double comfort pie

(I’m trying to clear out my drafts, pippa. I have so many unfinished drafts; it’s upsetting, really. I may just start posting them as-is, such is my desperation to get them outta there. Yes, I could finish them, but some of them have lost the moment, you know? This is a post I almost finished back at the end of October, in the midst of the wildfires here. I’ve gone ahead and finished it and, well, here it is. Outta the “drafts” section! Just know the context is, oh, six months ago? When I talk about “limbo,” I’m talking about the weird limbo the whole of SD county was in back then. There was nothing else on our minds. Anyway …. the belated BElated post.)

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Two nights ago, in the midst of the limbo, something suddenly happened. We’d been slouched for two whole days in front of the TV, watching fire coverage — literally, the only thing on TV — and out of the blue, we realized we had to have pie. We had to. It was more than mere want. It was an itch. A hankerin’. A low psychic moan of desire. We were stir-crazy and sad and overwrought and only pie would fix it. But I didn’t want to just eat pie. No. I wanted to make out with pie. Wildly fornicate with pie. Have my pappy wave a shotgun and force it to marry me, naughty pie. So this was my mission, you see. MB had no such fantasies; he just wanted a piece of pie.

We made haste to the nearest Marie Callender’s. Turns out, Jesus was totally on board with my pie fornication because — Hallelujah! — Marie Callender’s was having its famous Semi-Annual Pie Sale. MB, still in his flannel pajama bottoms such was our pie-mania, hid in the car. I jumped out, dashed inside, and didn’t remember til later that just before the pie-mania struck, out of desperation, I’d slathered my dry, smoke-crackled face with a thick layer of extra virgin olive oil. Does anyone have a problem with this? No? Okay. Good. We proceed.

As I approached the entrance, a giant banner slung over the doorway welcomed me: “Any whole pie, 5.99.”

Such a deal. Like divine permission. Woo-hoo!

But then I saw the line. The line that proved everyone else in a 63-mile radius had been struck with pie-mania too. The line that proved everyone else was overwrought too. Or else the line that proved I had completely failed to live out my life’s mantra of: Hurry up and get there before all the selfish people!

Uncharacteristically, before I’d jumped out of the car, I’d asked MB what kind of pie he wanted.

“Pumpkin,” he said firmly. In my heart, I made a face. I like my pumpkin pie homemade.

“Okay. Uhm, what if they’re out?”

“I dunno. The raspberry or the chocolate or something?”

“Okay.”

Now lost in the line, I craned my neck to see the display case. They really were out of a lot of pies. And, sadly, with each person’s order, another pie listed on their Family-Feud-like pie board flipped over and disappeared forever. It was a weird, ominous little ceremony of denial. I felt even more desperate. Beyond that, I started to worry about stupid stuff like: Was Richard Dawson gonna appear, chat me up, then try to smooch me? And if I requested a pie they didn’t have, would I hear that obnoxious buzzer and see that giant ‘X’ that means you’re an idiot? These thoughts buzzed through me to the point of distraction, so I didn’t notice the tall black fellow staring at me from behind the counter.

“Ma’am?”

“Wuh? Oh, uhm, sorry.”

The tall fellow was doing this thing: He would stare at me, look away really fast, then stare at me again. What was his problem? I decided he must be a weirdo.

“Do you have any pumpkin?” I tried to rally my enthusiasm.

The fellow just kept doing the thing. Okay. This guy was a serious weirdo. Or a trainee. Or a serious weirdo trainee.

“Pumpkin?” I repeated.

“Ohh … uh, yeah. Lemme check.”

He disappeared into the back and returned seconds later with a pie.

“Yep. Last one.” He stared again. Just rude, you know? Maybe I should tell the manager that the new dude is socially marginal, I thought.

“Uhmm, okay. Well … I’ll take that, please.”

I didn’t really want pumpkin; MB wanted pumpkin. But he was in the car all comfy in his pajama bottoms. He wasn’t here, you know, getting all kerfuffled from the stares of the Serious Weirdo Trainee.

Then several things happened at once:

The Serious Weirdo Trainee kept doing his thing, all OCD or something.

I kept my head down because he was scaring me with his obvious psychosis.

Meanwhile, some blonde girl boxed up my pie.

And I saw another, prettier pie in the display case: Double Cream Blueberry, God help me.

Then this junior high girl behind me chirped, “Uhm, do you guys have any more pumpkin pies?”

A-HA! Pie salvation! I turned to the precious child.

“Well, if you want, you can have my pumpkin. They’re boxing it up. It’s the last one.”

I am Mother Teresa.

“Oh, wow. Are you sure?”

Oh, yes, dear girl. I am sure.

I told her so.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Suuure.”

Weird thing: She didn’t look directly at me either. What is with these people?

So Junior High Girl took the pumpkin. I was forced to take the Double Cream Blueberry, God help me.

I strolled back out to the car with my box of divine intervention, feeling pretty good about myself, really. I’d helped a child, for pity’s sake. As I slid into the car, I handed MB the box.

“What is it?” he said.

“Oh … it’s the Double Cream Blueberry.” (God help me.)

“Oh.”

I felt a strange sudden urge to explain it all. This, my act of beneficence. I started talking very fast, speaking my sentences as questions.

“Yeah. Well, I had the pumpkin? But it was the last one? And this kid, she wanted pumpkin? So I said she could have mine, you know?

“Uh-huh.” He stared at me. Wasn’t buying it. There was an icky pause.

“You have olive oil all over your face.”

Touche.