Table Talk

My buddy Tim and I used to do some pretty serious cycling. Learning rather quickly that we lacked the physical capabilities to ride really fast we chose, instead, to focus on riding really far. We'd do some short rides during the week, often fifteen to twenty miles, and then on the weekend we'd set out on significantly longer rides of sixty, seventy, or even eighty miles.

We had a favorite route that took us from our house in the outer city limits of St. Louis, around Forest Park, through a few neighborhoods where not even two flat tires could convince you to stop, down Market Street through the heart of the city, onto the Arch grounds, and eventually to a trail that ran parallel to the Mississippi River. Near its end, the trail delivered us to the Old Chain of Rocks bridge leading us into Illinois where the roads were less traveled and much safer.

Although we loved riding, our favorite part of the day was stopping around the fifty mile mark at the Quick Stop Amoco station. We'd drag our numb "sit bones" off our bike seats and happily welcome the ice cold air that greeted us just inside the glass doors. We made our way straight for the candy isle and scooped up a Snicker bar apiece and a bottle of Gatorade. Once back outside, we'd remove our helmets and gloves, find a patch of shade along the side of the building, and sit to enjoy our snacks. I can tell you without doubt that no other delicacy in the history of the world has ever tasted better than that Snicker bar. The smoothness of the chocolate, the creaminess of the caramel, and the crunchiness of the peanuts worked in perfect harmony. Either of us could have died a very happy man at that moment.

Not long after one of our first visits to the Quick Stop we again found ourselves at a gas station looking for a snack. This time, however, we were not in the midst of a long bike ride but, rather, just making a run-of-the-mill snack run before watching a favorite television show with Tricia. Returning to the house, we all settled in and ripped open our candy bars. It didn't take long to notice something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I immediately looked over at Tim to find him making the same face as me - one of bewilderment.

"Uh, what's wrong with this candy bar?" I asked.
"Do you mean it doesn't rock what-so-ever?" he replied.
"Rock? It doesn't even necessarily taste all that good."

Tricia shot us both a look of confusion. She didn't understand because her expectations were not nearly so inflated as ours. It seems that the satisfaction of the Snicker bar had been a by-product of eating it at just the right time - when we were overheated, incredibly exhausted, and starving.

That's when I learned how much circumstances can significantly affect my appreciation of something new. A song. A movie. A person.

There's something to be said, though, for coming across something at the very moment you need it most. This happened to me again recently. This time, however, it was an essay. I had been noticing that on the rare occasion Tricia and I were out to dinner by ourselves we had far less to talk about than we once did. Our conversations centered on teaching and the kids and maybe what we needed to do the next day. This was, of course, due to the fact that we really don't have two separate lives to discuss anymore but, for the most part, one single one. It was at this time I came across the following piece (an excerpt) from David Sedaris...

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Old Faithful

I suffer a crippling panic whenever Hugh gets spontaneous and suggests we go to a restaurant.
"A restaurant? But what will we talk about?"
"I don't know," he'll say. "What does it matter?"
Alone together, I enjoy our companionable silence, but it creeps me out to sit in public, propped in our chairs like a pair of mummies. At a nearby table there's always a couple in their late seventies, holding their menus with trembling, spotted hands.
"Soup's a good thing," the wife will say, and the man will nod or grunt or fool with the stem of his wineglass. Eventually he'll look my way, and I'll catch in his eye a look of grim recognition.
We are your future, he seems to say.
I'm so afraid that Hugh and I won't have anything to talk about that now, before leaving home, I'll comb the papers and jot down a half-dozen topics that might keep a conversation going at least through the entrees. The last time we ate out, I prepared by reading both the Herald Tribune and The Animal Finder's Guide, a quarterly publication devoted to exotic pets and the nuts who keep them. The waiter took our orders, and as he walked away I turned to Hugh, saying, "So, anyway, I hear that monkeys can really become surly once they reach breeding age."

It's work, though, and it's always my work. If I left it up to Hugh, we'd just sit there acting like what we are: two people so familiar with each other they could scream. Sometimes, when I find it hard to sleep, I'll think of when we first met and my impatience to know everything about this person. Looking back, I should have taken it more slowly, measured him out over the course of fifty years rather than cramming him in so quickly. By the end of our first month together, he'd been so thoroughly interrogated that all I had left was breaking news - what little had happened in the few hours since I'd last seen him. Were he a cop or an emergency room doctor, there might have been a lot to catch up on, but like me Hugh works alone, so there was never much to report. "I ate some potato chips," he might say, to which I'd reply, "What kind?" or "That's funny, so did I!" More often than not, we'd just breathe into our separate receivers.
"Are you still there?"
"I'm here."
"Good. Don't hang up."
"I won't."
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I love this piece because Sedaris takes something to which many of us can relate, exaggerates it, and then ends with a tender exchange that lets you know that despite the predictability and occasional silences that come with spending your life with someone there is comfort to be had in something far greater than any conversation - the comfort of being there together.

My friend Joe and I talked over Christmas break about how television and movies often give an unrealistic and inaccurate account of falling in love and marriage. Too many movies and shows make it seem as though you never have to work at being together with someone for a lifetime. Sedaris gives a more honest look at a relationship. And I appreciate him for that. Sometimes you have to work at it a bit.

While I doubt I'll ever find myself clipping news articles out before dinner, I have decided, recently, to take some measures to rediscover some things that perhaps Tricia and I had allowed to become dusted over. I decided that we should no longer bring school work home every night. Too many evenings have been spent putting the kids to bed, working on plans and grading papers, and then going straight to bed.

Another change we made was to turn off the TV and computer for a week. While it felt a bit awkward for the first few days, it wound up being wonderful. We took more walks together, played more games, and talked. It seems talking - like most things in life - comes easier with regular practice. Oh, and it's amazing what removing the soft glow of a television screen can do for conversation!

So perhaps I found this piece to be so wonderful only because it came along at just the right time. But somehow I don't think so. I think it's more than just a Snicker bar at the fifty mile mark. It's a timeless reminder, no matter where you are in a relationship, that happiness comes from the simple act of being together - and never hanging up.