improbable plausibility

So what are the odds, in a world the size of this one, that I’d be having a conversation in a random Chicagoland suburb with a man I know only because a friend of his had once been assigned to a random consulting engagement in Seattle?

And what are the odds that I'd be working the same gig, and that this random consultant, who seemed a little bit shy, would care enough about coffee to accept my invitation to walk a little bit farther out of our way (to where the really good coffee was) and, in returning, that we would pass by a queue of Star Wars fans outside the Cinerama which would compel him to say something sly and wise and remarkably funny while alluding to Jung, which of course made me wonder what kind man this really was (because I wasn’t expecting Jung).

And what are the odds that wondering this little bit would lead me to wonder a little bit more which would lead me nearly a year later to cleave with a place that was more home to me than any home I’d known to settle in the foreign and unfamiliar flatlands of the Midwest -- where on this particular day I would find myself in a conversation with this dear friend of his who had developed a little bit of a crush (he’s married, so just a little bit of a crush) on a woman who is descended from a wine making family in Sonoma who periodically passes through Chicago pouring wines with such charm and generosity that married men are compelled to crush on her.

And what are the odds that, sometime before all this happened, I would spend the 15th summer of my life in the (then) sleepy town of Sonoma blanching French fries and pressing fresh meat patties at the Happy Dog (Home of the Charburger!) working under the efficient hard ass management of said wine family scion (who then was about 17 or so).

Given this improbable plausibility it would seem then perfectly reasonable that I’d approach the table where she was pouring the wine in an out of the way Chicagoland suburb (where I had gone with the married man and with his friend, the man I married) and ask (just to be sure) “are you the same Kathy Benzinger who worked at the Happy Dog in Sonoma, California?” to which she would blanch and shriek and hug me and say “what are the odds?” and what a small world this is.

And that’s what I did with my Saturday.

p.s. The Benzingers have turned out a really nice Merlot – worth getting over your “I’m not drinking any f*cking Merlot!” Sideways bias for. (And it's biodynamic, baby.)