It happened as everyone said it would, stop looking, and it will find you. And so I did. For August, and September, the fallness of October, a birthday in November and the frostiness of December. In January came the promise of a new year, to start, anew. The twenty eight days of February gave in to the first and ides of March. When on a perfectly normal feeling Friday the 13, as the weather dipped to a chilly 70, necessitating a hot pink pashmina, I headed to my favorite watering hole. Dark and musky, with a stench of whiskey and popcorn, I go there, because, it's my favorite. There's many places in Los Angeles, you can be treated as a nobody, but not everywhere smells of whiskey and popcorn, so I allow the bartenders to be cranky and rude, and I go, as a regular.
I drank and I drank more, and I ate popcorn, and took swigs of booze. I met new friends, and caught up with old friends. When a group of fraternity boys from college walked in to the dark and muskiness. I'd had a boyfriend in college so most were people I'd known from afar, and so we all talked and drank some more. One from the group stuck out, and not because I had any interest in anyone of the opposite sex at that time in my life, but because it all didn't add up. I'm used to bar falsities, but this was different. He said he jumped out of helicopters in to fires, but has never been so terrified as he was on the newest ride at Magic Mountain. He said he lives in Northern California, and had gone to college there, but knew all these guys. So I told him my share of lies. I was a lady of leisure who excelled at space exploration and on the world ballet stage. He assured me he wasn't lying, but through our banter I stopped caring. Lies and wit aside, there was something different here. Perhaps he wasn't from here. Perhaps he was telling me the truth. He liked country music and pick-up trucks, camping and fishing and baseball, and a yellow lab he called Max. He was a firefighter and he did live in Northern California. He did know all these people because he had grown up down here. He'd grown up one neighborhood block from the home I was born and raised. I wanted much of what he was saying to be a lie, because the truth would mean everyone was right, I'd find when I'd stopped looking.
I have seven different types, and until I'd met him, none of them were firefighters. But I saw in him a trait that worked. A knowing that a tomorrow is not promised, and today will be as awesome as humanely possible. I'd always believed that, but I hadn't dated someone who created a partnership of that sentiment. And for that, we worked.
For our first date I asked if he wanted to grab a quick dinner. Fast food perhaps.
He took me to Malibu to eat on the water.
I wanted to grab some drinks.
He took me to an Irish pub, held my hand, wouldn't let me sit all night as we danced, the only ones on the dance floor, to a live band.
I wanted to see him.
He invited me over to meet his mom.
There was this swiftness to life happening all around us. LIke putting your hand outside the window as you drive rapidly down the highway. It was gushing, rushing, ever swiftly.
He would go home and the demands of the job and the long distance romance eventually asked for it's toll. In many ways the space and freedom was nice for us both, and having "a person" at the end of a long day suited him and I. I was hands off on what I needed from him, except this one thing. Men have convinced themselves when they are ready to move on, it's a legitimate way out to fall off the face the earth. Such that when my mom entered the realm of dating several years ago, and I gave her the same advice, she later found that the man had been in the hospital after a plane crash. She no longer takes my dating advice, and I asked him, due the serious nature of a job that promises no tomorrows, if he ever grew tired of what we had, to be kind, and let me know. So I wouldn't worry.
Of course that wasn't enough. Two days would go by, I wouldn't hear from him, and I would get answers. I had the internet. I had google and bing, and the la times, and an interactive smokey the bear fire map of every major incident in the country. Long about the time he'd call, I'd have it all figured out. A fire in south dakota, a natural disaster in charlotte, I'd known everything in every corner of mainland United States and penned where I believed he was and what he was doing. So essentially our conversations sounded much like this:
"Oh my goodness I was so worried. How is that fire in the South Dakota?"
"Rebecca, I was playing poker with my friends."
"Oh. Are you telling me you weren't in South Dakota?"
"Yes, that's what I'm telling you. Please stop with the smokey map."
"Poker huh? Because that wasn't on the map."
Ours was not perfect. And in the spirit of keeping the good feelings I'd always had for him, I asked that we talk less.
We keep in touch, and I'd love for a day when he'd love me as much as he loves being a firefighter. But there were a few things I learned. You know, aside from you can't keep tabs on your man through a smokey the bear interactive map when he's playing poker with his buddies instead of calling you back. I learned 9 out of 10 fires are at man's hand, 1 out of 10, by lightening. I learned about defensible space, and water sources, and hot shots and fire science 101. And I learned that firefighters take the risk, make everything second to the job, because they really really love what they do. They are capable, and they love it, and for that, we should feel safe.
The last time I saw him, I was alone with his fellow firefighter. He said to me, "Is it true that girls like firefighters?"
I couldn't help but be amused. If this man was in LA, he would be consumed with attention. 6'5. Firefighter. Outdoorsy. Blonde. Tan. Humble. Sweet natured. And not a clue how hot he was.
"You know what, I don't know," I said.
"And why is that?"
"Because I like my guy for 17 reasons that I can think of just off the top of my head, and not one of them, actually has to do with what he does for a living."
At times I even forget. Until times like now. When tomorrow is a promise for him. And a promise for me. A day we don't need to search for, but if given, we'll let happen. In much of the way when I stopped fretting it, he happened to me. Something very good, if not for forever, was possible.
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