The Fourteenth of February

Love is in the air. You can sense it. You can feel it.  You can smell the roses and savor the chocolates. 

Never mind that the world is at present mired in every kind of turmoil you can imagine–political turmoil, social turmoil, financial turmoil, technological turmoil, military turmoil and, yes, egg shortage turmoil.

And what could be more troublesome than White House billionaires who end the minting of the American penny, thereby sending businesses into small change confusion and ensuring decline for the American piggy bank market?

On the other hand, it’s February.

Cupid is sharpening his arrows of romance and the neighborhood ladies are streaming to my door with Valentine sweets and savories designed to capture my male appetite and gratitude. Why me? I don’t get it. But it happens every February and each year increases the number of holiday callers seeking welcome, respite, refuge or whatever the ladies are seeking at my door. 

Valentine’s Day has something to do with it, of course, but I have no idea why I’m targeted. I’m not what you call a  ladies’ man, but for some mysterious reason, the ladies have made me their man. I have none of the qualities deemed essential for their interest—good looks, money to burn and fascinating flirtation patter. Nor am I greeting them at the door of a mansion with a period piece Bentley parked in my driveway (an aging motorcycle with a habit of accelerating and backfiring is my vehicle of choice).

So the mystery remains. Why me?

At first, I thought it was just a feminine idea of a holiday prank and harmless socializing. It not only continues, but seems to have become a neighborhood tradition. What’s the attraction? What’s the lure?  

It’s up to me to make sense of it, if I can, and solve the riddle of what happens here each February. Until then, the riddle remains. It’s made me the object of wonder and envy among males, especially those whose love life needs repair. I make no effort at all and yet women flock to my door with an array of Valentine temptations, eager to join the chattering, wine-splurging sisterhood clustered within.  Go figure.   

“May I come in and slice this for you?” one woman asked, revealing a heart-shaped, home-made cake.

“Can I join you, if I’m not interrupting anything, and have you uncork and pour this for us to share?” another asked, revealing a rare and remarkable wine never found on a shelf at Safeway or Costco.    

“Would you care for a taste of the finest coffee in the world? Served with my home-made cookies from an old family recipe of the colonial era that George Washington himself pronounced as the equal of what one might expect at Buckingham Palace?”  Try to say no to that.

“I doubt George Washington ate cookies with his bad teeth,” I said.

“He dunked them in his cup.” she responded. “The cookies, I mean, not the teeth.”                              

Which is how George Washington made his way into my overcrowded kitchen.           

And speaking of holiday cuisine, another woman arrived with a large picnic basket full of what she chose to call “L’orgueil et la glorie de la France.” I don’t speak French, but it sure beats my usual leftovers.

My favorite of all was the lovely biotech scientist who arrived on my doorstep with a super sales pitch. “Would you like to invite me in to help you reverse the signs of aging and regain the energy of youth?” 

Now that’s what I call a ticket of admission.     

2

My doorbell starts ringing shortly before Valentine’s Day and continues with a parade of gift-bearing women with their special deliveries. My puzzled male friends want to know the how and why of it, looking askance at my personal lack of everything necessary to attract and fascinate females. That’s why my buddies Dex Poindexter and Vince Lebasque came to consult me. After small talk about our disastrous Super Bowl bets, the boys revealed the reason for their visit.

“What’s going on here with you?” asked Dex, whose parents took the last six letters of the family name for the first name of their first-born.

“You’ve got to tell us your secret,” said Vince, who gave every indication of being a smart, stylish playboy except for the conspicuous lack of a playgirl. No sooner would he come on to a lady than she suspected his intent and excused herself to go to the kitchen, the powder room or another convenient hiding place.     

“Beats me,” I said honestly.

“We’re friends aren’t we? Can’t you level with us? We won’t give your secret away.”

“You won’t because I don’t have one.”

“Oh, come on! With all those gift-bearing women checking in? You must have one.”

“Maybe just one little secret?” Dex pleaded as if his love life depended on it. 

Since I had to give him one to prevent further pleas, I invented a plausible answer.

“Eat more fish.”

“What! What?”         

“Did you know eating fish provides heart health and other benefits?”

The two men stared at me and then at each other and then back to me.

“Quit pulling our leg, buddy,” they urged. “We didn’t come here to discuss tuna.”

“How about salmon? Seriously. Salmon and tuna. Rich in omega-3 fatty acids and vital nutrients! Try a couple of servings per week and see if it doesn’t help you to—“

“That’s not what we’re asking,” Dex said. “We’re interested in something other than nutrition.”

“Like seduction,” Vince nodded. “If we knew the secret. Is there any reason why you can’t share it?”

I decided to play the game. 

“Let me put it this way, boys. Women adore men who are serious about health, exercise, fitness, culture and proper diets. Get the picture?”

“Proper diets? Your idea of a healthy meal is a barbecued burger and beer at Shorty’s. Proper exercise? Your idea of fitness is watching football and basketball in your easy chair. Culture? When’s the last time you read a book? Short story?” 

“What I’m saying is that you boys need to see it from the female point of view. That’s the secret. If there is a secret, that’s it. Get with the program.”

“What program?” Vince asked, turning his eyes to my television set.

“It’s not about you. It’s all about how you make a woman feel about herself.”

“I don’t get it,” Dex said. Vince seconded the motion and asked for clarification. 

“Man does not live by monkey business alone. Anybody care for a beer?”                                                                             

3

“So what do you really want from life?” a lady with a personal touch and a wonderful golden round cake asked me as the party went on and on with the constantly ringing doorbell and noisily celebrating women whom I now refer to as the Valentinians.

“A long, painless and prosperous existence,” I replied. “How does that sound?”

“Too good to be true.”

“Let me ask you something. How would you like to ditch all this, hop on the back of my motorcycle and take a ride to Harry’s for a burger, beer and a game of pool?”  

“What on earth put that idea in your head?” she asked.    

“I thought you’d like to see the real me and get acquainted with the rest of me for more than once a year,” I said, reasoning that women can’t resist men who know (or assume they know) their hidden secrets.

She stared at me with a look that said something I couldn’t interpret, slowly shook her head, and with a sigh said, “You just don’t get it.”

“Maybe you can give it to me?” 

“Your house is a very convenient meeting place for lonely single women and others needing a night out. You’re a very obliging host whom we bribe with goodies so you don’t charge us a fee. Get it? Now do you understand?” 

It was easy to forgive her, especially because her golden cake gift was made with sweet vermouth, layered with rum cream and sprinkled with—well, I’m not sure whatever it was sprinkled with.

And besides, I’ve taken a liking to Becky, a brisk, bold, bespectacled woman who said she was “A novelist, or at least I’m trying to write one, which in theory makes me a novelist.” She enjoys playing word games with me in which she challenges me to define words I’ve never heard of such as “fissiparous”, and “exacerbate”. She giggles when I take a guess that is always and invariably wrong. I invited her for a ride she’ll never forget on my motorcycle that has a mind of its own and runs a fast track to Shorty’s. She said she’ll think it over and let me know when she sees me next year. 

Which is a long time to wait. Which is why I’ve taken up with a gal by the name of Pepper who is employed by a pest control company that promises to rid householders of any problem they may have with ants, crickets, earwigs, fleas, silverfish, spiders, springtails, ticks, tocks and wasps. She’s a master of her trade, a skillful poisoner who promises to keep my house and garden insect-free. But what if we have a falling out?  A bitter breakup? An angry parting? Would she be tempted to use her mastery of poisons on a different kind of pest?  

Which is why I’m transferring my attention to Euphoria, a saleslady for a Belgian chocolate company whose imported product is certifiably Belgian, made with a guarantee of 100 percent pure cocoa butter and a handsome gift box of a dozen different flavors. She’s a relative of the current CEO of the company for which she works and hints that there may soon be an opening in her office if I would like to apply for it and escape the life I now live—-and the once-a-year ladies at my door.

“What in the world are you thinking of doing?” Dex and Vince asked when I revealed my options.

“Thinking is unnecessary,” I explained. “Kind of like love itself.”