This is the story of a pie that starts with a boxspring. It has a big cast.

AL, a former housemate who moved across the country for a girl.
R, A British gent
CBS, a friend of AL who has been a temporary resident on several occasions
W, a former housemate who moved across the coast for his future
NS, a soon to be housemate, friends with BF
PT, a friend who is “more of a frat boy than [me]”
BF, a new friend
EK, a soon to be former housemate who is moving across town for politics
SGM, a housemate and Iron Blogger
SW, a friend
LW, a friend
IR, a friend

When AL moved out, he gave e his boxspring. I’d never had a boxspring, so I was curious. Some people swore by them. This was during a brief period where I was trying to be “more normal.” My bed had rested on a series of slats I cut from wood I found in the house and around Somerville. Normal people do not have beds sitting on things they found on the street; normal people have boxsprings.

CBS was in town when AL moved out. The first time AL moved out. It was a three part process. In part one, AL gave us his furniture and flew to SF to find an apartment. CBS was in town for the MIT Mystery Hunt, put together that particular year by Codex. (6:53 if you have a particular desire to see me kicking). He and AL are Sages. Incidentally, CBS used to date one of G’s oldest friends, thought that is humorous as opposed to relevant.

CBS agreed to help move the boxspring downstairs. R was also in town and did his share of the work. Moving this boxspring was miserable. It was heavy and cumbersome and I told myself that if I ever needed to move it again, I would just destroy it instead.

Once the mattress was on top of the boxspring, I sat down on it and knew this thing wasn’t for me. Still, I gave it a shot and tried to get excited about it. This never happened. When I began to give up on this being normal thing, I decided to get rid of the boxspring.

I did exactly what I said I would. I destroyed that thing.

After removing the fabric around it, I looked over the monstrosity of wood and metal. Armed with a hammer, I spent several hours figuring out how to extract the wood from the metal springs and grid it was secured to. I worked slow and methodically. I would walk around it, standing up, crouching down, feelings things with my hands, stretching my fingers to reach connections, and gently prying at bits with the hammer. After I figured out which part needed to go next and how to remove it, I would attack, hitting and pulling with as much force as I could. At the end, I had a pile of wood and a piece of metal I still need to get rid of.

I decided to do the only thing that seemed sensible to me: I was going to burn it.

SGM had gone with friends of hers to have bonfires down the beach. W had piles of papers he wanted to burn. EK liked the idea of hanging out. We agreed to go to the aforementioned beach and burn everything. We never did it though. Instead, we would offer reasons why it wouldn’t work on any given day.

Before I destroyed the boxspring, NS and PT had a party. They both went to school in Cleveland. Together, they would talk about the parts of Cleveland they loved and missed (not always both). They decided they needed to have a Cleveland themed party. We spent a day at the apart of the girl NS was going out with at the time cooking, prepping, and making a bunch of Cleveland themed food. The girl worked in the same building as PT, which was how we, and more importantly NS, met her.

At this party, NS introduced me to BF. BF and NS went to school together in Cleveland. BF, NS said to start a conversation, was interested in going shooting and he knew I grew up with guns. While I am in no way some sort of gun badass, I’m not scared of them and know my way around a pistol. Well, I am scared of them in certain contexts. Like when they’re pointed at me. BF and I made a plan to go shooting up in New Hampshire.

Much like the bonfire not happening, BF and I also didn’t go shooting. Eventually, we settled on a Saturday in mid-July. At the same time, W picked his leaving date. He’s moving to Philadelphia to go to grad school, and decided on a particular Sunday without any ceremony. The Sunday after BF and I had plans to shoot stuff. The bonfire options were limited to Friday or Saturday night. Friday night was SW’s birthday. Saturday became shooting and bonfire day.

It reminds me of college.

At SW’s party, NS invited SW and LW (who have married since these events) along for the gunshow, as they are both comfortable around and enthusiastic about guns. I, of course, drink a lot of gin as I am wont to do and find myself waking up Saturday morning wishing I was still asleep.

Somehow, I rise and manage to function well enough to put on my shooting dress and eat something. BF, NS, SW, LW, and myself drive off to New Hampshire, rent guns, and then shoot them.

A photo of several people at a firing range.

NS, me, LW, and BF, with the friendly gun merchant.

We all agree we’re hungry and go to a diner that, from inside, seems like it’s kind of a big deal. They proudly advertise their pies with such a ferocity I decide I need one. I’m full, and have no particular desire to eat pie at the time, but the thought of bringing a pie to the bonfire, of presenting it to my peeps, is alluring and enticing.

I ask the waiter what his favorite pie is. He talks about the ones that are most popular. I shake my head at him and insist I want to know what his favorite is. He looks a little uncomfortable. I decide to try a different approach and instead ask him of the varieties they have, which one could I purchase and take home right now.

He returns with a few options and I tell him to surprise me.

He again returns, this time with a box. Inside is the pie he said was the most popular–a chocolate pie. He insists that it’s good. A nearby patron, a regular who earlier complimented our waiter on his weight loss, confirms the deliciousness of the chocolate pie. I pay for my pie and then we depart back to Boston.

On the ride home, I get this phone call from W. His car has a flat, so he can no longer drive us out to the beach. This begins to roll down into a planning disaster. I won’t be home in time to take the commuter rail. The beach is too out of the way to be dropped off. It’s too late to bike. IR might be driving and then she’s not and even if she was there wouldn’t be room in the car for me unless W took the commuter rail up himself.

BF ends up offering to drive me. She is ridiculously sweet and does things like this. We stop by the house, gather ourselves, and prepare to head out on a journey that will only inconvenience BF, but give us some fun time in a car. W and I frantically text back and forth trying to figure out how to make this work, where BF and I are going, and where we’ll meet. Suddenly he admits that they’re in Porter Square and IR offered to just lend him her car, meaning I can get a ride with them and save BF the trouble of a long drive back alone.

SW and LW drop me off in Porter, where I find EK, IR, W, and SGM hanging around in the parking lot. I present them with a pie and a smile.

“Where’d you get the pie?” EK asks.

“So, I was in this diner…”

Author’s note: EK told me that she likes how I told her about getting the pie. This got me thinking about all the threads that come together for a story, so I wanted to look at that. I’m also extremely verbose.