“I’m starving,” Donna’s text read. Translation: “let’s go to the greatest Thai place in the world tonight.” She was at yoga, but her mind was on delicious things, like spicy tuna, coconut soup, and Mark the waiter. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I had other things on my mind as well. Delilah the owner was there at lunch yesterday, and I asked her if she wanted to join me. She grabbed a bowl of soup and did. We had a lovely conversation about education, parents, and travel. She grew up in Bangkok but had lived in California for most of her life. She’s a traveler and had some great stories. One in particular is worth retelling for all those out there who wish to be up and gone in a moment’s notice. It seems that the restaurant ran out of bok choy, so she told everyone she was going to pick some up. She went to LA, got on a plane, and flew to San Francisco, spent three days there, then returned with the bok choy. Awesome.

So Donna came by around eight, changed out of her yoga clothes, put on her peasant blouse and boots, and we were off. On the lookout for death in the form of Coolville cop cars, we crossed the streets carefully and anticipated our feast and seeing our friends who work there. Sure enough, Mark was our waiter, and Donna beamed like a little girl. Delilah also came by to say hello and was stunning in her long, black dress. It was going to be a good night.

Donna ordered spicy tuna, and I had the coconut soup. Donna’s hands were so cold she wore her REI gloves to drink her wine. Sophisticated woman, my friend Donna. Mark came by to check on us Donna often, and she and I had our usual good conversation that ranged from work to love to travel. The place was packed when we arrived, but as we lingered over my favorite Pinot Noir, tables emptied and the atmosphere changed to late-night, wine-inspired ruminations. Delilah relaxed at the table behind us with four of her beautiful friends, Mark made his rounds but came by more often to chat, and Donna and I sat back in our chairs and reflected on her love life.

Just as things were winding down, Fyodor called from New York. He had just left a party for Woody Harrelson’s new film, and Woody was in attendance, but now Fyodor was wondering the streets of Manhattan, lost again. “Dude, where am I?” he asks me without saying hello. It’s a rhetorical question, even an existential one, and I love imagining him drunk and lost trying to make his way to the subway and to his fabulous apartment overlooking the Statue of Liberty. “Brother!” I say, “where art thou?” Fyodor and I could have entire conversations using only lines from film and literature. Vivien told us once that this is a gendered form of communication, that women don’t quote movie lines to each other. She’s right, I think, as she often is. Fyodor then offers his usual greeting, “Dude, what are you doing?” When I tell him, he offers his usual response: “What?” I hear New York traffic in the background and try to imagine my best friend stumbling through those mean streets, holding his pathetic non-iPhone to his ear, dodging traffic, bellowing his belly-laugh into the concrete canyons.

“I’m having dinner with Donna,” I say to him again. He asks what we are eating. “Spicy tuna and coconut soup,” I tell him, knowing that he doesn’t care. That very morning he had called me on his way to work, so it was like 3:00 am for me, and I happened to be up. His question was “What’s the weather?” I cursed him out for that one. When he finally realizes I am having dinner with Donna, he asks to speak with her. She smiles her lovely smile and asks what he doing, then I hear her say “spicy tuna and coconut soup.” She looks at me, laughing, because she has heard me say the same thing. They talk for a while, then she hands the phone back to me. “Dude, I’m lost and drunk.” “You have no idea on how many levels that is true my friend,” I tell him. His laughter bounces off the skyscrapers. We speak of other things for a while, and now the remaining people in the restaurant are stealing glances at Donna and me like we are speaking to some kind of celebrity, and in some ways we are. Fyodor asks me again what we had for dinner: “spicy tuna and coconut soup,” I say again, and Donna joins me in the laughter.

“Let me talk to Donna again,” he says, and I hand her the phone and hear her say “spicy tuna and coconut soup.” We laugh like the children we are on this night. Mark comes by ostensibly to check on us but really I think to see what’s up. Mark knows Fyodor too, having taken his class on Tolkien at Cool University, and he asks if he can speak to him. I look at Donna, laugh, and give Mark the phone. Mark is an excellent conversationalist, able to engage anyone on most any level, and he begins by asking how Fyodor is faring in Gotham. Of course Mark gets cut off half-way through his kind inquiry, and Donna and I watch as his face turns quizzical. He then says “spicy tuna and coconut soup.” Now three people are laughing hysterically and loudly in the small space that was only a little while before quiet and contemplative. Mark takes the phone over to a table and sits down to talk to Fyodor.

Now Delilah asks me who Mark is talking to. “That’s my friend in New York,” I tell her. “He’s drunk and lost in Manhattan, trying to find his way home.” She looks at me quizzically as well, as do her beautiful friends. “It’s a little ritual we have,” I explain, “he calls me when he lost, and I talk him home.” Trying to understand, she asks “So where is he now?” “Hell if I know,” I say, and now their table erupts in laughter. Mark hands the phone back to me, and I hear “Dude, what are you doing?” and we go through the whole thing again. Again, he says, “Let me talk to Donna.” As they talk, and I hear the now familiar refrain of “spicy tuna and coconut soup,” Mark asks if Donna and I want to get a drink after at the martini bar next door. I tell him no because I was up at 3:00 am talking about the weather. Donna makes a face at me that I don’t understand.

We finally leave the restaurant and walk home, but Fyodor remains on the line talking to both of us. We walk into my house still talking to him, but this doesn’t stop Donna from chastising me for turning Mark down for a drink. “I think he and Delilah want to hang out with us, maybe even swing with us,” she says excitedly. She has mentioned this before, and I fear that she may be right. I have missed our chance to have a foursome. The stereotypes of California are there for a reason. I had not been here a month before I was invited to join a colleague and her husband in a sordid triangle, and there have been other opportunities I have passed up. When I spoke last with St. Mary of New York and told her of recent events here, she asked me if I had seen Californication. I have, in fact, been watching the series with great interest. Like all good art, it takes what’s real and enhances it, and California culture is its own reality. I tell Donna that I’m too tired for a foursome and that she should go back and make it a threesome or a twosome. Besides, I wanted to watch more Californication. Better to live that life vicariously through the moody Hank Moody.

Donna goes home, and I keep talking to Fyodor. He is now standing outside his building in the rain, soaked, and holding a plastic bag that contains, among other things, an umbrella that he has not opened all night. The irony is not lost on him, and it moves him into a self-reflective discourse that is so deep and powerful, it quiets me. My best friend lives large and well, but like all of us, he is broken and damaged, and I love him very much. For once, I have no words for him, no movie lines, no Walt Whitman. All I can say is “I know, Fyodor, I know.” There is a long silence, made longer by its contrast to the loud laughter earlier in the evening, and two friends on separate coasts sit in the darkness and contemplate their miraculous journeys, the damage and the glory, the pain and the pleasure, and the beautiful fragments among the ruins. Fyodor then breaks the silence by saying with all sincerity: “Hey, what did you and Donna have for dinner?” Instead of laughing now, I smile quietly, warmed by the magic of words and memory and say “spicy tuna and coconut soup and it was delicious.”