Late at night every February 14th, Robert, John, Stu, and Mark got together for drinks and stories of self loathing for having gotten rich off of Valentine's Day, a holiday they all patently despised yet all owed their well being to.
Robert wrote greeting card messages for Hallmark.
John was in charge of seasonal promotions (in particular, the Valentine's Weekend Getaway packages) for Sheraton, Inc.
Stu was a pianist who came to fame performing with Celine Dion.
Mark was a chocolatier.
Although the stories they shared were familiar--practically identical from year to year--it was good to share them with friends who could relate.
"Don't get me wrong," Robert said. "Valentine's Day has been very good to me. Very good to me. And I hate to appear ungrateful . . . BUT--"
The others laughed.
"Basically, when it comes to Valentine's Day and my wife, I'm screwed, just screwed. She doesn't believe anything romantic I tell her, and she hasn't for a really freaking long time. And it's like, what the hell does she want from me? I spend my entire work day spinning ultra-sweet maudlin pap for the masses, and then I gotta come home and just magically pull some genuine, unique, uber-romantic, never seen by other eyes except hers magic out of my ass? I love my wife, but forgive the high holy hell out of me for not being able to express my love in a wholly original fashion that I haven't already done in one of our cards. I mean, Jesus. I'll cook a romantic dinner for her, I'll buy her flowers, I'll do whatever's in my power to do. But words? No. Can't do it.
"The thing is, I totally get where she's coming from. Really, I do. You marry a greeting card writer, and it's not so crazy to expect to hear some nice sentimental shit at home every once in a while. And I used to try, but it quickly--very quickly--got to where I knew she didn't believe it. Not a word of it. She knew it wasn't stuff that was especially for her. It was stuff for her and millions--honestly, millions--of other women. Jesus, what does she want from me? In this business, you have to keep it kind of broad and general so it can appeal to as many different people as possible. When you get specific, it's no good. Anyway, something I said to her one time popped up in one of my cards. And yeah, that sucks--even more so because I couldn't remember if I'd said it to her first or if I'd written it for a card first. It all just kind of blurs together after a while, but that doesn't mean I don't mean it.
"So yeah, I got burned out on 'expressing my love verbally' and tried to go the 'show me, don't tell me' route with her, but yeah, good luck. Being married to a romantic writer who won't say romantic things to you is like dating a porn star who won't screw you."
"Jesus," said Stu.
"OK, maybe not that bad, but like, Mark. You were dating that massage therapist for a while, right?"
"Yeah?"
"And when you started dating her, were you all psyched about all the free massages you were going to be getting?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your question. I was too busy wondering whether I should be insulted or flattered that your next stop after porn star was my massage therapist ex-girlfriend."
Robert laughed. "Did you expect her to give you massages?"
"Well, yeah. Right?"
"You're a terrible, terrible man."
Everyone laughed.
"No," Mark said. "I know. I mean, it sucked. Everybody was always like, 'Oh, you must be getting free massages every night,' and it's like, 'No, not really.' I mean, yeah, she gave me a massage a few times when we first started going out, but it didn't take me long to figure out that she wasn't into it. I mean, that's her job. She doesn't want to do that shit when she gets home. "
"Thank you. That's what I'm trying to say. If you still have her number, please tell her to talk to my wife."
"Or you could hire her to give her a massage."
"Jesus, don't tempt me. She was hot if I remember correctly."
"Yes, she was."Robert wrote greeting card messages for Hallmark.
John was in charge of seasonal promotions (in particular, the Valentine's Weekend Getaway packages) for Sheraton, Inc.
Stu was a pianist who came to fame performing with Celine Dion.
Mark was a chocolatier.
Although the stories they shared were familiar--practically identical from year to year--it was good to share them with friends who could relate.
"Don't get me wrong," Robert said. "Valentine's Day has been very good to me. Very good to me. And I hate to appear ungrateful . . . BUT--"
The others laughed.
"Basically, when it comes to Valentine's Day and my wife, I'm screwed, just screwed. She doesn't believe anything romantic I tell her, and she hasn't for a really freaking long time. And it's like, what the hell does she want from me? I spend my entire work day spinning ultra-sweet maudlin pap for the masses, and then I gotta come home and just magically pull some genuine, unique, uber-romantic, never seen by other eyes except hers magic out of my ass? I love my wife, but forgive the high holy hell out of me for not being able to express my love in a wholly original fashion that I haven't already done in one of our cards. I mean, Jesus. I'll cook a romantic dinner for her, I'll buy her flowers, I'll do whatever's in my power to do. But words? No. Can't do it.
"The thing is, I totally get where she's coming from. Really, I do. You marry a greeting card writer, and it's not so crazy to expect to hear some nice sentimental shit at home every once in a while. And I used to try, but it quickly--very quickly--got to where I knew she didn't believe it. Not a word of it. She knew it wasn't stuff that was especially for her. It was stuff for her and millions--honestly, millions--of other women. Jesus, what does she want from me? In this business, you have to keep it kind of broad and general so it can appeal to as many different people as possible. When you get specific, it's no good. Anyway, something I said to her one time popped up in one of my cards. And yeah, that sucks--even more so because I couldn't remember if I'd said it to her first or if I'd written it for a card first. It all just kind of blurs together after a while, but that doesn't mean I don't mean it.
"So yeah, I got burned out on 'expressing my love verbally' and tried to go the 'show me, don't tell me' route with her, but yeah, good luck. Being married to a romantic writer who won't say romantic things to you is like dating a porn star who won't screw you."
"Jesus," said Stu.
"OK, maybe not that bad, but like, Mark. You were dating that massage therapist for a while, right?"
"Yeah?"
"And when you started dating her, were you all psyched about all the free massages you were going to be getting?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your question. I was too busy wondering whether I should be insulted or flattered that your next stop after porn star was my massage therapist ex-girlfriend."
Robert laughed. "Did you expect her to give you massages?"
"Well, yeah. Right?"
"You're a terrible, terrible man."
Everyone laughed.
"No," Mark said. "I know. I mean, it sucked. Everybody was always like, 'Oh, you must be getting free massages every night,' and it's like, 'No, not really.' I mean, yeah, she gave me a massage a few times when we first started going out, but it didn't take me long to figure out that she wasn't into it. I mean, that's her job. She doesn't want to do that shit when she gets home. "
"Thank you. That's what I'm trying to say. If you still have her number, please tell her to talk to my wife."
"Or you could hire her to give her a massage."
"Jesus, don't tempt me. She was hot if I remember correctly."
"OK," said Stu, changing the subject. "How about this one? Go to the Julliard, train classically, hone your jazz chops by touring with Wayne freaking Shorter--"
"Hone your jazz chops?" asked Mark.
"That's right. Hone the hell out of your jazz chops. Write your own compositions, score an independent film, and then try not to hate everyone in the world but especially yourself when all anybody wants to hear you play is the music of Celine Dion."
"Come on, Stu. Those are really pretty songs," said Mark.
If Stu recognized Mark's remark as the sarcasm it was intended to be, he didn't acknowledge it. "No, I know. I mean, I'm not going to be a total dick snob about it. Yes, I'll admit it. It's not a total fluke that her songs have done so well. They're obviously well-written and well-crafted and all the rest of it. And while I'm being magnanimous, let me just say how much I appreciate Celine letting my use them in my set."
"Very nice of her, Stu," said Mark.
"And totally in keeping with her character. Yes. There, I said it. Celine Dion is a nice person, and playing with her--"
"You got to 'play' with her?" asked Mark.
"--Performing with her has definitely put some high quality bread on my table, but come on. Playing Because You Loved Me, especially on Valentine's Day for a bunch of rich housewives and their probably hating every minute of it husbands wasn't exactly my famous musician fantasy when I was growing up."
"Wait a minute, Stu. Are you famous?" asked John.
"No, I'm not. But Celine Dion's pianist is."
"Celine Dion has a pianist? Jesus, is it bigger than mine?" asked John.
"Ha ha. But seriously, try to imagine life in my shoes: 46 years old, professional musician more than 25 years. And I'm unbelievably fortunate to be able to do this full-time. Seriously, I mean that. But no matter what else I do for the rest of my life, my legacy--if I have one--will be this."
He held up his CD, From Me to You: Stu Tolliver Plays the Music of Celine Dion.
"You've seen the little sticker in the corner, right?"
"Yes," John said. "'The pianist from Celine Dion's legendary Las Vegas show A New Day!' It's the exclamation point that does it for me."
"Holy shit is it bland, man. I hate that people hear this and think that's all I'm capable of."
"Well yeah, hate it all you want, but you'll be milking that puppy for years. As long as there are people out there who dig the schmaltzy love songs, you'll never go hungry," said Mark.
"It gets promoted heavily every Valentine's Day and it does well every Valentine's Day--unlike, oh, every other non-Celine Dion project I've ever been involved with. I think 'bittersweet' is the word you're going for."
"Yes, and that's a perfect segue into my complaints," started Mark.
"Bittersweet," said Robert. "You know, because he's a chocolate maker?"
"You mean chocolatier," said John with mock sophistication.
"OK, yeah. Let's start with that word: chocolatier. Pretty much the perfect combination of pretentious and gay. I feel like such a dick every time I use it. And I never get it right, by the way. Like, if I say 'chocolatier' inevitably whoever it is I'm talking to will look at me like they have no idea what I'm talking about, which they don't, so I have to explain it. But then if I say 'chocolate maker' they'll correct me, like, 'Don't you mean chocolatier?' Like they're so fucking worldly because they know that word or like they're way smarter than me because they know what my job title is but I don't. And it's like, 'Yeah, ass. I know that word, too. But maybe I don't feel like using it right now.'"
"Wait a minute, chocolatier means chocolate maker?" asked Robert.
Mark flipped him off and continued. "And yeah, I've done pretty well with it, but it's not exactly a noble calling, is it? Yeah, I bust my ass to come out with new shit every year--"
"Eww," said Robert.
Mark flipped him off again and kept going. "But it's not like I'm curing cancer. I'm making freaking chocolate--for rich people. It's not even like I'm putting smiles on kids' faces or some Willy Wonka shit. I'm making chocolate for a bunch of rich fucks. And it's not exactly easy either. Did you know that the number of chocolatiers in New York City has quadrupled in the last two years?"
"I did not know that," said Robert.
"I did," said John. "You didn't know that, Robert? Jesus."
Mark was now flipping everyone off with both hands. "My point is, you can't just keep coming out with the same basic crap every year like you used to. Now you've got all these new assholes coming in and coming out with all these ridiculous boutique chocolates: organic chocolates, floral chocolates, fucking wheat chocolates? What the fuck is that? And don't even get me started on all the European shit you can find online."
"I thought your online shop was doing pretty well," said Stu.
"It is, but it's a pain in the ass. This time of year, most of our business is mail order. Whole industry is changing. I mean, I shouldn't complain. We're doing well. Actually, we're doing really well, but still. It's a whole new set of headaches."
"Well, don't get me started on headaches," said John. "And the need for originality. And busting your hump catering to rich people. And having mixed feelings about Valentine's Day. And on and on and on and on and on. Instead, let me just say how freaking glad I am that Valentine's Weekend Getaway package season is over for another year."
"How'd that go, by the way?" asked Stu.
"Full occupancy in most of our branches. Very few cancellations. It helps when the big day is actually on the weekend. Gets people off the fence, you know?"
"And Michelle?" asked Mark.
"She's used to it by now. She knows this is my busy time, even though I know she's not crazy about being a Sheraton widow on Valentine's Day. As usual, we'll be celebrating next weekend. And as usual, I'll insist that it's more special that way since we're the only ones who do it that way."
"Where are you going this year?" asked Mark.
"Miami."
"Nice."
"Yeah, it'll be cool. We're leaving on Thursday. Can't wait."
"Best time of year," said Stu.
"For Miami?" asked John."Hone your jazz chops?" asked Mark.
"That's right. Hone the hell out of your jazz chops. Write your own compositions, score an independent film, and then try not to hate everyone in the world but especially yourself when all anybody wants to hear you play is the music of Celine Dion."
"Come on, Stu. Those are really pretty songs," said Mark.
If Stu recognized Mark's remark as the sarcasm it was intended to be, he didn't acknowledge it. "No, I know. I mean, I'm not going to be a total dick snob about it. Yes, I'll admit it. It's not a total fluke that her songs have done so well. They're obviously well-written and well-crafted and all the rest of it. And while I'm being magnanimous, let me just say how much I appreciate Celine letting my use them in my set."
"Very nice of her, Stu," said Mark.
"And totally in keeping with her character. Yes. There, I said it. Celine Dion is a nice person, and playing with her--"
"You got to 'play' with her?" asked Mark.
"--Performing with her has definitely put some high quality bread on my table, but come on. Playing Because You Loved Me, especially on Valentine's Day for a bunch of rich housewives and their probably hating every minute of it husbands wasn't exactly my famous musician fantasy when I was growing up."
"Wait a minute, Stu. Are you famous?" asked John.
"No, I'm not. But Celine Dion's pianist is."
"Celine Dion has a pianist? Jesus, is it bigger than mine?" asked John.
"Ha ha. But seriously, try to imagine life in my shoes: 46 years old, professional musician more than 25 years. And I'm unbelievably fortunate to be able to do this full-time. Seriously, I mean that. But no matter what else I do for the rest of my life, my legacy--if I have one--will be this."
He held up his CD, From Me to You: Stu Tolliver Plays the Music of Celine Dion.
"You've seen the little sticker in the corner, right?"
"Yes," John said. "'The pianist from Celine Dion's legendary Las Vegas show A New Day!' It's the exclamation point that does it for me."
"Holy shit is it bland, man. I hate that people hear this and think that's all I'm capable of."
"Well yeah, hate it all you want, but you'll be milking that puppy for years. As long as there are people out there who dig the schmaltzy love songs, you'll never go hungry," said Mark.
"It gets promoted heavily every Valentine's Day and it does well every Valentine's Day--unlike, oh, every other non-Celine Dion project I've ever been involved with. I think 'bittersweet' is the word you're going for."
"Yes, and that's a perfect segue into my complaints," started Mark.
"Bittersweet," said Robert. "You know, because he's a chocolate maker?"
"You mean chocolatier," said John with mock sophistication.
"OK, yeah. Let's start with that word: chocolatier. Pretty much the perfect combination of pretentious and gay. I feel like such a dick every time I use it. And I never get it right, by the way. Like, if I say 'chocolatier' inevitably whoever it is I'm talking to will look at me like they have no idea what I'm talking about, which they don't, so I have to explain it. But then if I say 'chocolate maker' they'll correct me, like, 'Don't you mean chocolatier?' Like they're so fucking worldly because they know that word or like they're way smarter than me because they know what my job title is but I don't. And it's like, 'Yeah, ass. I know that word, too. But maybe I don't feel like using it right now.'"
"Wait a minute, chocolatier means chocolate maker?" asked Robert.
Mark flipped him off and continued. "And yeah, I've done pretty well with it, but it's not exactly a noble calling, is it? Yeah, I bust my ass to come out with new shit every year--"
"Eww," said Robert.
Mark flipped him off again and kept going. "But it's not like I'm curing cancer. I'm making freaking chocolate--for rich people. It's not even like I'm putting smiles on kids' faces or some Willy Wonka shit. I'm making chocolate for a bunch of rich fucks. And it's not exactly easy either. Did you know that the number of chocolatiers in New York City has quadrupled in the last two years?"
"I did not know that," said Robert.
"I did," said John. "You didn't know that, Robert? Jesus."
Mark was now flipping everyone off with both hands. "My point is, you can't just keep coming out with the same basic crap every year like you used to. Now you've got all these new assholes coming in and coming out with all these ridiculous boutique chocolates: organic chocolates, floral chocolates, fucking wheat chocolates? What the fuck is that? And don't even get me started on all the European shit you can find online."
"I thought your online shop was doing pretty well," said Stu.
"It is, but it's a pain in the ass. This time of year, most of our business is mail order. Whole industry is changing. I mean, I shouldn't complain. We're doing well. Actually, we're doing really well, but still. It's a whole new set of headaches."
"Well, don't get me started on headaches," said John. "And the need for originality. And busting your hump catering to rich people. And having mixed feelings about Valentine's Day. And on and on and on and on and on. Instead, let me just say how freaking glad I am that Valentine's Weekend Getaway package season is over for another year."
"How'd that go, by the way?" asked Stu.
"Full occupancy in most of our branches. Very few cancellations. It helps when the big day is actually on the weekend. Gets people off the fence, you know?"
"And Michelle?" asked Mark.
"She's used to it by now. She knows this is my busy time, even though I know she's not crazy about being a Sheraton widow on Valentine's Day. As usual, we'll be celebrating next weekend. And as usual, I'll insist that it's more special that way since we're the only ones who do it that way."
"Where are you going this year?" asked Mark.
"Miami."
"Nice."
"Yeah, it'll be cool. We're leaving on Thursday. Can't wait."
"Best time of year," said Stu.
"Actually, for everywhere. Valentine's Weekend Getaways are finished. Robert, you're done dealing with love messages for a while. Mark, you can concentrate on non-heart shaped chocolates, and I can play--I don't know--non-Celine Dion related music." He lifted his glass. "To the end of the season."
They all clinked glasses and--now that they were done complaining about Valentine's Day--started bitching about the Knicks.
They all clinked glasses and--now that they were done complaining about Valentine's Day--started bitching about the Knicks.
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