Serendipity with extra anchovies

Anchovy pizzaTwenty-seven years ago I was in a friend’s apartment attending my very first ever concom meeting. We were working on Capricon 13, I think. In the room were many mighty names of Chicago fandom: Alice Bentley, Bill Higgins, Phil Foglio, Dina Krause, Amy Schaefer, and three more venerables whose names I’m trying to dredge out of the brain-ooze. (If you are one of them, hollaback in the comments!) They were core members of the 49th Ward Regular Fandom science fiction gang (home to George RR Martin and other weird-looking guys just out of college) so little things like surreal coincidence meant nothing to them.

I was more easily impressed.

Nine of us set out to order pizza. I was thinking, So this is a committee! Wow. I wonder how it works.

It turned out that all of us loved anchovies on our pizza.

That’s not a coincidence. That’s some kind of googleplexity of the unlikely. It’s practically spiritual.

I’ve never again been on a committee that worked quite that well.

Five hours ago I was in that very same apartment helping Alice and her mother-in-law pack up some chachkes for The Brown Elephant charity resale shop. We were hungry. We ordered…pizza with anchovies.

I’m scanning the sky for large heavenly bodies on collision course.

What’s the best coincidence that ever happened for you?

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Serendipity with extra anchovies — 2 Comments

  1. Not a coincidence, but an anchovy-related comment. Years ago I shared an office with another lawyer with whom I had nothing in common: he was business-oriented, very conservative, and could not write a letter unless it started with the word “pursuant.”

    But we did have something in common besides law degrees and working in the same place: we both loved anchovies on our pizza. So periodically we would go to lunch together and indulge.

  2. Having been out shopping for a purse and not finding one to my exacting specifications at a price I could afford, I came home grumpy but found a package from my aunt Irene. Inside was, you guessed it, a purse, a lovely spring yellow. We were not in the habit of exchanging gifts for birthdays or Christmas, so this was truly out of the blue. I phoned her guiltily; I had not seen or spoken to her in two years, but of course this gift required a thank-you call. Not only was it unexpected and timely, the purse had the required number of pockets and zippers, in-out as well as side! I made my call. Amid the how-are-yous and thanks I asked whatever inspired her to send me a purse. “It had your name on it,” she said. Irene is my stylish aunt, yet given as much to whimsy as deep moments so her answer didn’t surprise me. She was simply delighted that I liked it. And it was only later that I saw the style tag: forsythia. Um, yes, For Cynthia, as she called them, planted in my honor, many, many times over the years, including the one in my yard. So that explains why she bought it and sent it to me, but only the universe in its wisdom can explain how it conspired to have her shopping where she could see it and have it arrive exactly on my day of need.