I haven’t written in forever, and hate it when that happens….The last three days here have been nearly 100 degrees, and just awful humidity. Are you familiar with DC weather, so typical? Then last evening we had a terrific storm that knocked the power out beginning around 7 pm. All I could think of was, “great, another Friday night sitting at home alone in the dark.” I texted my sister in Minnesota to tell her of my predicament.
Just before the storm, I had ordered a pepperoni and jalapeno pepper pizza to be delivered by my low-brow favorite, Pizza Movers, and it arrived shortly after the storm. The driver told me that power was out in their shop, but my pizza had made it into the oven and was baked just as the storm hit, so I was one of the lucky few who got their order in and delivered this evening.
Just as I sat down to eat, in the dusk glow coming into my dining room, my neighbor sent me a text saying that her power was out, and wondered if I were at home. I texted her back inviting her and her daughter over for dinner, and she wrote back saying she’d bring candles and matches, since she knew I had neither. They had just finished eating their own homemade(!) pizza, and came over bearing Hampton Beach seashells as gifts, and not the bottle of white wine since I don’t drink white wine much.
As I tucked into the pizza, the mom and daughter duo punched me with questions, wondered why I always order from Pizza Movers, and not Roscoe’s Neapolitan Pizzeria (which is just down the street and is a really great restaurant with great wood fired oven pizzas, or that other place on Georgia Avenue in Takoma, I can’t remember the name, but apparently even they have great pizza.
I told them that there was something about the pedestrian-ness of Pizza Movers that I really liked: the corner location with the cracked window, the walls plastered with menus, the delivery guy who likes to talk to my daughter, the cardboard, almost Domino’s-like quality of the pizza crust. I could go on, by why bother, you get the point.
T said it was the Midwestern in me.
The three of us sat in my living room by candle light and talked for hours, O revealing stories of her days as a cheerleader (those days didn’t last long – she’s much too real for that crowd, and has lots of other things going on), her purchase of a Bushnell telescope to feed her growing interest in astronomy, deep space, and all things philosophical in that galaxy, Star Trek, universe reversing itself kind of way (the crazy dude selling the Bushnell asked for FIVE dollars. O gave him a TEN and told him to keep the change. This was a 500 dollar telescope in perfect shape), and her and her mom’s days on Hampton Beach collecting the seashells she gave me as a gift for me showing her how to tie-dye her t-shirts a couple of weeks back.
She said that since she didn’t have a father, she wanted to wish me a happy father’s day. I just took note of what she said, not ever knowing anything about her dad or her mom’s former husband. I just knew they lived alone and never saw a guy hanging around. One day maybe I’ll ask. But we talked about all kinds of things, T and I drank a few beers, and O had two of her Pomegranate Izzys (they’re fizzy) I keep in the fridge for just such occasions.
All the while the power was being restored. Supposedly.
They borrowed my flashlight, and walked home taking two of their candles and leaving one for me. It must have been nearly midnight, and the power had yet to be restored.