Creative: My Valentine

By Raymond Cavanaugh

used to like Valentine’s Day as a kid. I’d gorge myself on chocolates at school and then come home to another chocolate orgy. But as I aged, and romance became more of a factor, or in my case, a non-factor, such enthusiasm waned. It became a day of quiet embarrassment, envy, and bitterness.

On Valentine’s Day of my last year in high school, I’d been sitting at the lunch table with the guys, and they were all talking about the night’s plans. There was Sammy, all-conference linebacker, who was going to suck a bottle’s worth of whipped cream off his cheerleader girlfriend, before sacking her from behind like a quarterback. There was Statutory Dave, who was going to pick up his latest middle-school sweetie in his Ford Winstar minivan a.k.a. "The Virgin Destroyer." Even sketchy Pete had plans: he was meeting up with some chick from the Behavioral Room; they were going to take heart-shaped candies laced with acid and watch The Matrix. My best friend, Drew, was still deciding which of his two girlfriends he’d see first, even entertaining the option of seeing them both at the same time. Hell, he’d pulled it off before, earning the nickname, "Two-For-One Drew." I reminded him of this. He nodded and grinned but then said such a scenario was unlikely because Valentine’s Day was different.

He was right. Valentine’s Day was different, and speaking of different, I felt a bit different there at the table with my socially viable buddies, who, unlike me, all had plans. I left for home right after lunch, skipping out on a study hall and a torturous double-block of Chemistry. It was a half-hour walk, and by the time I’d reached my door, I’d sucked down a half-dozen Marlboros. There was an untouched heart-shaped box of Russell Stover’s on the kitchen table. I emptied it in fifteen minutes, leaving a chaos of wrappers. Still unable to fill the void, I sparked another Marlboro, breaking my parents’ rule about smoking inside the house. I then went over to the household fish tank, home to three odd-looking fish. I watched them swim around in yet another pointless circle. Taking a deep drag off the Marlboro, I thought about their limited capacity to feel and soon became quite jealous. I tapped on the tank, and upon getting the attention of those hideous bulging eyes, I, like a menacing wizard, blew a cloud of smoke right at the tank. The present had a dull clarity; I knew I could no longer stay in the house.

I grabbed some bills from my bedroom stash, left home, walked down the street to a train stop, where, after two cigarettes, a train came and I got on. A fidgety forty minutes later, I arrived in Penn Station, got off the train, and went over to a street corner, where I took a copy of The Village Voice, or, more precisely, I took a copy of the Escort section, petulantly tossing the rest on the downtown asphalt. I went to a payphone and called Lexi: 5’4’, 115, 36C, 25yrs. Normally, she’d not take well to a call from an unverifiable number, but Lexi and I had a bit of a rapport, and after jogging her undoubtedly hectic memory, she agreed to an in-call visit. I hopped a bus headed down 8th Avenue and got off in Greenwich Village; I then walked for a few minutes before stopping at the front door of a certain Canal St. building, where I rang the appropriate buzzer.

I opened the now activated door, opted for the stairs instead of the elevator, ascended quickly, knocked on the familiar fourth-floor door, entered to the artificial welcome of a half-dressed, expectant Lexi, who I paid, chatted with briefly, and, once in the bedroom, took like stale bread in a famine.

I left Lexi minus my wasted seed and way too much money. Still, I felt a bit better; there was an absurd sense of accomplishment. I sucked down my last cigarette with an air of something akin to satisfaction. Some church bell was ringing. It was four-thirty. My lunch table buddies would be out of school and on to their much-anticipated plans. I had plans now too: I wanted to go home, maybe get another pack of smokes and look at some internet porn, anything but drift around the city like a lonely pervert. I trekked back to Penn Station, and, a half-hour later, was on a bus headed home. It was a quick ride, ahead of rush-hour traffic, few passengers, and few stops.

I was home before six. I sat down in the kitchen, leaned back in my chair, and, through the window, peered out at the darkness of a mid-February sky. I wondered which girl my friend, Drew, was hanging out with. I also wanted to tell about my excursion. So I called him. When he picked up I could hear a girl’s laughter in the background. It was his respectable, Dartmouth-bound girl; he’d save the semi-literate skanky one for later.

I said hello. He cursed when he heard my voice, and asked why the hell I was calling him on Valentine’s Day. I ignored his question and began to tell about Lexi. He cursed again, cutting me off in mid-sentence. He told me the escort stuff was funny the first couple of times, but that it’d gotten old, and I needed a real girlfriend. Then he said he’d see me tomorrow and hung up.

I needed a girlfriend. Drew was right. I knew it. It was Valentine’s Day. And once again, I was alone, languishing in the kitchen. I wanted some more cigarettes. I wanted some more chocolates. I knew I’d have to go to the neighborhood market. But first, there was something I needed to take care of. I went over to the fish tank. My three little friends were swimming around in one more pointless circle. I tapped on their tank like I did earlier in the day. But that wasn’t enough. So I brought the tank to the sink, poured all the water out, and then put it on the kitchen table and sat down.

When the fish stopped flapping, I stopped tapping, and we all remained still, watching each other starve.

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