An Iron Chef medallion replica goes for about a hundred bucks, or did in 2011, and the chef’s jacket with the embroidered logo was another hundred. That emptied the Visa card, which represented the last of my liquidity, and I know what they say about counting chickens, but I was blinded by the potential upside, which was a comparative fuckton being that I was on my ass. Flat broke, but I had convinced myself that I was due for a hot streak which, over the course of a few weeks, turned into a belief that I was already on a hot streak. Hard to explain, but it felt like my dick was in the room five minutes before I was. Can’t miss, all cylinders, height of my powers, all that bullshit.

The idea was simple because it’s always simple because the idea is always finding stupid people who will give me money. The execution this time was more complicated and it involved selling myself as a Food Network producer, not a big shot, a worker bee, but hey, no slouch in the kitchen either, a former Iron Chef winner, actually—cardamom was my secret ingredient—and I was scouting small town locations for the next season of Dinner Impossible: Destination BBQ, and the first thing I needed to do was to evaluate local interest.

“Gotta make sure there’s a crowd. The Food Network only bets on sure things,” I told whoever picked up the phone at the City of Shrewsbury admin building. “So what about something like an exhibition? Nothing fancy, the rec center will do. Some hands-on instruction? Sure. You think people would be interested in something like that? Which stars from the Food Network constellation do you think would be particular draws here? Oh, I’m sure we can get Rachel. In fact, I know we can. We’ll fly her in. Would you believe she’s just a sweetie? Bobby too. Flay, that’s right. And you know, for liability reasons, I think we’ll have to charge something for seats. 30 bucks? Does that sound fair?”

The razzle dazzle got me past the secretary and the chef’s jacket, plus the medallion got me past the deputy manager, and eventually I got on the calendar of the final boss, the Shrewsbury City Manager, a man with hair coming out of his ears and out of the neck of his short sleeve dress shirt and a man who I had been instructed to address as “Chief.”

One of those wood-paneled offices, end of the day, his last appointment, and the city manager looked rumpled as shit. My kinda audience, so I launched right into it, my best impression of a hotshit producer. “My main concern is about butts in seats,” I told him. “But I’m not worried about enough butts. I’m more worried about having enough seats. Because from the buzz I hear, we’re gonna have more butts than seats, even at 30 bucks a pop, and Chief, right now, you’re the last thing standing between the butts of your community and these seats.”

He was hooked, I could tell, fully engaged with every word, absorbing, that’s what he was doing, hands tented across his gut, rocking lightly back in his chair, nodding occasionally. When I was done with my pitch, he sat forward, smiling. He moved the mouse to wake his computer, clicked a few times, looked back at me, started to say something, took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh and said, “No.”

“No?” I said. “Just no? No to what?”

“No thank you,” the city manager said. “No, we will not be hosting this event, and what I’m doing is sending an email to every city manager I know to be on the lookout.”

“Now just wait—”

“I have to say,” he said, grinning wide, eyes crinkling, “I didn’t believe it when they told me. My staff, I mean. I thought they were goofing me. I had to hear it for myself.” He picked up the medallion off the desk and inspected it. “Just hilarious.”

I looked back at the door and started to get up. “Well, it looks like I caught you at a bad time, Chief. The Food Network apologizes—”

“The Food Network! That’s too good. Sit down by the way, please. What division at the Food Network again? Why haven’t I seen your Iron Chef episode?”

“Because it was on Food Network Canada,” I reminded him.

“Canada!” He leaned back deep into the chair, full body laughs. He sat up and spoke between giggles. “The name of the show again?”

“Dinner Impossible,” I said, in a small voice.

“No, no. The whole thing.”

“Dinner Impossible: Destination BBQ,” I said even softer.

He roared. “Damn,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Damn, that’s funny stuff. I don’t care who you are, that’s just funny.”

“Okay, congratulations,” I said, going for the door again. “You’re all a bunch of geniuses.”
“C’mon,” he said. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Don’t go. So sensitive. Sit back down. I have a business proposition for you.”

I pictured a secret button beneath his desk wired straight to the precinct. “Lemme guess,” I said. “By the time you get done explaining, they’ll have the place surrounded.”

“The cops?” He raised an eyebrow. “For what? Making a false municipal request? No.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk. “No cops, but you’re right that I want something from you.” The city manager looked down into the drawer and dropped his voice low. “I’ve got something I can’t get rid of. I mean, I can’t throw it away but I also can’t keep it anymore.” He looked back up at me. “I want you to take it. You can’t tell me what you’re gonna do with it and I don’t want to know, I just need it away, so that’s the job. Just take it wherever you’re going next. Actually, no, not even that, just take it.” He pulled out from the drawer an American flag folded into a triangle. “Big deal when you get one of these. Retirement, for example. Folks in their dress blues pass it down the line in a ceremony. Old tradition. Hold it like this, right?” He held the folded flag pressed between his palms with elbows bent up so the top of the triangle was just below his chin. “My retirement flag is at home. Mounted on the wall. Wood box, display glass.” He slowly lowered the flag in front of him. “This one is from another thing,” he said, looking at me. “Take it.”

“What the fuck man,” I breathed. “What is this?”

“Please,” he said.

“I gotta—”

“Just take it,” the city manager said. “Then you can go. Promise. I can’t keep it anymore. Just put your hands on top of mine. Hold it like I am. I’ll keep holding too. Like that. Now I’m going to let go, okay? Just gonna slide my hands out, but you keep your hands the same. That’s it. Okay, now I’m gonna rotate it in three moves so the top is pointing back at me. Now slowly, slowly raise it to your chest, just like I had it. There. Okay, good. We’re done. You can put it in your lap now.”

With the flag in my lap, I could see there was something tucked inside. There were $100 bills stuffed in the folds.

“What the fuck, man,” I said again.

“It’s a job,” he said. “It’s payment. For taking it away.”

“C’mon man, I—”

“Hey, don’t pick it up like that. Do it like I showed you.”

“I don’t—like this?” I tried bringing it to my chest again.

“No, slower. There you go. That’s it. See? You’re a natural.”

“No, I’m not,” I whispered.

The city manager nodded. “He loved those shows. All that Food Network bullshit. Wanted to be a chef. Culinary school with the G.I. Bill after he got out. Wouldn’t shut up about it. Wanted to be a chef and here you come claiming to be one. So that’s how I knew. It was a sign for me. You’re the answer to a prayer, okay? It’s yours now.”

I stared at the flag stuffed with money in my lap. “Who was he?”

“Just some asshole,” the city manager said. “But he was one of my assholes.”

“Chief—”

“It’s yours now,” the city manager said, smiling. “The money is yours and the flag is yours and I think this is going to do the trick. You can go now, please. Go now, please. I’m okay, shipmate. I’m okay now. I feel better already. Close the door now. Close it behind you, please. I’m just going to finish things up here.”

I left him there smiling, shuffling papers on his desk. I walked to a bar the next block over where I sat and drank for hours, swearing the next person through the door would be the city manager, but it never was. I had a dream that night that he was chasing me, sweaty and panicked, begging for everything back, but when I tried, he kept telling me that it wasn’t the same flag, that I ruined it like I did everything and he was reaching for my neck when I woke up tangled in my sheets.

***

Stopped by the pawn shop the next day on my way out of town. Guy working the counter said he’d give me 40 bucks for the medallion plus the chef’s coat, and when I asked if he’d go 50, he asked me if I had anything else. I didn’t need the money. I wouldn’t need money for months. I don’t know why I did it, except of course I do, and I pawned the flag to make it an even 50 because there’s more bullshit in your philosophy than you can possibly dream and you don’t get to judge me, don’t you fucking dare. It’s your god, not mine, and there’s no sad bitch dead chef flag that can make me believe. I don’t owe anyone anything. Not a single goddamn thing.