Chilly Chili
by Benjamin Niespodziany
asked the staff how many types of chili they have. Texas red, I said, of course. Cincinnati, I'm sure. Chile Verde, white chili, classic. But do you have Frito Pie as well? Am I missing any? Do you have any others? Are you out of any at the moment? Please, give it to me straight. Sir, said the shy employee, this is a Sweetgreen.
I wanted to scream. I could tell I was annoying him. I know it is, I said. I know it is, son, but I also know you have some chili back there. Stop lying to me.
He hesitated, started his sentence five times, then replied, I have some white chili my mom packed me for lunch that I didn't finish. How much? I asked. How much did she pack me or how much is left? He said.
No, I said, how much to take it off your hands? Your mom's chili is in demand, son. I'm begging you.
$4.42 will do, he said. I paid in pennies. He hated me. There was no one else around. He went in the back and brought out the chili. He told me to eat it there because he needed to bring home the Tupperware. I thanked him again and again. The chili was delicious. It didn’t need to be heated or seasoned. It didn’t need anything. It was perfect exactly how it was, in a Sweetgreen on a Tuesday evening, slightly buzzed, in love with the hell of the world, eating the last of a new friend's chili as he counted my pennies, his pennies. They're his pennies now.
I
Author's Note
Late last year, my writer friend Lake Markham asked me to read at the book launch for his debut novel, Lo Siento (the memorable event is discussed at-length in this Substack Dispatch). Within his novel, there is a prominent chili cook-off, so it was only right that the book launch also feature a chili cook-off. On top of bringing my own chili to the event (awarded second place, a loss I'm still recovering from), I also wrote three chili pieces for my part of the reading. One was a sound poem, one was a 50 word micro, and the third was the story matchbook so graciously accepted for publication. I encourage everyone to make or order some chili after reading this story.
Benjamin Niespodziany is a Chicago-based writer whose work has appeared in Indiana Review, Fence, Bennington Review, Wigleaf, Booth, and elsewhere. His new chapbook, Uncle Time, was awarded the 2025 Poetry Prize with Gasher Press. Along with hosting the Neon Night Mic reading series, he runs Piżama Press. You can find more at neonpajamas.com.
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Published Sept 2026 - Fiction