They were from Pittsburgh, come to Portland for the show. On a date. She wasn't so much into the band as she was into him. He was definitely into the band, so there she was. There they were. In Portland. Next to us.
We sang, we screamed, we slapped high fives all night. It was a giant party, and even those who weren't here to see the band got a good show. A bunch of middle-aged men turned back to teenagers, whooping and giggling. When do you get to see that?
* * *
He made mead near Santa Fe. There was a light drizzle outside and it was almost time for lunch so we ducked into a cozy bar. He was there, reading the newspaper. Conversation happened, the way it does in bars. Unexpected, yet somehow comfortable, like we'd always known each other.
He asked the bartender to pour us a couple glasses. We fell in love and bought bottles to take back home. Months later, each sip reminded us of that conversation, that drizzle in Santa Fe. I wrote to thank him once, he was glad we'd enjoyed it. That was the end of our conversation.
* * *
I was swimming off the coast of San Diego in the '80s with a friend. A house on the hillside had caught fire and there was nothing we could do about it. I've probably told this story before because it's an image that sticks in my head no matter how hard I try to shake it.
What happened to that house? What happened to that friend?
* * *
I'd driven a different friend to Santa Barbara for Halloween. We parted ways and he got drunk, ended up arrested for climbing a light pole.
It was a quiet ride home.
No comments:
Post a Comment