Hotdogs in Heat (An excerpt from "The Road and the River: An American Adventure")

Watching the news over breakfast, on a giant flat screen TV in the hotel’s dining room, the weatherman tells us that it could easily reach 100 degrees today, with the humidity making it feel like 120, the Amazon being the only place in the world with a dew point as high. Jack and I walk out of the hotel and the heat hits with such a force that it feels like we’re entering another world altogether. The air is so thick and so sticky that you’d think maybe—if you could wave your arms and legs fast enough—you might just be able to get off the ground and swim from place to place.

We cut through the Guthrie Theater, mostly to enjoy its air-conditioning, and then head into the heart of downtown. There is a tennis match going on in a city square and we sit for awhile taking in the grunts and groans of two sweaty women battling it out in the grueling heat. We make it through a set before we both admit that we have no interest in tennis.

It’s only mid-afternoon and we start drinking, because after all, we are river men, and when river men are not on the river, that’s what we do; we drink. We hit up a bar where the entire staff is decked out in Minnesota Twins gear. They wear their caps and jerseys with numbers and letters embroidered on the back, spelling out names like Morneau and Mauer, Thome and Nathan. The first game of a doubleheader just finished up and fans begin to trickle into the bar to order postgame celebratory beers.

We hit up a couple more bars, drink a few more drinks, and then buy a pair of tickets from a scalper for the second game of the doubleheader. As soon as we make our way through the gates it becomes apparent just how the people of Minneapolis feel about their sports teams, for even in this record heat, on a Monday night, the stadium is filled to capacity.

We score free baseball caps by filling out fake info on credit card applications, because after all, we are river men and when river men are not on the river, that’s what we do; we con the town’s people. With new tightly-fitted caps, we take our seats along the third base line, high on the upper deck, above the action with a clear view of play, but at such a distance from the game that there’s little chance of a foul ball finding its way this far from a player’s bat.

The sun has begun to set but the heat seems to be sticking around. Earlier, during today’s first game, half a dozen fans were taken to area hospitals for heat-related illnesses. Many players on both teams were given IVs between games to replenish lost fluids. And even though there are water stations situated throughout the stadium, and I’ve drunk my fair share, I still feel as if I’m melting into my seat, becoming one with the folding plastic chair.

The Twins take an early 1-0 lead in the 3^rd from an RBI single off the bat of All-Star catcher Joe Mauer, and it’s around this time that I see an advertisement on the jumbotron that says every Monday is $1 hot dog day. I immediately find the nearest concession stand and slap a five-dollar bill down on the counter. “Five hot dogs,” I say. Now, I know that a dollar for a hot dog may not seem like that great of a deal, but for those of you who do not attend many games, you must understand that it’s probably the greatest deal in the entire world of professional sports. Today’s stadiums have a tendency to inflate their prices at astronomical rates. A single beer is usually more expensive than an entire six-pack at a convenience store, and the price they charge for a small bag of peanuts could get you enough in the bulk section of any grocery to feed an elephant. You’d think that their soda prices would calculate into being the most expensive way anybody could possibly purchase sugar; that is until you see their cost for cotton candy. And as for the hot dogs, on any other day of the week, they would cost $6 apiece, so tonight I’m getting them at an 83% discount!

The Indians take a 2-1 lead in the 5^th and Minnesota quickly answers back in the 6^th, tying it up with a 381 foot home run from Valencia, his 11^th of the season. I return to the concession stand and buy five more hot dogs and a single beer that is more expensive than all the food combined. I try giving some of the dogs away to the fans in the neighboring seats but nobody seems as excited about the all-beef franks as I do. Jack eats one and I consume the other four.

Cleveland scores two more in the seventh and another two in the ninth. Before the game ends, I hurry back inside to get five more hot dogs. “Why’d you get more hot dogs?” Jack asks. “There’s no way that you could still be hungry.”

            “At this point,” I say, “it’s not about hunger; it’s about taking advantage of a great deal. You’re a math teacher, you should understand. Fifteen hot dogs, at six dollars a pop, what’s that add up to?”

            “Ninety dollars,” he says without hesitation.

            “And I only paid fifteen. It’s like I just made seventy-five bucks.”

            “No,” Jack says. “It’s like you just ate fifteen hot dogs.”

            “Fourteen,” I say. “You had one.”

            “That’s still disgusting.”

The game ends, and there is little joy in Minnesota, for the mighty Twins have lost. We hit up a couple more bars and drink a couple more beers between the stadium and our stop. The sun has disappeared for the day and the temperature has dropped by ten degrees but it’s still in the 90’s and the heat finally seems to be getting to me.

We get on a bus and ride it for half an hour before realizing that we got on the wrong one and are traveling in the wrong direction. We get off at a gas station and call a taxicab. I drink a couple of Gatorades while we wait, but it does little to help. I begin to feel sick.

The hotel’s air-conditioning is a welcoming relief and within five minutes Jack is in his bed snoring. But I can’t sleep. My head hurts. My stomach is churning. I have heat exhaustion; there’s no doubt about it. I stumble into the bathroom and hug the toilet bowl like it’s a long lost friend, its surface, cool and refreshing to the touch. An entire day’s worth of fare is released, exiting through the same place it entered—beer and hot dogs and Gatorade and more beer and more hot dogs. I make noises like a dinosaur in heat and am surprised that Jack doesn’t wake. When I think it’s over I stumble back to my bed and try to lie down but within a minute I’m back in the bathroom, losing more hot dogs. What was I thinking? What kind of idiot eats so many Goddamn hot dogs? I won’t go into details, but a dozen or so half-digested hot dogs floating in a pool of water is not the prettiest sight in the world, and now the image is burned into my mind like bad 1960’s pop-art, and it makes me wonder if I’ll ever again be able to eat another hot dog, which makes me sad, because I really like hot dogs.