St. Patrick’s Day, a Married Fight and an Unforgettable Hot Dog
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
UPCOMING ATL SHOW: I’m working out some of my new poems and stories at Eddie’s Attic on Sunday 4/13. Get your tix here: https://eddiesattic.com/event/amena-brown/.
Thirteen years ago today, my husband and I got in our first married fight. In Chicago. On St. Patrick’s Day. I was on tour with Gungor and had a previously scheduled gig in Chicago so Matt flew there to meet me so we could spend time together before I had to meet back up with the tour. I had one day off so we decided to visit The Art Institute of Chicago. But right before we did that, we ate at a Chicago hot dog place I can’t even remember the name of. I can hear my Chicago friends getting on me right now about why we didn’t call you and get recommendations. We didn’t even know some of you then, okay?! We know now to do the RIGHT thing and get recommendations from actual Chicago friends, I promise!
Anyway, this nondescript hot dog place had extra green relish for St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe this should have concerned us but it didn’t. We walked the Magnificent Mile eating our hot dogs like ignorantly blissful tourists. To be fair, the hot dog tasted delicious as Chicago hot dogs are known to do. We perused the Art Institute and he said something and then I said something. He disagreed and I disagreed. There was a lot of tense talking between our teeth so as to try and keep couth in the museum.
We left the Art Institute and dragged our argument out into the street. Argument hand gestures ensued. Lots of “no, what I meant to say” and “Oh I’m pretty sure I understood what you meant to say.”
Then my stomach started to…groan…like a low guttural groan. I decided I needed a ginger ale because doesn’t it cure everything?! We had walked and argued so long the mile was no longer magnificent and there were no ginger ales to be had, only Sprite. We bought a bottle of Sprite from Subway and I sat down on a bench to take some sips.
My stomach proceeded to feel like the movie Alien, like the same thing that was trying to come out of Sigourney Weaver was trying to come out of me. I realized I was going to throw up and there was no stopping it. I had never thrown up anywhere other than a bathroom before. I had never thrown up in front of Matt. But there I was having the upchuck of all upchucks on a busy Chicago street, in the middle of arguing with my spouse.
Did I mention it was St. Patrick’s Day? The river was green. The streets were crawling with Chicagoans and tourists who’d been drinking since breakfast. A car full of St. Paddy’s Day revelers drove by and yelled, “get white boy wasted!” Repeatedly! At the sight of seeing me throw up into the street. To show that Matt’s loyalty was to me even in the midst of an argument, he yelled back at them, “she doesn’t feel good!” with all the strength he could muster.
As we headed back to our hotel for what felt like the longest train ride over, it was pretty clear we had food poisoning. We spent our last night together before I returned to tour, taking turns in the bathroom and still trying to hash out our argument in between.
The next day we went to the airport where Matt was boarding a flight back home to Atlanta and I was boarding a flight to meet up with the tour in Denver. Matt bought me gatorade, chalky Pepto Bismol, and saltines for my flight. We decided to suspend analysis of our argument until we could both keep our food down. The food poisoning hit us both but it hit me harder and Matt hated to send me on a flight by myself.
I made it through the flight without any bathroom incidents. I performed five times each night of the tour and usually stayed on the side of stage to watch Gungor perform the rest of their set, but that night I performed my poems and sat in a chair on the side of stage, holding on to the arms of the chair for dear life.
In a few days, I felt more like myself. I could keep bland food down along with saltines and ginger ale. Matt checked on me every step of the way. When both of our stomachs calmed down, we rehashed our argument which seemed small in comparison to how sick we’d felt. Apologies were said. We acknowledged the things we would do better next time. We told each other “I love you” and we couldn’t wait to see each other when I was done with the tour.
It would be years before I ever ate another hot dog. A few years later, Matt and I both returned to Chicago and at the behest of our Chicago friends were admonished to at least go to Portillo’s this time to get our Chicago hot dog fix. We did and the hot dog was good as hell. And we had fries on the side instead of a side of food poisoning.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all who celebrate! And happy 13th anniversary to our first married fight. Always get Chicago food recommendations from your Chicago friends. Don’t go eating Chicago hot dogs all willy nilly with no guidance or advice. And don’t fight with your partner while you have food poisoning. Do not recommend.