A VALENTINE FROM THE edge
© 2012 Greek to Me by Michael Raysses
“Kid, you wear your heart on your sleeve. Too bad you wear your brain
in the seat of your pants.” My Uncle Tasso
For as long as I can remember, I have loved a good story. A tale that engages me from the start, holds me aloft as it piques my curiosity and fuels my interest, only to set me down when its narrative thrust has given way, depositing me in a better place than when I started. It was an affair exclusively of the heart until I decided to try my hand creating that which had become such a source of joy. I was in the third grade. Life got a lot more complicated when writing became the object of my heart’s desire, carrying me into the realm of my mind. It created a tug of war between the two that lasted far longer than it should have.
The third grade was also the time I had my first conscious experience of Valentine’s Day, that holiday whose sanguine hues and chocolate covered intentions were a welcome respite from the relentless gray and icy prison sentence imposed by a Midwestern winter.
My third grade teacher Mrs. Lawbaugh was a wisp of a woman old enough to have been my grandmother, her manner more akin to a blood relative than that of just a teacher. She was firm but clear about what she expected from us, and like her policy on candy (if you brought for one, you had to bring for all), if Valentine’s Day cards were brought to class they had to be distributed to everyone.
Inscribing cards to my classmates brought each of them to mind. I was just starting to discern the differences in those around me, learning the invaluable lesson of reconciling them with myself in the process. Bruce Hmurovic was already almost a head taller than me. Elisa Potucek didn’t pronounce the last letter ‘g’ in words like “running” or “playing.” And the list went on. The night before the big day, my Mom was reviewing my cards when the look on her face signaled that something was wrong. It turned out that I had signed all of my cards with the inscription “Love, Michael,” something she gently explained to me was inappropriate. Not fully understanding her reasoning, I changed them accordingly. It was a stark introduction to the act of being edited, to be sure.
From that point forward, my relationship with the concepts of love and the role that my mind had in the equation of the balance of the two were set in furious and steady motion, something that came into unforeseen focus when I was serving food one night and discovered a story I felt worth telling.
Valentine’s Day is arguably one of the busiest days of the year in the food services industry, second only to Mother’s Day. For purposes of pressure and social dysfunction, though, it is on a par with no other event. If Mother’s Day brings guilt from parents whose lives have become footnotes in the stories of their children’s lives, Valentine’s Day brings love’s locomotive force, with boxcars full of hydra-headed expectations waiting to fulfilled, knowing that by evening’s end there will be blood on the tracks.
One night stands out in particular. I was working at a very high end establishment, a place that used to be Ground Zero for what became known as Old Hollywood. But on this night the house was jammed with deuces, tables for two. I was waiting on an impeccably dressed couple in their forties. The gentleman ordered the most expensive vintage champagne on our list, as well as the forthcoming meal. At first I thought they were so deeply taken with each other that they were in that cone of silence that love sometimes creates for couples when they’re in public where everything is conveyed with a glance or a brush of the hand. But that was clearly not the case here. In fact, as the evening progressed the two took on the aspect of a couple of boxers who had each been banished to neutral corners pending more implied acts of pugilism to come.
Dinner came and went without a word spoken. Dessert was also a mute affair, with the woman smearing chocolate mousse over her plate with the back of her spoon like it was a caulking knife. Finally, when she was done, she picked up her flute of champagne, leaned back in her chair, and contemplated her partner one last time. That is, before she flung its contents into his face, the fluid splashed perfectly, sluicing down the creases of his face like they had been dug there just for that occasion. She threw her napkin down and was gone. He, without missing a beat, dabbed at the open wound of his face and gestured for the check, which I presented as quickly as if it were a life preserver. And, for him, in a way, it was, assuming that life and dignity have more than a passing relationship.
I think about those people till this day. Were they ever in love? If so, what happened? Where did it go? Did it drift from their hearts, only to end up in their minds, where it died a slow, torturous death whose certificate they signed that night in champagne thrown across a dinner table?
That Valentine’s Day back in the third grade turned out to be a pivotal experience for me. The morning I got to school, I took the cards out of the brown paper bag I carried them in and changed all the inscriptions back to reflect my original choice. That’s because I had thought about it; and my thoughts led me back to what I felt, leaving me with the inescapable conclusion that in the tournament between my head and my heart there was no contest: The mind is the heart’s water boy, nothing more. That is something I could raise a glass to. Love, Michael.
Michael Raysses is a writer/NPR commentator/actor living in Los Angeles. E-mail him at MichaelRaysses@hotmail.com.