We forgot to eat.

Mary-Scott showed up Saturday night with Chipotle Grill burritos and we were so excited to spend the evening together (”Holy crap - can you believe that mid-season finale of BSG?”) that we just forgot. We basked in Saturday’s glorious end, stunning gold in the sky, happy greens in trees and shiny grass. The iron gazebo with its bound mosquito netting was flapping sexily in the chilly, last-sun breeze. A fat bumble bee humped its way through the gazebo space on its way to wherever bees go when it’s too dark to fly.

Mary-Scott is an old friend and I do not mean to imply she’s old as a person. I just meant we’ve known each other for ten years. But honestly, she’s pretty old. Old enough she has gray streaks down her dark hair and young enough that her gray streaks of hair look sultry on her, like Life put highlights in her hair intentionally, this beloved daughter.

We laughed and drank wine; giggling over Cylon conspiracy theories and every once in a while blushing while we talked about the outside world’s events, mildly embarrassed to be caught so deeply intrigued with our imagined friends in Battlestar Galactica. We eagerly gobbled our chips and guac, but forgot about the main course. The two lumpy, aluminum-wrapped burritos squatted on the kitchen counter for a few hours like robot slugs.

One thing I love about Mary-Scott is that she reminds me of the revised image of Betty Crocker, the Human Resources-looking version. Mary-Scott is Betty Crocker’s more world-savvy, raven-haired sister who said, “Fuck this baking empire. I wanna rule the world.” Mary-Scott understands people and her eyes gleam with intelligence. She is smarter than me by far but she never makes me feel stupid about that, which is how I know she is gifted with people.

During the food-forgetting-hours we weren’t exclusively laughing. We shared some heartfelt stuff. I told her about some recent struggles that left me just a little bit broken. Just a little. Mary-Scott loves me in a way that is easy for me to take in, given that I am sometimes prickly. We get each other that way.

On another topic, a few months ago when I shyly told her about a story I was writing, she got very excited. Instantly supportive. On Saturday night I gave her a few pages to read with the same shy reticence and she said, “Do you mind if I read them here? Read it now?”

It’s funny how the universe works.

I was feeling rather shitty around sharing this writing with a friend who ultimately did not want to read it, though he said he did. And while no harm was intended by this friend, nevertheless I got emotionally kicked in the stomach, so I was handing this to Mary-Scott with sore, bruised ribs.

She asked, “Can I read it here?”

I handed over the pages and stumbled away to my den to hide because I didn’t want to watch her read. But secretly I did want to watch her read because some days end up being harder than others and a friend who wants to read my writing - REALLY wants to read it and isn’t just being polite - makes me think to myself, ‘Even if I’m a shitty writer, at least I’m good at picking friends.’

So she read it on my back porch and then we both came back to the gazebo like an awkward peace conference was beginning and someone’s hand grenade had just dropped and rolled across the floor. The sky was perfectly balanced between day and dark, those forty seconds before night wins.

We talked about writing, about stories, life stories, about the names of things, about archetypes and mythology. She really is an old friend, someone I trust to say, ‘you are so full of shit, you motherfucker,’ and also the one who can honestly say, ‘Hey. Knock it off. I’ve seen you be amazing. I actually know you are amazing.’ And you believe this, well, I believe it, because old friends of mine aren’t very good at lying anymore. She liked what she read.

She really liked it.

The conversation turned to the apocalypse or the possible apocalypses from environmental disaster, political disasters, religion, and possibly some undiscovered Asiatic bug that wipes out most of the population like a TBS special movie. (Just possibly, that wasn’t the best segue - my fiction and The Apocalypse. I will keep working on the writing skills.) We talked about food shortages, and what you’d when the electrical power went out forever.

And just as the white, twinkling lights adorning the gazebo began to dominate the nightscape, Mary-Scott said in a charming smile, “Quite frankly, I think I would thrive in an apocalyptic situation.”

The spooky thing is that she’s right.

If there’s a disaster, everyone go to Mary-Scott’s house. She’ll be protecting her territory with ferocity and she’ll actually be fair, making sure we all pull through this. She is protective and compassionate. I’ll be in her basement scarfing down the last known bag of Cheetos.

The storm came almost without warning, two stiff breezes and then suddenly, we were standing, trying to catch the remaining Chipotle chips as they scattered across the deck, the yard. The wind was suddenly muscular.

I love strong weather, a big storm. But as the host, I had to defer to my guest’s comfort and would go inside immediately if she were nervous at all.

“Oh god.” She said, “This is going to be incredible. We’re NOT going inside, right?”

During most of the storm, we stayed under the gazebo, Mary-Scott’s silver highlights reflecting in the lightning, as if she herself was a force of nature. Actually, we held down the metal gazebo a few times, when it could have easily taken flight across the back yard or at least toppled a few feet. The wind was fierce, lightning dazzling, but eventually the rain was sideways so we gave up and came inside to watch the storm from the glowing comfort of my sun room. The gazebo would have to fend for itself.

We lit candles - a necessity since the power had gone out ten minutes into the storm.

We talked, had a little more wine, a little quieter talk, deeper, softer, going even further. Rain poured from the sky. And with an old friend, it’s easier to flip from hilarious to ‘oh yeah…this is really sad, by the way,’ and the transition is comforting instead of awkward.

When the rain abated (Dad, if you’re reading my blog, check out the word ‘abated,’ I totally used it in a sentence. Sorry everyone else - Dad was also my high school English teacher and I thought this might make him proud. I’m still trying to work in a blog reference to The Bridge of San Luis Rey.)

When the rain abated, we ventured back and reclaimed the gazebo. The entire neighborhood was still soaked in darkness, not a single light visible.

Blackout.

We lit candles in the gazebo and when the occasionally strong wind blew them out, we relit them. My next door neighbor’s granddaughter, Grace, calls my gazebo with its twinkling white lights, potted trees, and candles ‘The Fairie House,’ and hell, it’s pretty damn accurate.

Unfortunately, Mary-Scott and I have decided we are now officially hungry, despite the fact that it’s 10:20 p.m. Maybe it’s the red wine or the adrenaline of the evening storm, the thrill of hanging out in pitch black, but we don’t want to end the night.

I grabbed a cookie sheet and turned on the propane grill. Dragged it to sit under the gazebo, next to us. This could work as a giant toaster oven, right?

While our fat burritos warmed, we wandered around my dark house with my flashlight leading the way. I always feel like I’m part of the Scooby Doo gang whenever there’s a blackout.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m impressed you knew where your flashlight was. I have no idea where to find mine.”

This casts a bit of doubt on her ability to be the Mel Gibson apocalypse/savior character in our nightmarish future. What if she doesn’t barter well for the last bag of Cheetos?

Our burritos were thoroughly warmed and even a little extra warmed on one side, sticking to the cookie pan as I pried them off, but hey, it’s Chipotle. My neighbor’s dog, Bella, could lick it and I’d still eat it. Sure, I’d wipe it off with a napkin or something, but it’s still Chipotle.

We munched our burritos and I left the propane grill burning, our warmth and camp fire.

And as we ate, we told stories. Ghost stories. True stories, not so much embellishments of this girl who was a hitchhiker and this guy took her to his prom and then it turns out she was dead and there was his tuxedo coat - folded right on top of her grave! No, these ghost stories were odder because they were true, unexplained events. I told her stories that I said were ‘too weird’ to write on this blog (and hell, I’ve written about crying in public, my own funeral, sadness, my shadows, so you know it’s gotta be freaky shit).

“I do NOT want to hear a ghost story,” Mary-Scott would complain while pulling out a cigarette.

Earlier in the evening, she dipped her head to me with a cigarette dangling off her lip, the lighter spark imminent. “You do know I HATE smokers, right?”

I did not know that.

“Oh, yeah. I hate smokers.” She said. “I know…I am one. But still, I hate it myself, so lemme know.”

Mary-Scott leaned in closer and lit her cigarette. “Go ahead. Tell the damn ghost story.”

We talked like this for another hour or two, relighting candles as needed, talking in shushed voices, pondering the afterlife, this life, and the glue of the universe. The lights still had not come on.

“Seriously.” I said. “Was that not the Best Chiptole you have EVER eaten? I mean…was that not amazing?”

“Oh yeah.” she agreed vehemently. “That was way better than normal. It was crunchy.”

I shut down my gas-generated campfire, and we hopped in my car and drove to Super America on 60^th and Portland because after the spooky stories of life and its unexplained anecdotes, I think we needed to see lights and maybe some parents yelling at their kids in public. Which at this Super America, is entirely feasible at 1:00 a.m. on a now-Sunday morning.

She got an apple turnover and I got a doughnut with shiny chocolate icing - a classic Homer.

We drove around looking at unlit neighborhoods, pointing in silence at homes that had lights, and then wondering aloud. I felt like we were 12 and had stayed up past midnight, like this was a big deal. As a kid, I had no idea that I would get familiar with all the hours of the night, each one with its own gift and its own grief-filled memory. I’m not so young either.

When I am with Mary-Scott, I can be 12 and 67. I am energetic like I’m 23, and slightly more reserved, like I was at 35. (I have reached that stage of accepting 40 that I now discuss the previous decade as ‘my 30s.’) It’s like this with all my old friends. We are the age we choose in the moment, and it always seems to fit. Ann understands this. So does Perry. Alesia is almost there with me.

We got back to my dark house and she looked into its empty windows.

“Yeah, I’d come in,” she said, “but actually I want to leave. I don’t want to be in your creepy, dark house anymore. I want to be back in my own, well-lighted home. You know, with the people who survive the apocalypse. But I’ll stay if you want.”

I laughed. “No, I honestly don’t mind. Go.”

“Good.” She said with obvious relief.

She turned her back and headed towards her car. “You know where to go during the apocalypse.”

Leave your back door open, Mary-Scott.

This entry was posted on Monday, June 16th, 2008 at 1:27 am and is filed under Gratitude. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.