by Jeff Strand
"I probably wasn't going to take you back anyway, but surely you can understand why the lack of a promise might be a problem for me, right?"
"I was being honest with you! Don't I get credit for honesty? I was weak, okay? I met him online, and I told him not to come over, but by then I'd already given him my address, and he showed up, and I asked him to leave, and he didn't leave fast enough, and we did things that I'll tell you about if you really need to know, and then he left. That's all that happened!"
"We're broken up now," I told her.
* * *
"What's your favorite fruit?" Amy asks.
"Strawberry. Yours?"
"Kumquat."
"I feel like you've stopped giving serious answers."
"I'll give a serious answer to the next one, I promise."
"Favorite clown-fucking position?"
"Ow, wow, that's a tough one." Amy pretends to be deep in thought, or at least I think she's pretending. "Ummmm...I'm trying to turn 'doggy-style' into something related to clowns and I can't quite get there..."
"Clowny style?"
"No, I went there but rejected it."
"Maybe something with clown cars?"
"We haven't known each other long enough to start talking about clown gang bangs."
"You're right, you're right."
"Reverse clowngirl? No. Maybe a Bozo reference? I've got nothing. We're going to have to move on."
"That's very disappointing."
"Sometimes things don't work out the way you hope. Life is filled with tragedy."
* * *
We're not saying anything now, and the silence is amazingly comfortable. I'm not much of a conversationalist, but I'm worse at letting a silence linger. Yet this feels fine. It feels great. With the occasional stretch break, I could stay in this car forever. My various injuries don't even hurt anymore, and the swelling in my lip is almost completely gone.
Hunky Dory Dogs is only an hour away. It makes me sad to realize that our adventure is so close to the end, but then I remember that we still have to drive all the way back to Florida, and I feel less sad.
Maybe silence isn't even the right word. More like peace. Serenity would be melodramatic, but I'm definitely at peace.
At peace in a rental car with a doomed woman. How did that ever happen?
I wish I could say that I'm not even aware of how long the peaceful silence lasts, but I'd said something when we were exactly an hour away, and when she speaks I notice that we're forty-eight minutes away. So it was twelve minutes of peaceful silence.
"Have you ever done any mountain climbing?" Amy asks.
It's an odd question, though I suppose not significantly odder than some of our other topics of conversation. "No. Have you?"
"Not with the ropes or spiked boots or anything. I was actually thinking more of a hill."
"I've climbed hills before. I don't have any specific memories of doing that, but I know I've done it. Probably more like walking upwards than climbing."
"What I'm basically saying is that I'd like to kiss you before we get to Hunky Dory Dogs, but I don't want to do it in the car, and I thought that maybe we could climb to the top of a hill and have our first kiss there."
"I'll find us a hill," I say, picking up my cell phone.
Amy gently takes the phone out of my hand and sets it back down. "We'll find one without it."
It is entirely possible that Amy had seen a previous sign for Ruby Hill that I didn't notice. I don't ask her about this because I don't want to spoil the magic. But I make the turn a mile later, take a few more turns following a few more signs, and then we're parked in front of Ruby Hill. Parking is free. No pets allowed except for guide animals for the visually disabled.
According to the wooden sign at the beginning of the trail, the elevation of Ruby Hill is six hundred and forty feet. The hike to get to the top is only a three-fifths of a mile. We are not climbing Mount Everest for this moment; we won't even break a sweat. If I do break a sweat from the exertion of this hike, Amy would be right to leave me behind and go kiss somebody else.
We take each other's hand. It's not her taking my hand, or me taking her hand--our hands just move toward each other's in an unplanned, completely natural movement. In the grand history of legendary lovers, this is not a big deal. Romeo and Juliet did not say Holy shit! We both just reached for each other's hands at the exact same time! Now we know we're totally meant for each other, unless there's some sort of suicidal bloodbath! (Or something to that effect, in iambic pentameter.)
But the fact is, in those extremely rare occasions when I'm with a new girl, I'm always stressing about this kind of stuff. Is this the right moment to reach for her hand? If she reaches for my hand first, is she disappointed that I didn't take the initiative? Am I doing any of this correctly?
It's also worth mentioning that I have sweaty hands, and that, historically, they get about seventy-five percent sweatier the first time I hold hands with somebody. This would not be the first relationship where the physical intimacy began with a look of mild disgust. But my hand isn't sweating. Not at all. I have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about in terms of perspiration. Yes, perhaps this is due to the low temperature outside, but I also want to believe that somebody is trying to say The two of you are meant for each other, and so I'm going to give you a break from the sweaty clammy hands. You're welcome.
We walk up the trail. We don't say anything. There are occasional placards with facts about the flora and fauna of Ruby Hill, but we don't stop to read them. Amy looks like she might be nervous. I'm not. Not even a little bit. It's weird but wonderful.
We don't pass any other people. Even when we reach the top of Ruby Hill, there is nobody else around. The hilltop is just for us. There were a few cars parked at the bottom, so it does sort of make me wonder what happened to these people. Carnivorous vegetation?
I don't make a joke about carnivorous vegetation, though I probably will when we're back in the car.
We look out at the beautiful view from six hundred and forty-feet above ground level, Rhode Island in all of its glory, sunshine and water and grass and roads and buildings and other hills besides the one we're on, and it's not the kind of view that would sell millions of postcards, or that you'd even attach to an e-mail, but it's our view, and I'd say that I'll remember it forever, except that we only look at the view for a couple of seconds before we have turned our full attention to each other.
I assume that there will be an element of awkwardness to this first kiss, and I'm okay with that. Our lips will be slightly off-center, or somebody's nose will get in the way, or a bug will land on my cheek, or something will bring us back to the messy reality of the situation. I don't need this to be a flawless first kiss. Not seeking perfection. It would be nice if we didn't accidentally cough in each other's faces, but apart from that, I'm not expecting a fairy tale kiss that ends on a freeze-frame or slowly fades to black before the credits roll.
Our lips meet.
And then we're walking back down the trail, hand-in-hand, and I literally have no idea how long we were kissing. I didn't think it was possible to give yourself so thoroughly into a kiss that nothing else exists, that there's no mental running commentary, that no actual words are running through your mind. I am thirty-five years old and this is a completely new experience.
We walk silently down the trail. I can't stop smiling. Amy is smiling too. I don't think I've ever been this happy in my life, and though I don't want to speak for Amy, she looks truly happy in this moment.
We reach the car, and then we kiss some more. An obnoxious little kid whistles at us and tells us to get a room, which keeps me from being as fully lost in the moment as before, but it's still one hell of a kiss, and I hope there will be millions more.
When we're back in the car, we lean over and kiss each other yet again. Then I start the engine.
"I wonder why nobody else was on the hill?" I ask. "Do you think the vegetation is carnivorous?"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"I'll see you in hell."
"You know what? I'm not going to kill you until you come up with something better than that. I mean, that's just embarrassing for both of us."
--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 13
And we're here.
Hunky Dory Dogs is a run-down little shack, just as I saw on the television show. There's no actual parking lot, just a haphazard line of cars. A large sign depicts a beagle holding a mustard-covered hot dog while winking and giving a thumbs-up. (Yes, this particular beagle has a thumb.)
If the name Hunky Dory Dogs had already been taken, they could have called the place Shit That Never Belonged On A Hot Dog. Their menu includes the PBJ Dog (with peanut butter and your choice of grape or strawberry jelly on top), the Clucker Dog (a hot dog topped with scrambled eggs), the Parasite Dog (a hot dog wrapped in a gummi worm), the Coco Puffs Dog (self-explanatory), the Kinky Dog (two hot dogs in the same bun), the Rental Dog (red-hot chili), and the Blasphemy Dog (served with ketchup--a note says "We Do Not Sell This Under Any Circumstances"). They don't call any of them "saugies," which is inexplicably disappointing.
To be honest, I'm kind of in the mood for a regular old hot dog with mustard, relish, and onions, but after such a long journey, I feel like I have to order one of the bizarre ones. "What are you going to get?" I ask Amy.
"I'm not sure. Either the Six-Cheese Dog or the S'Mores Dog. You?"
"I'm not sure, either. Probably one of the deep-fried ones."
"Go for it. You only live once. And briefly, if you eat one of those."
"Or maybe I'll just get a corn dog," I say. I'm kidding, of course.
"If we drove all this way and you order a corn dog, I'll kill you before your clogged arteries do."
I decide to go with The Porker, a hot dog topped with pulled pork and BBQ sauce. We walk up to the front counter and are greeted by a smiling middle-aged man with thick glasses and black hair down to his shoulders. "Welcome to H.D. Dog," he says. I'm not sure if he abbreviates the name because he doesn't think it's a very good name, or to save time. "What can I get you today?"
"Do people actually enjoy the S'Mores Dog?" Amy asks. "Or do they eat it ironically?"
"Do you see any hipsters in here?"
Amy looks around at the ten or so people inside. "At least three."
"Well, there you go. But we have a 'satisfaction guaranteed' policy. If you don't like your hot dog, we'll let you buy another one." The man is extremely amused by this joke, even though he has presumably heard himself say it trillions of times.
"You've sold me. I'll take the S'Mores Dog."
"And you, sir?"
I suddenly decide that The Porker isn't weird enough. "I'll take the PBJ Dog."
"Strawberry, grape, or boysenberry jelly?"
"I didn't know boysenberry was an option."
"We're always trying new things."
I decide that boysenberry is too risky and order grape. "We're really looking forward to this," I tell him. "We drove all the way from Tampa."
"That's quite a drive. Visiting relatives?"
I shake my head. "The whole trip was just to come here."
"No way."
"It's the truth," says Amy.
The man looks flabbergasted. "Are you telling me that you drove all the way from Florida to Rhode Island just to get an H.D. Dog?"
Amy and I both nod.
"Oh my God...that's...that's..." His eyes begin to moisten. "I don't even know what to say. We have people drive from all over New England, but from Florida?" He wipes some tears from his eyes. Now his shoulders are trembling.
"We didn't mean to make you cry," Amy says.
"No, it's okay, I want to cry. I need to call my dad. He'll want to meet you. You're dining in, right? It won't take him long to get here. He lives close."
"That's totally fine."
The man takes a couple of napkins out of the napkin holder on the counter, turns away, and blows his nose. "I'll wash my hands before I prepare your food," he assures us.
"We appreciate that," Amy says.
"My name is Reginald. Reginald Shef. Ironic, considering that I'm a chef, but it's not spelled that way. It's S-H-E-F. Did you want anything else?"
We order fries (with cheese sauce) and soft drinks (without cheese sauce) and sit down at a corner table. The décor, like many restaurants these days, is in the style of Random Unrelated Items Hanging From The Wall. Not many of them seem to be hot dog related, but the overall impact is rather charming.
Our table wobbles a bit, which is also rather charming.
"So we're here," Amy says. "Our quest has come to an end. It wasn't the holiest of quests, and we didn't really contribute anything to society, but very little property was destroyed and nobody was killed, and ultimately, isn't that what it's all about?"
"Absolutely," I say. I'd hold up a drink but we haven't received ours yet, so I hold up an empty hand that mimes holding a drink. "To minimal property destruction and nobody getting killed!"
"Here, here." Amy clinks her invisible glass against mine. "The drive back doesn't count, so people can die left and right."
"Awesome."
We lapse into another comfortable silence. Amy reaches over and takes my hand. "I want to thank you for what you've done for me. You don't know how badly I needed this."
"I needed it too," I tell her. "Best weekend of my life."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
Amy gets kind of a funny look, only for a split second, and then she smiles and squeezes my hand even tighter.
It takes me a moment to get what that look was about. It went from mild surprise to uncertainty to pity. I may have misinterpreted one, two, or even all three of those; still, the overall impression I get is that, though she's having a great time with me, she can't honestly put this into the "best weekend of my life" category. Probably not even the top five.
Why should she? She's been married, and before things turned to crap, they would've had plenty of wonderful experiences together. I'm sure she's kissed in the rain, made love on a beach, danced the night away, spent evenings dining on fondue and laughing with friends. This road trip has been fun for her, but not legendary.
Well...so what? She's had a less superficial existence than me. If she's had more fun in the past, good for her. What's important is that we're having a great time now, and not how this particular experience compares to others in some arbitrary ranking system.
Hell, based on the actual events, a lot of women would call this an absolutely miserable trip. They'd never want to see me again. The fact that Amy has any positive feelings about this weekend whatsoever makes it a total win.
And though it remains unspoken, I hope I'm correct in assuming that Amy and I will stay together when our trip is over. It's not a one-time adventure. This is officially a romance, and I'm confident that we'll be together until...
Reginald sits down at our table. "How is everything so far?" he asks.
"Fine," I say. We haven't yet received our food or drinks, so I assume he's talking about the ambience.
"What was it about H.D. Dogs that made you want to drive all this way just to visit us?" he asks.
"I saw it on TV."
"That segment generated a lot of business for us. What specifically about it made you want to come all this way?"
I shrug. "It just looked cool."
Reginald nods with vigorous understanding. "I totally get that. We put a lot of hard work into looking cool. Again, I'm not saying that we don't get visitors from all over the world. Just last week we had a family in here from Indonesia. But we weren't the sole purpose of their trip. Have you made long road trips for restaurants before?"
"First time," says Amy.
Reginald wipes at his eyes again. "That's just...it's so...I'm sorry..." He grabs a handful of napkins and leaves the table. We hear him blowing his nose.
A few minutes later, Reginald returns with an elderly man. "This is Regina
ld Shef Sr.," he says. "Dad, these are the people I told you about."
They both take a seat at our table. The old man extends his hand to me and I shake it. I'm a little embarrassed by how much his iron grip hurts.
"How old do you think I was when I sold my first hot dog?" Reginald Sr. asks us.
"Twelve," Amy says.
"Nope."
"Fourteen," I say.
"Nope."
"Sixteen," Amy says.
"Nope. But I'll give you a hint. You're moving in the wrong direction."
"Ten," I say.
"Nope."
"Eight," Amy says.
"Nope."
"Just tell them, Dad."
"Six," says Reginald Sr. "I was six years old when I sold my first hot dog."
Based on our pattern, that would've been our next guess. I'm not sure why Reginald Jr. picked this particular moment to stop the game.
"I was at my grandfather's store," Reginald Sr. continues. "I loved to hang out there because I kept hoping he'd give me a free chocolate milkshake, though the cheap bastard never did. Well, one day I was at the store, and there was some kind of problem back in the kitchen, and he had to leave the front counter unattended. And a customer came in. I marched right up there, looked him in the eye, and took his order."
"That's sweet," says Amy.
"Oh, my grandfather beat the dickens out of me. I was six--I didn't know how much to charge. But from that moment on I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I opened Hunky Dory Dogs fifty-one years ago, and to hear that my life's dream meant enough for somebody to drive all the way from Tampa, well..."
The old man succumbs to tears. Reginald Jr. puts his arm around him, but within seconds he's succumbed to tears as well. The two men just sit there, overcome with emotion.
"So when did you come up with the idea of the weird toppings?" Amy asks.
Reginald Sr. points at his son. "That was all him. Me, I thought it was nonsense. Chicago Dog--that's the only proper way to eat a wiener. But how can I argue with the results? You're here from Tampa."
