and 
wrote my name down. A cameraman and a newscaster lady appeared and interviewed 
me for TV. I don't even remember what I said. She said the national news loved 
weird stuff like this, and the interview and my sculpture would probably appear 
across the country tonight and tomorrow. Great, I thought. 

I pulled the plump lady aside. "What is wrong with you?" I said. "Why didn't 
Wolfgang's sculpture win?" 

"You mean your friend, that handicapped guy?" She shrugged. "It was good, but it 
was a little self-congratulatory, don't you think? I mean, 'Ascension into the 
Promised Land'? Come on. Who does he think he is? Besides, he used an illegal 
prop."

If she wasn't a woman, I would have knocked her out right then and there. "It 
wasn't a self-portrait, you fat bitch. It was his brother, his twin brother who 
had died. Those two won this stupid contest twelve years in a row."

Her smile disappeared, and her cheeks burned dark red. I guess I shouldn't have 
called her that, but it just kind of popped out. But at the same time, I saw a 
light of recognition glow in her angry eyes. Now she knew. She knew who Wolfgang 
was. "You better leave right now, Mister."

I went in search of Wolfgang. He wasn't at his sculpture, but the urn was gone. 
People kept patting me on the back and congratulating me. I finally found him in 
the crowd that was surrounding Spamzilla.  

"It's good," he said. His eyes were rimmed red. "You deserved to win." 

"I'm sorry," I said. I felt lame, but what could I say? "You should have won." 

"Don't be sorry," he said. "It's not your fault. I didn't even place. Though I'd 
like to think mine was better than the rabbit. At least now I have a reason to 
keep taking my pills--next year." 

I held out the trophy and the envelope. "Here, you deserve it."

"No."

I opened the envelope and pulled out the year-supply Hormel coupon. "At least 
take this. Please." 

He smiled weakly and took it. "Thanks." 

"You want me to drive you back home?" 

"No," he said. "I'm not going back. Besides, you need to get to New York. You 
can show all those fancy art people your trophy." 

I laughed. "Good-bye Wolfgang. You should have won. They just didn't understand 
it, that's all." 

He nodded. 

And that was it. I walked away, and I never saw him again. I got to the car 
place just before they closed at six. The bill was almost $500, but I was too 
weary to complain. My mom would pay for it. She paid for everything. I drove all 
night, and well into the next morning. I didn't stop until I was halfway through 
Virginia. I slept in a hotel for five hours, and I continued on my way. I 
finally arrived in New York early Monday morning, only a few hours late. 

My mother saw the news report, and she was mortified. "Are you trying to put me 
in an early grave? How am I supposed to face the others at the garden club? I've 
never been more embarrassed in my life!"

"I thought you _wanted_ me to be an artist," I said.

She hung up on me, and we didn't talk for almost two weeks. The others at the 
art school were actually pretty impressed with my trophy. I was kind of a hero. 
I toyed with the idea of switching from mosaic to sculpture because I think I 
might actually be good at it. Especially since I didn't have Internet access in 
my dorm room. I think about Wolfgang all the time. I wonder where he's living, 
and what he's doing, if he's getting into adventures and scaring the shit out of 
people who pick him up on the freeway. And I wonder if he's putting his year 
supply of Spam to good use. I kind of want to return to the festival next year, 
but I don't think I'm welcome there any more. But who knows? Maybe they have 
that sort of stuff here in New York.