“Have you seen a pie anywhere? I can’t find the pie.”
The pie? What pie? I did not bake a pie. I did not buy a pie. We had one-half of a leftover lemon meringue on the counter. This was some other pie that arrived from some other place for some unknown reason and then was lost. No further information offered and none sought.
Through my haze of cold meds and cough syrup and fever, my husband could have been asking me anything: Have you seen a bag of ball bearings floating over the house? Any polka-dotted elephants curled up under the bed lat night? Thoughts inside my head did not make it out of my mouth with any coordination of words and logic. Likewise, statements floating on the current filtered through my brain as nonsensical fragments.
“Have you found that pie yet?”
Twice in the last week I ventured out of my house. Once to go to the doctor’s office and pharmacy. A second time to Target to get “something or other.” Really, it was a test to see if I could be upright and among the living. After 30 minutes I felt the pinpricks in my chest and watched as the buzzing haze descended upon my head. Time to go home.
On the way home, roaring down the expressway at 70 mph, I round a curve and see in my mirror a brownish-yellowish disc rise up in my wake. The object soars above the traffic before it plummets to the pavement in a spray of dough and goop. A plastic container bounces and rolls along the shoulder
What the ….?
It looked like a pizza! Some asshole put a pizza on my car. What kind of jerk would put a pizza on a car? No, wait. That’s weird. Not a pizza. Hmm, what did I buy at Target? Nothing large or round or goopy. Hey, wait a minute ….
I grab my cell phone and punch in my husband’s number. “Honey?”
“Yes?” my husband replies slowly, taking a cue from the rarely used endearment.
“Were you looking for a pie recently?”
“Yeah, did you find it?”
“I think so.”
“Where was it?”
“It was on the roof of my freakin’ car! And now, it’s all over the expressway. Oh, my god. What if it had landed on someone’s windshield? A pie! I’ve been driving around for days with a pie on my car. Oh, great. I went to the doctor’s office, the pharmacy, I pumped gas. No one said to me: ‘Hey lady, you got a pie on your car’. No one. What the hell! How does your pie end up on top of my car?”
We think about this together. How does a sweet potato pie go from a loving grandmother’s hands to a car roof? It has something to do with multi-tasking and impatient 5-year-olds and probably a sick, drug-induced wife who did not go to the family Christmas party. It has to do with short-term memory and distraction.
And there it is. For three days this pie rested uncut, uneaten, and unappreciated. It must have jostled about quite a bit up there, while held in check by the roof-rack rails. Or maybe it was frozen to the metal. All we know is that it was no match for 70 mph.
May your new year be free of projectiles.