Going Steady: Chapter V

On writing, longing, and chili cheese dogs.

Eating two chili cheese dogs alone in the Cincinnati airport would have once felt like a cry for help. But now? It’s a cry for help and I’m writing about it!

The past two years I’ve flown through Cincinnati on my way to Kentucky for whatever you want to call a weekend where writers get together to read their work and cry and eat. A writer’s retreat? A writer’s weekend? Whatever, you get it. I spend most of my days writing in the margins — during cancellations at work, or right now, hiding upstairs while my husband watches some sad, manhood-bolstering movie with his friends. I fold it in around my work, around my responsibilities, around my life. Like a note placed in the worn seams of a wailing wall.

I take about a day to warm up and spend the rest of the time laughing, really laughing. I tell myself the warming up is a waste of time, while knowing it’s how I am, how I’ve always been. When you’re little it’s called shyness, and I don’t know what it’s called in adulthood. Anxiety? I sit on a porch in a t-shirt in early spring, talking endlessly. A war begins. I buy a little gridded notebook in a paper store. My friend and I go to a Buc-ee’s to see everything wrong with middle America with our own eyes. She loses her Buc-ee’s virginity and regrets it. I buy a bag of blue gummy sharks.

I intend to write down everything people said about my writing. When I actually sit down to do it, just 24 hours later on my way home in Cincinnati, all I can remember is hearing the eldest in the group laugh while I read. His mouth open, his eyes squinting, his white beard moving up and down. Absolutely delicious. I play that sound over and over in my mind. I want to make people laugh forever. I write down: Heard his deep laughter over and over while reading. So intoxicating I can’t remember anything else.

If the weekend were any longer I’d have to face the reality that it’s a winged thing — like Christmas Eve. Like childhood. To want more takes away the magic. But I want more, God, I want so much more.

The glitter of the weekend drains down the hourglass and it’s time to fly home. I’m early and find a quiet place to sit away from the TVs. In a sea of carpet, a man sweeping up crumbs comes over and sweeps the space directly under my feet. What is happening? I plug in my phone and call Foster.

I tell him everything. About the laughter. How I miss life tasting like champagne. Did it ever? How I feel so much shame about wanting more. How I envy everyone whose quiet life seems to soothe them. Lull them? My quiet life is suffocating me. I don’t have the character to be content! But he must know I really am trying to be a Woman of Contentment, while being none of it, really. They laughed, Foster! Really laughed at my writing. I’m a hoot!

We lie to ourselves and talk about moving to Europe for the summer. Foster doesn’t even like to travel. What will we do with Longfellow? Who will put up with his bullshit? I’m nervous about something that isn’t really happening. Yet! I tell myself, and feel buoyed. But really we need to do something, anything. I can’t spend my entire life helping other people like this. We laugh.

I wander to the famous Cincinnati chili counter and get the coney dogs. The giant in front of me orders four and two sides of fries and I pray he isn’t sitting next to me on my flight. I carry the brown paper bag to a little counter and eat standing up. My simple palate loves every bite. Understated and unpretentious. The only thing that would’ve been better is eating more of them.