In the ninth grade my face got all trucked up in a car accident. The next year my high school let me be a judge at their annual chili cook-off. Ever since, on the eve of the season\u2019s first freeze, I make a big pot, the beginning of two months of competition. I find the process soothing. My recipe changes from year to year. I\u2019ve never written it down and being prone to heavy drink, I invariably forget something. My maxim is to keep it simple. This is Omaha. Don\u2019t need to be showing up at the American Legion Hall with braised short-rib chili.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The onset of winter around here is a curious thing. There’s excitement in the air despite everyone knowing that in a month we\u2019ll all be begging for spring. My chili season routine goes as such: on Wednesday I hit the grocery store. Thursday, I dice everything up: onions, peppers, garlic, and tomatoes. Fix a drink. Brown the meat. Refill my drink. Add everything to the stock pot, stir it real good, and let it rest in the fridge overnight. All day Friday I cook it down, adding beer\/coffee\/broth as needed. On Saturday I bring it to whatever cook-off is happening. Sundays I\u2019m hungover. Monday and Tuesday are pretty inconsequential.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019ll be up front about it, one of the buddies I was in the car wreck with didn\u2019t make it out. He was sixteen, two years older than me, and he was driving. The other buddy, Tim Slobowski, was my age. We were on a rural stretch of road, what we called out north.<\/em> Slobowski was ejected from the car. His brain went without oxygen for forty-five minutes, and he spent the next six weeks in a coma. After that they moved him to the Madonna House Rehab Hospital, where he doesn\u2019t know who he is or where he\u2019s at. I used to visit, but it\u2019s been a while.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 People at the Hy-Vee see what\u2019s in my cart and give me looks of approval, the man making midweek chili. Such jaunt in my step. My go-to protein is a mixture of Italian sausage and ground beef (1:3). In the past I\u2019ve done some wild experimentation, depending on how frisky I\u2019m feeling. Have used everything from elk to pulled pork to brisket. Where I draw the line is chicken, white chili, which I won\u2019t do. In a few weeks my hunting buddies will start getting last year\u2019s venison out of their deep freezes and I\u2019ll make a few batches with that, but until then, I\u2019ll keep it simple. Italian sausage and ground beef.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As I exit the store, the Salvation Army bell ringer is going at it like he\u2019s John Bonham. I wasn\u2019t planning on donating (no idea where the money goes), but I admire his tenacity. I stop the cart and fish around in my pocket. The drummer does a triplet. He\u2019s wearing fingerless leather gloves. The bell is vise-gripped to a hi-hat stand. He goes at it like a trap set. I bend down with my dollar. He looks at me. We recognize each other. He grins in a way that says he knows it\u2019s me, and yeah dude, it\u2019s him: my old friend, Doogie. He stops mid-song, looks in my cart. \u201cWhoa motherfucker,\u201d he says. \u201cYou making chili?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Aside from family, I\u2019ve known Doogie longer than anyone else. His stepdad coached our little-league team, this mustached dude who\u2019d pitched collegiately and was obsessed with bunting. Later, Doogie and I did drugs and played in punk bands together, which is when he dropped the name William and took on Doogie.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDoogie,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat the fuck man, I thought you were in Denver.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMade it nine months out there, but I\u2019m back. Been so for a few weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I nod at the tithing bell. \u201cThe hell is this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe fuck\u2019s it look like? Denver\u2019s not cheap.\u201d He lowers his voice. \u201cYou still\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGave it up,\u201d I say. \u201cComing on two years.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cCongrats. That\u2019s why I moved. Worked for a while too, but you know that junk is everywhere.\u201d He puts a hand on the case of beer in my cart. \u201cHaven\u2019t kicked this, I see.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cTechnically that\u2019s for the chili.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFuckin A.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHey man,\u201d I say. \u201cIs this what it looks like?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNot really.\u201d He looks around. \u201cActually, maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ninety percent of my friends from his days are gone. Some left to reinvent themselves and some passed away and some got married, had kids. I spent a decade moving around. Whenever things came close to falling in place, something came up. Emergency dental surgery or a bad breakup or x, y, and z. I pull a twenty from my billfold. Doogie pockets it on the sly and gives the bell a thwack, thanks me for being a good friend.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the three years I\u2019ve been back in Omaha, I\u2019ve entered forty chili cook-offs. Placed in the top three at thirty of them, fifteen of which I won. I know it\u2019s a weird hobby, but if my biggest proclivity is an obsession with making chili, I consider myself healthy. It\u2019s Thursday morning and my stomach is weightless in anticipation. Been since March that I last made a batch. I hone the chef\u2019s knife, ready the cutting board. The tips of my fingers get prickly. I start my audiobook: Stephen Covey\u2019s The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. <\/em>It\u2019s been my soundtrack for the last two chili-cooking seasons. Over the next couple months I\u2019ll take it to the house three, maybe four times. Put it away for the year, recharged.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I am in control of what defines me. Covey hammers that. Don\u2019t have to be defined by my past. Humans have the power to choose. That\u2019s why I moved away. Fuckers all saw me as the dude that had been in the car accident. For many years I was erratic. Covey helped me regain control. It\u2019s like he says, so much about who we are is determined in the split seconds between stimulus and response. And never forget that you have the power to choose.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The baseball team that Doogie and I played for\u2014the Omaha Tornadoes\u2014the summer after sixth grade we made a run at the Little League World Series, the event that\u2019s televised on ESPN. All season we used the thought of ourselves on TV as motivation. A communal fantasy that grew out of control. We made it to the final round of regionals in Wichita, KS. One more and we were in. We could practically see ourselves in the nation\u2019s living rooms, dominating with small ball. The hope for a better tomorrow. We ended up losing in the last inning of the championship game and shortly thereafter found out that we hadn’t even been competing in the tournament that climaxes on ESPN. We\u2019d been in some rinky-dink knockoff version, lied to by our parents and Doogie\u2019s stepdad, who knew we\u2019d be motivated by TV. The whole experience ruined baseball for me.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I love waking up on chili cook-down Friday. Last night it was hard to fall asleep, similar to the last day of school as a kid, a memory I barely remember, but it was embryonic, the windows open to perfect weather. I put the pot on the range and slowly bring it to a boil, stirring in cumin, cayenne, and paprika. Half a Hershey bar. A quarter cup of cold brew. Couple tablespoons of Mexican coke. Last year I fucked around with soda syrup as the sweetener. It was close to what I wanted, but the line to toe was thin and it made me feel like I was trying to be something I\u2019m not, unbearably pretentious.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 All told I spent a decade away from Omaha. Went from Tampa to Lake Charles, Asheville and Pensacola\u2014once for love, once for a bar, and the others for no real reason, reinventing who I was every few years. One of the things I consistently missed were the chili cook-offs, nothing like they are in the heartland. To the credit of Lake Charles, they had a bunch of well-attended gumbo cook-offs around Mardi Gras, but I only like that stuff in extreme moderation. At the last one I attended I was eating a bowl in front of the guy that made it\u2014duck and andouille\u2014and on my second spoonful I bit square into a piece of buckshot. I pulled the BB from my mouth and the guy started laughing like a goddamn maniac. I didn\u2019t think it was funny, though. That incisor is still chipped.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I bring the chili to a hard boil and kill the heat. Add in some bone broth and work it to a simmer. I can\u2019t stress enough the importance of a quality stock pot. I\u2019ve got a top-end chef\u2019s knife as well, German forged steel. Those Japanese brands look sweet, but I\u2019ve heard they require a ton of maintenance. Even though it\u2019s been years since my last relationship fell apart, I still fantasize about the gift registry she and I put together, sorry we didn\u2019t stay together long enough to see it through. The kitchen we would\u2019ve had.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The cook-off they let me judge after my accident was our high-school\u2019s big annual fundraiser, climax of the blue-and-white weekend. The three judges are usually big-time alumni. It\u2019s considered an honor. That\u2019s what my mom kept harping on after I was invited. I was hesitant, but she insisted. And she was right. Whole crowd gave me a standing-o when I took my place. I was seated next to a famous movie director, class of \u201879. He\u2019d just finished filming something with Matt Damon. It\u2019d been the talk of our high school. The emcee put two flights of chili in front of me. The director noticed my shaking hands, leaned in and said that Matt Damon had found my story very compelling. By the time I reached the next taster, I\u2019d settled down. I took a bite and pretended to gag, real cartoon-like. At that moment everyone in the audience knew I\u2019d be fine. They beamed up at me, proud of the way they\u2019d rallied around the poor kid. Helped him overcome adversity. Many years later I drunkenly tried getting in touch with the director to see if he could help me out. His people said he was on location in Hawaii, and that if he didn\u2019t get back to me in a few months, to follow up. But he didn\u2019t and neither did I. The whole thing was stupid. What was I expecting, him to cast me in some fucking Jason Bourne movie?<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 After three hours of simmering, I give the chili my inaugural taste. Swish it around like a wine snob. As anticipated, there\u2019s something missing. Always happens with the season\u2019s first batch. Last weekend I emptied my pantry, which I do at the beginning of every October, keep the spices and toss the rest\u2014hard to innovate while constipated with yesterday\u2019s shortcomings. The pitfall is that this chili needs something I don\u2019t have. It\u2019s no problem, though. Hy-Vee is close and maybe I\u2019ll get to see Doogie again. Been thinking a lot about how I got off the path we were on and he didn\u2019t. The emptiness he must be feeling. I\u2019ve been there.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 After the dust from the car wreck settled my parents hired an attorney. The hairpin turn we wrecked at wasn\u2019t labeled. No guard rail either. Everyone\u2019s assumption was that we\u2019d been drinking, but we hadn\u2019t been. My buddies and I were just out for a joy ride, Nebraska in early April, looking for sandhill cranes. When we launched off the road my stomach shot through my throat. Time elongated into milliseconds I could see and touch. There wasn\u2019t any calm or clarity, or whatever people tell you they feel in the moments before death. It\u2019s all a lie. I only felt terror and all I wanted was to be alive. Then we crashed in a soy field and started rolling. My attorney was a real bulldog. The county was on the hook. My folks put my settlement money into a trust. Every month until I turn forty I get two grand. It\u2019s been a blessing and a curse.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 This time when I approach the entrance to the grocery store there\u2019s no Salvation Army bell ringer. Honestly, I\u2019m disappointed. The vision of Doogie\u2019s face has been in the back of my mind. How worn down it looked, like an old catcher\u2019s mitt. I shouldn\u2019t have left him in the lurch all those years ago when I up and moved away, cutting ties with who I was. From eighteen to twenty-five, he and I travelled the country pursuing punk-rock fantasies. Taught a bunch of shit-hole bars a thing or two about having a good time. Made caricatures of ourselves and called it profound. Swore we were pursuing the life we wanted, fast and hard. Paycheck to paycheck. Then the pixie dust wore off and I moved away without saying much. Just needed a change.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I meander through the grocery store. Grab some high-end bone broth, a couple ghost peppers, another can of tomato paste. An orange (for the zest). When I\u2019m leaving the store I hear someone wailing on the bell. I\u2019m thrilled. Can barely contain myself as I turn toward him. He\u2019s wearing a necktie as a headband, Judas Priest long sleeve under the Salvation Army vest. Drums a line of blast beats.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDoogie!\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMy dude. Back again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNeeded a few things for my chili,\u201d I say. \u201cHow\u2019s it going, man?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNice as shit out today. I\u2019ve been trying to figure out if there\u2019s any correlation between weather and generosity. Far as I can tell, it\u2019s random.\u201d He swings the donation kettle back and forth. \u201cBunch of fucking cheapskates.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDude, you know what I was thinking about after I saw you the other day? Remember that year we almost went to the Little League World Series?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cTwenty-three years ago,\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s like they say, time flies when you\u2019re having fun.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou want to ditch this and come over for some chili?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He fidgets around. \u201cGot any of that beer left?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cEighteen at least.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He removes his vest and says, \u201cI\u2019ll hop in with you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The neighborhoods we used to live in are nice now, full of street tacos and cocktail bars. Our drug house was gutted and turned into a vinyl-listening library, $79 a month, one of the best record collections in the Midwest. When we lived there, we were constantly having to scrape together extra money to get the utilities turned back on. Place had revolving doors. My room was on the top floor. Doogie\u2019s drum set was in the basement. Despite sound proofing it with egg cartons and junked mattresses, I heard every beat of his practices, and he was always at it. Ever since I\u2019ve needed a box fan to sleep, that dump was so loud all the time. Makes me glad it\u2019s something pretentious now.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Immediately upon entering my house, Doogie says, \u201cGood fuck. It smells fantastic.\u201d He checks out my trinkets. I\u2019m a collector of several things. Bobbleheads and postcards and koozies, most extensively. When I started accumulating them, I stopped getting tattoos. Win-win. I\u2019ve got koozies from all over the country. Some from places Doogie and I went together, like the bar in the lobby of the heart-shaped hot-tub motel in Jackson, MS. First time we tried meth.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou really hate having a warm beer and a cold hand,\u201d he says, looking at all of them. \u201cI\u2019ll give you that much.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSee the one from Slims in Raleigh?\u201d I say. \u201cThat place was insane.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOh man, I still feel bad for that guy. Dude who put us up. He didn\u2019t deserve that from us.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYeah,\u201d I say. “I forgot about that. Certainly not my proudest moment, but he had money and was an asshole to begin with.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I get us a couple cans of beer. The chili is simmering on the range. I prepare the fixins: a bowl of Fritos, Crystal and Tabasco hot sauce, fine-shredded cheddar. In Nebraska it\u2019s customary to serve cinnamon rolls with chili\u2014they get us started on it in elementary school\u2014but I don\u2019t play by those rules. Fuck that. I put the chili in front of us, normal fixins. Before taking his first bite, Doogie wafts it under his nose. \u201cWhat\u2019s that I detect,\u201d he says, \u201cnutmeg?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He wolfs the bowl down without another word. I\u2019d go so far as to say I knocked it out of the park. Again.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWell,\u201d he says. \u201cPretty decent.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cPretty decent? Variations of this recipe are going to win a ton of cook-offs.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m no chef de cuisine, but it seems like you over handled it a bit. Folks want a robust, simple chili. This tastes like it doesn\u2019t know what it wants to be. You know what I mean? It lacks an identity.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe fuck do I know, though, I\u2019m a Hormel man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGet out of here with that. Seriously?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou like what you like.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The guy\u2019s got dirt under his fingernails, sniffles a lot. Almost forty-years old and still rocking a Judas Priest shirt. He\u2019s as lost as I once was, an addict. I shouldn\u2019t fault him for the Hormel comment. He doesn\u2019t know any better. I grab us another couple beers. \u201cListen,\u201d I tell him. \u201cI think I\u2019ve got something that could help you out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cLess cumin in the chili?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFunny,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m trying to be serious for a second.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I keep several copies of Seven Habits <\/em>around the house for this very occasion, a friend in need. I hand him the multi-disc audio edition. He holds it like a problem child with the body of Christ. \u201cYou might think it\u2019s bullshit,\u201d I say. \u201cBut it worked for me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWorked like how?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHelped me get in control of everything. I had a victim\u2019s mentality for pretty much my whole life. Bad things kept happening to me because bad things always happen to me. You know what I mean? That type of philosophical outlook.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFuckin A,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFriend to friend, I\u2019ve been where you\u2019re at.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cLook, man,” he says. \u201cI thought we were here to eat chili. If I wanted to be proselytized, there\u2019s any number of people more qualified than you that I could\u2019ve gone to. No offense.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cTrust me, I was the same way. This shit, it can take a load off.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019s not the point.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat is the point?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t want unsolicited life advice. Especially from someone like you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He\u2019s the same way I was, hardheaded. Covey helped me realize that.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cJust take it,\u201d I say. \u201cDo whatever you want with it. Doesn\u2019t matter to me. But take it, just in case.\u201d<\/p>\n \u2014<\/p>\n I won the first two cook-offs of the season. Spent three weeks honing my recipe and then boom, I took O\u2019Leavers on the first Saturday in November\u2014$100 bar tab\u2014and The Winchester the following weekend, where this biker in his seventies finished second. By the time they announced the results the biker was damn near incoherent, prison-sleeved and in the throes of what appeared to be a psychedelic trip. For winning that one I got a toilet trophy and fifty bucks. The biker got a bottle of blackberry brandy. He had a tough time figuring out what it was.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I am a well-oiled machine. My house smells delicious all the time. If they made a chili-scented candle, I\u2019d be the target demographic.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I kicked the shit out of The Sydney\u2019s cook-off. They never stood a chance. Two different yahoos had chickpeas in their chili. To them I said, \u201cWhy does the sexual deviant like your chili so much?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Huh?<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBecause the chickpeas.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And I rode off into the sunset, gift card in my pocket.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Bribery and ass kissing are rampant in the competitive chili scene. It\u2019s always better to have a panel of judges than audience voting. No telling whose team folks are on. Another pro tip: invest in a decent crockpot. Nothing too expensive, but nothing too shitty. People judge at either end. What can I say, they eat with their eyes. And if the cook-off benefits charity, do a little research first. Or just avoid them altogether. They bring out some serious amateurs. The ones at old-school bars are where it\u2019s at.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Oh, and don\u2019t show up with bean-less chili. Whenever someone does, we talk shit behind their backs.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I open the year six for eight. Lost two to charity, but what the hell, they were for good causes. Not like it\u2019s my fault that the parents of the Kingswood Athletic Association have unsophisticated palettes. Keep your crown, you well-done assholes. And never again lie about how the baseball season could end. None of those cook-offs matter anyways. My green jacket, the creme de la creme, is this weekend at the Homy Inn. Culmination of the season. The place is an institution, beloved by the types of lawyers\/doctors\/rich folk who give big at my high school\u2019s annual fundraiser. While most cook-offs get between ten and twenty entrants, the Homy will have upwards of fifty, judged in stages. $500 on the line. I\u2019ve never won. Last year I took third. For it I\u2019m breaking out the big guns. I started my prep work a week ago. Went and bought a pork butt that I cut into inch-thick strips. They\u2019ve been curing in crab boil and canning salt in the fridge, a cup of sugar. I\u2019ll smoke the slabs into tasso a few weeks from now. What I\u2019m after in the meantime are the shoulder blades. Left a good amount of meat on them. They\u2019ve been in the curing solution. I\u2019ll add them to the chili at the very beginning, let them season everything. All told it\u2019s a two-week process.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 They ought to crown me champion now, Friday afternoon. This batch is incredible. The pork bones worked wonders. After a few hours of simmering, I was able to shred the meat right off. It\u2019s got a feathery texture, packed with flavor. Perfect complement to the Italian sausage and ground sirloin. I should\u2019ve been writing down my recipes all along. For posterity. Maybe open up a chili parlor someday. Write a cookbook and have Matt Damon blurb it. At the very least, I\u2019d be able to see what the changes say about who I became, no longer the brooding dude on the verge of an episode. I am the chili master now.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 On Homy Inn Saturday I wake up at the crack of the sparrow. Begin the day with thirty minutes of yoga on YouTube. Follow that up with fifteen minutes of mindfulness, guided by YouTube. Then I take a hot shower. After the shower I pull the chili from the fridge and put it on the range, slowly bring it to temperature. I eat a bowl straight up, no garnishes. Phenomenal stuff.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The cook-off starts at two. I show up at one, bring it in the front door. The bartender takes it to the back, where they\u2019ll transfer it to a quarter tray, to be labeled and served from steam tables. The right way to do things. Total anonymity. I settle into the bar, have a beer and a shot. My chili might be superfluous, but when it comes to drinking, I\u2019m a meat and potatoes guy. More and more people arrive with chili. Some look like straight-up yokels. I rule them out. The rough looking ones are the ones I\u2019m worried about. That old-timer with the neck tattoo, for example, he ought to get a first-round bye. Respect for the lifers. The bar\u2019s capacity is a tight 175. Today they\u2019ll reach that. The bartender brings me another beer and addresses me by name, asks how my chili turned out.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cPretty good,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019m tempted to tell him how awesome it is, but I\u2019ve overheard a bunch of contestants running their mouths and in this arena I want to be the strong and silent type. As Covey would say, the choice is mine.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Forty chilis have been entered. The bar is wall-to-wall. A couple sore-thumb tourists pump money into the claw machine, nothing in it but a big pink dildo. What a dive, <\/em>they laugh. Folks always act surprised when they realize said dildo is greased, which should probably be a given. The Homy has been putting this on for over twenty years. They\u2019ve got it down pat. Chilis have been separated into groups of ten. The first round will be judged by the audience. Every attendee has been assigned a flight and given a scorecard. Top three from each will advance.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Minutes before it\u2019s about to start, the front door swings open. Standing in the gust of frigid air is my old friend Doogie. He\u2019s carrying a greasy crockpot, balances it against his stomach with one hand. Fist bumps the door guy with the other, who then hustles it to the back. Doogie catches sight of me. I raise my glass. He gives me a stern-faced thumbs up, goes and registers with the event coordinator\u2014the octogenarian proprietress who takes absolutely no shit from anyone. For the past fifteen years she\u2019s made a pot of chili for people to eat during Monday Night Football<\/em> and for my two cents, it\u2019s pretty good. I expect her to give Doogie a hard time, but she doesn\u2019t. In fact, they seem to have a rapport. He comes to my side and orders a drink and I say to him, \u201cDidn\u2019t know you were into making chili. Which number is yours?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou know it\u2019s against the rules for me to divulge that information prior to the completion of first-round voting. I may be a fuck up, but I\u2019m no cheater.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat do you say we get a little side bet going?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t approach making chili with a results-based mindset. I trust what I cooked. For me, the joy is in the process.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou listened to the book,\u201d I say. \u201cAwesome, man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s vintage Covey. Always act with the end in mind.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe hell I did,\u201d he says. \u201cWhat\u2019s the bet? I\u2019ll take your action all day.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cForget about it. You\u2019re right about being process based. It\u2019s all in good fun. I\u2019m glad to see you\u2019re doing well.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFive-hundred,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re good for that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHere he goes again, Mr. Shit-Together.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He does look healthier. Not as strung out.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFine,\u201d I say. \u201cFive-hundred it is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019ll take this dickhead\u2019s money. Kickstart him into helping himself.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t even care for chili,\u201d he says, \u201cbut having tasted yours, I know I can beat it. Someone has to put you in your place.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSee you at the finish line, asshole.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019m starting to remember why we had a falling out. Dude\u2019s kind of a prick. Only reason he started at second on our little-league team was because his stepdad was the coach, the mustached man who orchestrated the whole ESPN lie. I\u2019m sorry to say it, but his stepson is about to lose five-hundred bucks.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Will I make him pay?<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Goddamn right.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The emcee starts the event. First round will take an hour. It\u2019s warm in the bar, spirited. These things aren\u2019t really about winning. They\u2019re about Midwestern camaraderie. The shared misery of another winter, born to die in Nebraska. This bar regular I\u2019m friendly with, Rat-faced Johnny, plays Mot\u00f6rhead from the jukebox. He knows I\u2019m a fan. \u201cHere\u2019s to pissing in the wind and shitting where you eat,\u201d he says. Mot\u00f6rhead ends and Iron Maiden comes on. Rat-faced Johnny does it again.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I sample all ten chilis I\u2019ve been assigned. Have a sip of Aperol spritz between each. Don\u2019t care if the drink looks ostentatious, it\u2019s a great way to cleanse the palette. Three of the chilis are decent. Four are palatable. And three are downright lousy. If they\u2019re any indication as to how these people eat at home, I feel sorry for them. No doubt I\u2019ll advance to the next round.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Doogie shuffles to my side and says, \u201cI know which one is yours. Heavy on the cumin again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Before I can retort, the bartender cuts the jukebox\u2014Rat-faced Johnny is not amused, middle of his favorite Black Sabbath song\u2014but they\u2019re ready to announce the first-round results.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou think you made it through?\u201d I ask Doogie.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAt this point,\u201d he says, \u201cit\u2019s outside my control and therefore, I am unconcerned.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Another of Covey\u2019s tenets. Even if he\u2019s mocking it, at least he listened.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBy the way,\u201d I say. \u201cThat was a bullshit move your stepdad pulled. Convincing us we were going to the Little League World Series.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re telling me,\u201d he says. \u201cI had to live with the fucker.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The emcee fumbles around with the PA system. People are mirthful. Days are getting longer. We\u2019re past the peak of winter. In no particular order, the emcee calls the numbers of those that have advanced into the finals. Of course I am among them. Doogie stays calm throughout. \u201cYou make it through?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMan,\u201d he says. \u201cWhy\u2019d you have to bring up my stepdad? I\u2019m not trying to think about that guy right now. Fucking ruined my day. That\u2019s a bullshit move.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The last thing I expected was tenderness. \u201cYou\u2019ve been a prick all afternoon,\u201d I say. \u201cI was just giving it back.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI know why you\u2019re obsessed with this chili cook-off bullshit. It\u2019s because they let you judge that one in high school after the accident went down. Got me thinking, man, when\u2019s the last time you\u2019ve been out to see Slobowski?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He knows not to go there. I shake my head.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cJust a question,\u201d he says. “I\u2019m genuinely curious.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou know the answer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s not a conversation I care to have with anyone, let alone an old junky buddy.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAnyways,\u201d he says, eagle eyeing the barroom. \u201cI\u2019ve got to go catch up with some folks. Good luck with the next round.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The bartender kicks the jukebox back on. Rat-faced Johnny raises hell, says it skipped his songs and ate the remaining credits. Now it\u2019s playing some bullshit Aerosmith song and everybody in the state of Nebraska knows he hates them. Johnny\u2019s nickname isn\u2019t flattering, but it sure does fit. The bartender tells him to settle down. Not like the jukebox is going anywhere.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The judges take their places at the head table. Two of them I recognize, the chef from the Boiler Room and this stout guy named Dario, owner of Dario\u2019s. Best steak frites in town. The third judge I\u2019ve never seen before, some lady who teaches culinary arts at the community college. Over the years I\u2019ve learned not to overthink what the judges might be thinking. There\u2019s nothing their reactions can tell me about chili that I don\u2019t already know. I lean back and enjoy my spritz. Peace be the journey. I order a refill on Doogie\u2019s tab.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The judges head to the backroom to deliberate. I sample all ten of the finalists. Seven are solid. Sometimes I get too cocky and underestimate my competition. Wouldn\u2019t be the first time hubris has fucked me. Three of them even, I wouldn\u2019t be ashamed to lose to. One seems to have hit exactly what it\u2019s going for. Perfect combination of heat and flavor. This brilliant texture to it. Oh wait, it\u2019s mine.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Nice.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The judges emerge with their results. The emcee has an envelope in hand. He delivers a little hoopla. Thanks us for being here. Says they couldn\u2019t have asked for a more qualified panel of judges. And what a way to kick off the homestretch to Spring. My nerves ratchet up, suspended in the in-between while this guy finishes his spiel.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 No matter the outcome, I know in my heart of hearts that I am a winner.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I advance into the top five. Those that have been eliminated go and collect their consolation ribbons. The emcee whittles out two more. I\u2019m in the top three. Soon they\u2019ll be etching my name on the plaque, forever part of something bigger than myself. Doogie is stone-faced. I have no idea if his chili is still alive.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Just name the goddamn winner already.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And then they do.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 William \u201cDoogie\u201d Donahue.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The audience gives it up for him.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Son of a bitch.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He tries to accept it stoically, but has a teenager\u2019s sheepishness when he takes the trophy. Looks out into the crowd and raises his arms. I\u2019m pissed off, but oh well. I\u2019ve got to admit, his chili, #6 of the finalists, was good. Nice and hearty. Midwestern. I put my hands together for him, my old friend.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There\u2019s always next year and the next year and the one after that. Adapt and survive. Maybe I\u2019ll open a chili parlor when my two-grand allowance runs out, call it Slobowski\u2019s. I\u2019ll go out to the Madonna House to see him soon. It\u2019d be nice to catch up with his mother as well. I know she was bummed when I quit visiting, disappeared in pursuit of something I never found. Didn\u2019t even bother returning her calls. But I\u2019m back in control now, helping old friends win chili cook-offs. Some much-needed meaning in Doogie\u2019s life.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The bar settles down. Empties by about half. It\u2019s 4:30 now. In an hour it\u2019ll be dark. For finishing second I got a $200 tab, which I\u2019m putting to good use. Gave rat-faced Johnny permission to drink on it until it\u2019s gone. Would\u2019ve thought he won the lottery when I told him.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt was a well-fought battle.\u201d Doogie comes up and shakes my hand.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou showed me,\u201d I say. \u201cI apologize. Got ahead of myself.\u201d It\u2019s important that I be the bigger man. \u201cYou do Venmo?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cCash only, bucko.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He follows me to the ATM. I hand him the five hundred and say, \u201cI guess we\u2019ll see each other when we see each other. Until then, be well.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou know what my chili was?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cJust Hormel that I doctored up a little bit, you self-righteous son of a bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMotherfucker.”<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He walks away\u2014middle finger up\u2014out into the dregs of winter, a champion.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" In the ninth grade my face got all trucked up in a car accident.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":7751,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[889,6,143,1915,1916,8],"class_list":["post-7738","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features","tag-aquifer","tag-aquifer-the-florida-review-online","tag-fiction","tag-paul-hansen","tag-the-chili-cook-off","tag-the-florida-review"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n