Saturday finally rolled around slowly, like a planet forming from molten rock, and it was time for Marty to pick up Michelle for their date. He dressed two hours early (trying not to get dog hair on his suit), and planned every move down to the last detail. He had a small corsage under the seat, in case it was appropriate for her to wear it. He intended to present it in the truck, where the chance for a thank-you kiss was much greater than giving it to her in front of her parents. For presentation at her door, he bought a bouquet of beautiful red roses. Privately, his cynical cartoon brain pondered why it was such a deeply rooted “tradition” to amputate the sexual organs of plants as a way to demonstrate affection for a woman. A notion tickled his brain that it had something to do with the fleetingness of youth, and beauty, and love, but he felt sorry for the plants all the same. To plan his route, he memorized the road maps he’d sketched in advance: one showing where her house was located, and one for the theater. It was about an hour’s drive to San Francisco, which was perfect for casual conversation. When leaving his house, he crawled very slowly on the hungry road to avoid the worst of the mud puddles, because he had just washed the Apollo – in defiance of the rainy weather.
The shiny, white pickup truck with muddy wheels pulled up in front of her family’s classy, well-lit suburban home, and the dapper young suitor exited the cab deftly; careful not to slam the door. Donning his sport coat, which had been hanging properly so it wouldn’t get wrinkled, Marty marched up the front path with a purpose – as if receiving an award for which he had worked his entire life – and took a deep breath before knocking on the door. Michelle’s mom opened it wide with a bright smile. “Hello again, Marty! Oh, what lovely flowers!” She was very pretty, demonstrating how Michelle might look in 30 years or so. He remembered she was from a Dutch family, and complimented her blue eyes. “Oh, we have a charmer here, John!” Her husband was in the sitting room, reading a newspaper. There wasn’t a knickknack out of place, or a speck of dust visible anywhere, and the furniture gleamed with high polish.
“Hello there, young man,” He got up and stuck out his hand commandingly, and they engaged in small talk while checking each other out. Michelle’s mom bustled to the back of the house to find the lady in waiting. Her dad was tall and stern, with a crew cut and black-framed glasses. He worked for the government, and was a no-nonsense kind of guy. He was still wearing a tie, even though it was a weekend. Marty could tell his long hair was in clear breach of protocol. Their mouths were politely discussing the weather, but their eyes engaged in a completely different dialogue that went something like this:
“You better take good care of my daughter or I will hunt you down and kill you.”
“Yes sir, I am indeed a most reliable and trustworthy suitor, and rumored to have a chance at being wealthy someday.”
“Well, if you lay a hand on her, I will rip your heart out with a dull knife and mutilate your carcass, do I make myself clear?”
“Oh very clear indeed, sir, I am honored to have the privilege of her company, and will protect her with my life!” That surreptitious exchange went on for a few minutes, until an unmistakable contract was ratified. Even the roses began to wilt in the stern administrator’s presence.
Then Michelle glided into the room like a movie star on a red carpet, and all tension was forgotten. Marty had to concentrate to keep from whistling, or drooling, or fainting on the spot. She wore a light lemon chiffon dress, knee-length and tastefully cut to accentuate her athletic yet slender figure. She tactfully avoided high heels, so as not to exceed Marty’s height, and modeled cream-colored shoes with a matching clutch. Her hair was tied up in a kind of twist, and a necklace of pearls adorned her neck – or was it the other way around? His flashing eyes tracked her every move like a pack of paparazzi, while her dad strung razor wire in a perimeter by the force of his will. “Hi Marty, you look nice,” she said nervously; pulling on her long gloves while acutely aware of her parents. Her mom looked on adoringly, while her dad grimaced, as if he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him.
Marty stood fidgeting in his suddenly hot and chafing suit, which was gray and white with a burgundy tie, and shiny black shoes that were becoming uncomfortable. “You look pretty in yellow,” he observed politely, with his mind howling like the wolf in the cartoon Red Hot Riding Hood. “It was Vincent’s favorite color,” he hastily added for the benefit of her parents, to demonstrate the notion that this was an educational outing. I know it is for me, he snickered to himself. Both teenagers were clearly embarrassed to be in such an awkward situation, and wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Michelle passed the flowers to her mom to find a vase, and they made for the door like it was an airline gate and they were late for their flight.
“Be home by 11,” her father warned, and his wife poked him with her elbow. They watched the underage couple all the way to the street, and Marty could see her dad glowering with disapproval at his hot rod ’55 Chevy truck with its fat, muddy tires and chrome rims. He opened the door for Michelle, she put her gloved hand in his, and poured herself inside as gracefully as a cat. They laughed as they drove away, becoming giddy kids for a few seconds; free of their adult charades.
“Omigod, did you see the look on my dad’s face? I’m so sorry!”
“That’s okay,” Marty said truthfully, because he would have wrestled Haystack Calhoun to watch her get in his truck like that! “Your mom is really nice.”
Dinner at the Velvet Turtle turned out to be a lot of fun. At first they played the lady and the gentleman, but after taking themselves way too seriously, they soon wound up giggling like schoolkids sharing a secret, and covertly mocked the other patrons. Marty compared dressing up in fancy clothes to doing a mating dance, and used a phony British accent to describe the male diners as if they were rare birds in the jungles of New Guinea: “And in a nearby booth we see a male with corduroy feathers, bobbing his head and blustering at his female… a big handsome specimen with a bright tuxedo tail poses at the bar, cavorting with a covey of shy, twittering quail… over in the corner is the big boss bird, with his burgundy plumage spread wide, revealing his virility to his potential mate.” Michelle tried to suppress her laughter, and turned bright red. Despite the continuous cartoon narrative playing in Marty’s head, he managed to have a great time with his date, as they playfully subverted proper restaurant etiquette. He even used his dinner fork for his salad!
Michelle ordered a seafood dish (tactfully avoiding the lobster, which was the most expensive thing on the menu), and Marty opted for steak, figuring he may as well live it up because this was such an enjoyable investment of the time of his life. Blowing a whole day’s pay on a single meal was something he wouldn’t do lightly, but he’d work a whole month to have that lovely face across the table from him tonight! The waiter placed their plates on the white tablecloth with a flourish, as if they were newborn twins to admire. For his tastes, Marty’s steak bore too much resemblance to a hunk of flesh that had been carved off a cow and lightly seared. It was steaming and bloody, and twitched when he pierced it with his fork. He wasn’t very fond of meals that reminded him too much of their species of origin, but bravely ravaged it the way a masculine young carnivore should. Michelle daintily picked at her seafood and discussed the theater. Marty knew nothing about modern Broadway shows, but dropped a few big names like Shakespeare and Chekhov to demonstrate his classic tastes. They dared not linger lest they be late for the play, so they skipped dessert and headed for the city. Marty tried not to feel the pain in his wallet, which had been mortally wounded by the fancy meal.
The drive to the theater was unexpectedly relaxed and familiar, as if this divine, blonde goddess had sat beside him for years instead of just one evening. She’d been reading some of Vincent’s letters that she got from the library, and commented that his mind was much deeper than the way he was generally portrayed in our culture as a crazy artist. Marty wondered if she was using her opinions as a metaphor for how she felt about him, and quoted from memory:
“Our inward thoughts, do they ever show outwardly?
There may be a great fire in our soul, and no one comes
to warm themselves by it.
The passersby just see a bit of smoke coming from the chimney.
and continue on their way.”
Michelle was duly impressed on many levels, and placed her hand fondly on his arm for a few minutes as he drove. It was all Marty could do to stay in his lane on the freeway! He desperately wanted to embrace her in such an intimate moment, and silently kicked himself for wasting one of his best lines at a time when he had to concentrate on driving. The image of her father’s threatening face reflected in his windshield, and he sweated so much he wanted to turn on the wipers, even though it wasn’t raining. He paid for a place to park near the theater, but far enough away so they could walk and hold hands for a little while.
They settled in their seats, and Marty played the perfect gentleman, helping Michelle with her sweater, and dusting off the velvet seat for her. They chatted amiably like lifelong friends, as the theater played classical music to set the tone. They read in the show’s program that the play took place in 1890, a few days after Vincent’s death, as his little brother recalled his life, and lamented his passing. Then the familiar beginning to Don McLean’s song caught their attention: “Starry starry night, paint your palette blue and gray…” They smiled at each other and mouthed the words, as many in the audience were respectfully singing along. “They would not listen, they’re not listening still; perhaps they never will.” The last words sent a chill down Marty’s spine (as they always did), and he caught Michelle’s eye in an ecstatic moment of mutual affection, joy in the present, and anticipation for the future. Then the lights went down, and the curtains rose on a simple set: a table, a chair, and one of Vincent’s paintings on an easel. Thunderous applause erupted when Leonard Nimoy took the stage, and he bowed in sincere appreciation before launching into his monologue, already completely and deeply in character.
The play was incredible! Marty never knew Leonard Nimoy was such a top-notch actor! He had been trying hard to shed his public persona as Spock, and he left that Vulcan in the dust. The program said he did all the research for the script, which was based on another project. He played Theo Van Gogh, deeply mourning the violent death of his dear brother. As it was a one-man show, he had to carry the plot and narrative himself, and wrought every ounce of emotion from his body until he stood breathless at the end, completely drained, and communally grateful to his adoring audience. Marty was absolutely enthralled. From time to time he checked on Michelle, who was also transfixed; with a look of awe on her face for the entire performance. He had planned to make witty comments during the play, or inform her of some of the finer points regarding Vincent’s life, but Nimoy was far too captivating, and the most they could do was look at each other in rapt amazement, wordlessly mouthing, “Can you believe this?”
Michelle was flushed with delight as the lights came on and she shuddered adorably, taking a deep, happy breath as if waking from a beautiful dream. She looked at Marty with great depth of emotion in her eyes, while her face opened like a flower blooming in fast motion. She put her hand on his when he stupidly started to get up, saying, “Wait, let’s just sit here for a bit and let the crowd thin out.” She left her hand there, and it warmed him to the core of his spine. They discussed the factual points of the play, and he revealed to her how skillfully Nimoy wove the threads of Vincent’s life and feelings into the script. Michelle kept looking at Marty with ever-increasing respect, and squeezed his hand in reaction to his salient interpretations. “Oh!” she said suddenly, looking around at the vacated theater, “It’s nearly empty!” Sadly, it was time to go.
On the way back to the Apollo, Michelle cuddled against Marty because it was cold, and the fashionable sweater she’d brought was too thin. He put his arm around her protectively, which made it difficult to walk, but they fell into a cohesive rhythm by touching the sides of their hips together, and it felt so wonderful! Marty could have walked around the block a few times like that, but he knew she was cold, and cranked up the heater as soon as they got in the cab of his truck. She sat close beside him on the wide bench seat, with the ornamental flair that Annie had envisioned so many months ago. Driving home was unexpectedly stimulating, because the gear shift was located in front of her knees, and after letting go, it was natural to just rest his hand on her thigh, so he did. She tensed a little, but didn’t object. The city streets required a lot of shifting, and both of them were acutely aware of his hand’s every move. When they finally got on the freeway and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge she put her hand on top of his… perhaps to ensure that it didn’t stray.
Marty’s brain was working on multiple tracks at once. Foremost was the need to drive safely; to which he devoted most of his attention. All the way home, they talked of art and philosophy, and the sense of love that Vincent tried to convey, and he plugged in the Don McLean cassette he had prepared in advance. It started with the familiar song Vincent, which of course she’d heard at the theater, and she squeezed his hand again in appreciation. When it was over, Michelle acknowledged with genuine feeling that she would never hear that song the same way again, and cuddled a wee bit closer. Marty felt like he was Captain Kirk on the bridge of the Enterprise, sailing proudly into Starfleet port, surrounded by a constellation of lesser craft. The rest of the tracks on that cassette were a clever assortment of love songs with much deeper meaning than the recordings that he’d already given her for Christmas. Because of the need to drive safely, he didn’t put his arm around her, but the nerve endings in his fingers were drunk with ecstasy whenever his hand rested on her leg. His left arm was getting tired from gripping the wheel. On a sub-level of awareness, Marty’s mind was debating what to do when they got to her house, at the moment of drop-off. Should he move to kiss her? Or was that being too forward? Should he park in a spot that couldn’t be seen from the house? No, that would be too obvious…
“What?” he exclaimed, snapped out of his reverie.
“You missed the turnoff for my house!”
It was true! Marty had sailed his ship right past Sleepy Hollow Road and was headed back to Fairfax and the Valley! “Oh, haha. I thought you could come to my house and see the redwoods.” His ears were burning, and he was glad she couldn’t see him blushing in the dark. The mutual impression that he had been subconsciously driving her home to his bedroom raised the temperature in the cab a few degrees.
“But it’s dark,” she teased lightly, “Maybe some other time.”
As they drove the last mile to her house, Marty began to panic. When would he ever have such a great opportunity again? The prettiest girl in school was sitting so close to him – practically cuddling – and they’d had stimulating conversations about art, love, beauty, and the imperative of affection, and he overwhelmingly felt the time was right to make a bold move. When he pulled up in front of her house, he was relieved to find the trees in her yard screened his truck from the living room windows, which were brightly lit. He switched off the engine and turned, both of them knowing this was The Moment. Marty reminded himself that Michelle was a very smart young woman, and she probably had her own running narrative in her head. Her deep, sapphire eyes were locked on his, waiting with an expression like, “Well?” and he leaned over and kissed her.
It was expected, and returned, but Marty was too much of a gentleman to take further advantage by releasing his pent-up passions on her in that moment, so he consciously kept his hands on her shoulders. Still, the upwelling of affection surged like a tidal wave in his bloodstream, and he had to find some kind of outlet – some way of going beyond “just a kiss,” and he blurted out suddenly without thinking, “Would you like to go steady with me?”
Mayday! Mayday! The crisis center in his brain shorted out, and an air raid siren howled above the clamor between his ears. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected to this question – it just bubbled to the surface of his lips from some deep, subconscious well of need. In the space of five seconds, Michelle’s exquisite face displayed many emotions. First surprise, of course – followed by consternation, compassion, and a hint of sadness. She bit her lip and looked away. Marty panicked to lose the warmth of her eyes, and wondered desperately what he should say; feeling the moment slipping away. Then he sensed her coming to a decision, and with an achingly regretful look in her eyes she lowered her voice as if telling him a deep secret. “I can’t – my brother won’t let me.”
Brother? Marty thought in rapid confusion. I didn’t know she had a… oh yes, the older brother who used to play football for Drake. He must be very protective. What was his name? It didn’t matter… his instinct was to plead for his life, but he had enough sense to realize that she had just intimated something very difficult for her, and whining selfishly about his needs was not a good tactic at the time. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he croaked with compassion, then remembered to breathe, “Thank you for telling me. He won’t let you have a boyfriend?”
“That’s all I can say right now,” Michelle continued in a furtive whisper, as if she might be overheard, and glanced towards her house. Marty must have looked like a little boy who just had his puppy taken away, so she added kindly, “Don’t worry, Marty, you’re such a nice guy.” She gave his hand a patronizing pat as she opened the door to his truck, “Let’s see how it goes, okay?” Her eyes were veiled with caution, but a hint of genuine affection could be glimpsed through the curtain.
All the way home, Marty berated himself for his premature proposal. “Why did I have to ruin such a perfect date,” he moaned aloud, turning off the sappy music with disgust. Their evening together could have been an elegant beginning to a sophisticated courtship, but ended more like a botched pickup line in a bar. When handling fine china, he reasoned grimly, one must hold it firmly enough that it doesn’t slip away, but not so tightly that it breaks. Lying in bed alone, as the two halves of his brain analyzed the night’s performance like a couple of scandalized talk show hosts, the cogent lyrics of Don McLean’s Crossroads played in his mind.
“Can you remember who I was? Can you still feel it?
Can you find my pain? Can you heal it?
Then lay your hands upon me now,
And cast this darkness from my soul.
You alone can light my way,
You alone can make me whole once again.”