Today The Seeker graduates from college. Since the end depends on the beginning, I figured I’d take a moment to tell the tale of how The Seeker and I met.
Once upon a time, at a bird sanctuary in Massachusetts, there was a great forest fire. As sparrows fled to 18th century eaves, The Seeker and I stood awkwardly, as teenage strangers do, at the edge of the flames.
We eyed each other; to each the other was ridiculous. The Seeker was clad in a three-piece silk-stamped suit, complete with an ascot and some sort of derby hat. I wore jeans, boots, and a 1971 sheepskin shearling coat, complete with embroidered yellow flowers, and Clinique Almost Lipstick.
“Great fire,” The Seeker finally said. I’d never heard him speak before; his voice was lower than I expected.
“I’ll hop the fence if you will,” I responded. The fire was licking closer; we could smell the thick blue flames of the seared wood and hear crackling – I hoped from birds’ bones, but I suspect from leaves instead. It was a stupid idea, we both knew it, so we climbed the fence easily, together, and walked further into the smoke.
After a few long steps and a few long looks at each other, we could almost see the fire full-on. We waited in silence as the tops of trees collapsed into ashes and the sky turned from blue to olive brown from smoke.
A branch fell, flaming, to the floor. The Seeker touched my arm.
“Let’s go back,” he said. I was thinking it, but somehow I was frozen, too. We walked, quicker than we’d admit to anyone else, back to the wire fence. We climbed it in silent panic, and hit the dirt ground on the right side with a thud of relief.
“Are you going to dinner?” he asked, meaning dinner.
A pride of sophomores, The Seeker’s friends, came into view. He waved; I turned and walked the other way, all the way home. Two weeks later, I saw a badly photocopied snapshot of The Seeker and Gwyneth Paltrow, holding champagne glasses, smiling real smiles.
After the fire, we didn’t speak for 7 years. Then during a hail storm, we both escaped to Boxer’s apartment, ate barbecue, and invented our futures. He wrapped me in a scarf so the hail wouldn’t smack my cheeks. We taunted Boxer endlessly. We threw snowballs. And we realized that 7 years is no time at all.
I’m still jealous about that Gwyneth pic, though.
So a toast to The Seeker: watch out, world; he’s already figured you out. He’s dead handsome, too, a dangerous trait for a guy in a flight suit.
[CONGRATULATIONS MR. SEEKER. WE LOVE YOU.]