The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday

by Neil McKinnon

  Harold also spent the week brooding and thinking. He imagined a woman who understood good music, a woman who believed in the Drifters, a woman who knew all of the words to “Under the Boardwalk”.

  Though each was building a reservoir of resentment they attempted to normalize their lives by resuming activity in the bedroom. However, Cecilia’s reservoir was filled to capacity and she could not refrain from criticizing — not large ugly criticisms, but small delicate ones, spoken quietly with just a hint of derision. “It’s all right, dear,” she said to Harold. “It’ll be better next time.”

  “What do you mean, better?” Harold said. “No one’s ever complained before.”

  “I’ve listened to the grapevine,” Cecilia said. “Maybe they didn’t complain … to your face.”

  Harold’s ego had less strength than his jaw so it wasn’t long until he moved out. I visited him in his basement apartment. He sat on a cot holding a beer, his cowboy shirt hanging open and his girdle on the floor beside an empty wine bottle. He seemed resigned. “I should have known from the beginning,” he said, “when she spoiled my performance by spilling drinks.”

  Cecilia also confided in me when I ran into her during intermission at the symphony. “I should have known from the beginning,” she said. ‘He was only interested in his own voice. His cousin, Eigil was the one that paid attention to me. That’s him over there.” She pointed to a man standing by the bar smoking a cigar and wearing a pink glitter shirt.

  She confessed that even in the thick of her love for Harold she had been unable to shake the image of Eigil’s black chest hair quivering at the top of his open-necked shirt whenever he flexed his pectorals. She went on to tell me that she had a premonition of what might occur. Eigil frequently came to see Harold in the late afternoon after he got off work. Prior to each visit, without forward planning and starting early in the morning, she would exfoliate her face and body, shower, shave her legs and armpits, wax her bikini line, apply toe and nail polish, curl her eyelashes, put on foundation, powder, skin lotion, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, deodorant, blush, perfume, and lipstick. She would also shampoo, dry, curl, mousse and spray her hair, pluck her eyebrows and upper lip, put on earrings, necklace, ankle bracelet, a new pair of panty hose and her most secret of Victoria’s Secrets, as well as an alluring summer dress with matching pumps. Then, completely unaware of her own motivation and afroth with internal turmoil, she feigned indifference, all-the-while manoeuvring to preserve an unobstructed view of Eigil’s shivering chest hair.

  Adriana interrupted. “So was that it? They never got back together?”

  “No they didn’t. I had thought of attempting the role of peacemaker but I knew it would fail. Their separation was permanent and there was no turning back. ‘Love at first sight’ is a euphemism for ‘depleting resource’. There is no depth. The well is shallow and soon goes dry. Inevitably, new exploration becomes the order of the day.”

  “Are you saying that all spontaneous love is ill-fated — that falling in love is a prescription for a bad relationship?” Adriana asked.

  “No, just that it’s not the best model. If we think that love is a sensation then we do things to respond to that. We do that rather than behave in conjunction with our hopes, aspirations and values — behaviour which by its nature would provide a more solid foundation than feelings do for building a relationship.”

  “Okay, enlighten me.”

  “I’ll do that another time, my impetuous imp. Right now, I’m tired.” I said goodnight and left for home. On my way through Adriana’s yard, I found myself humming “Under the Boardwalk”.

  Melting Schnauzer’s Cataracts

  NOTE TO THE READER: NEITHER I nor Adriana subscribed completely to the views of love presented here. However, I think it is a useful exercise to continue our time-warp and portray our conversations exactly as they took place those many years ago.

  We were again on Adriana’s patio and she was reinforcing her reputation for volume. “Let’s hear it all,” she said. “Pass me your speck of wisdom.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Before you brought up the Wildebeests, we were discussing ‘love as a commodity’. The problem with that approach is that one never gets enough. It’s not unlike striving for more money, or a gourmand looking for a better meal, or a competitive runner trying for a personal best. Women want more in a relationship … things like commitment, sensitivity, help with housework, togetherness, and attention. A man also wants more — perhaps for a woman to be wanton in the bedroom and an angel in public, or for her to become younger as he ages. Being loved is never sufficient.”

  “So, we want more. Why is that a problem?”

  “It’s a sword with two edges. Wanting more means that, relatively speaking, love is a non-renewable resource … and being finite, if it’s based on such a flimsy foundation as ‘love at first sight’, it has nothing in reserve and is bound to deplete.”

  “Okay, suppose I believe you. What’s the alternative?”

  “The opposite view suggests that the consumption rate is such that love can be produced fast enough to maintain itself. Most would agree that this is the case with parental and brotherly love, but it’s also useful to observe romantic love through the lens of sustainability.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “As I said, your observations are from the viewpoint of an individual wanting to be the beloved rather than the lover. He or she has high expectations and little incentive to become educated in the intricacies of romance, all of which results in arrested development. That train stops permanently at ‘attraction’ and rarely rumbles down the track to ‘attachment’, leaving the passengers befuddled as to where they are. The confusion exists because, during much of history, we humans have allowed religious and political institutions to define what romantic relationships should be. Nowadays, new-age charlatans and Hollywood also call the tune. Therefore, we twist ourselves into pretzels trying to fulfill roles that others have defined rather then chasing our own biology. To paraphrase a great philosopher, You can choose what to do, but not what you want to do.”

  Adriana yawned, an unsuccessful attempt to appear bored. “Okay, if it’s necessary, let’s taste your pip of perception. Tell me what love is.”

  “Anytime, my misshapen misanthrope. The alternate view doesn’t see love as a passive undertaking, where you sit on an inert rear-end and wait for romantic fireworks to spontaneously explode around your head. No, it’s a choice where you look for someone to love, find him or her, and then commit yourself to that individual’s happiness. As we each drive a different road to happiness, love and its twin sister intimacy must be learned anew with each fresh situation.”

  “What do you mean by learned? Do you want to establish a degree program?”

  “In a sense, yes. My primary goal has always been to discover the nature of love so that we humans can better rectify the fallacies that surround all aspects of that subject. I now understand that love is actually a blend of science and art, and like any science or art, it must be approached and studied with the right attitude and from the right angle — from the point of view of finding someone to love — not of finding someone to love you. The distinction is subtle but important. The approach requires that we make the effort to acquire the keys to another’s happiness. It’s not unlike the resolve, focus, and endurance needed to learn music or art … or even engineering, and like those subjects there are three requisites: first we must learn the concepts, then we have to master the mechanics, and most important, we should want to do it. Attitude is everything — one’s ability as a lover is primarily determined by how one dwells in one’s own head.”

  She leaned forward. “The image of you living in your head makes me think of a jackass residing in a coffin … and speaking of mastering mechanics … the last time you adjusted my carburetor, you ended up spilling lubricant on my rear axle. You’re lucky I didn’t dismantle your drive shaft.”

  “No, I mean it. Love starts in one’s
own head, but not as the result of a fortuitous, emotional accident as you believe. It may be a strong feeling but it’s also a judgement, a decision, and a promise.”

  “Aha, my ancient artefact, you’re scalped with your own scissors. You haven’t lived in that manner. As far as love is concerned you’ve danced across the map. You speak one way and move in another. That’s hypocritical.”

  “Not so. Like any student, I did not start with full knowledge of my subject. I said that you have to commit to another’s happiness. I didn’t say for eternity. Nowhere on our romance genes is there a code for duration or exclusivity. If you like, I can give you an example of love as I have described it.”

  “Please do. So far you make sense in the same fashion that a rooster makes eggs.”

  My tale concerns Melissa, a young lady of my acquaintance, and her pursuit of Antonio, a gentleman she met at a party arranged by Antonio’s older sister, an intimate friend with whom she had gone to college. She determined that here was a man that she would like to know better. Accordingly, she asked if he would like to meet her one day for a coffee. He said he would love to. The next day she phoned to arrange a time and place. He was busy. She tried again on the day following with the same result. In fact, she phoned every day for a week and he was otherwise occupied at each time she suggested.

  My friend does not daunt easily. She found out that he lived in her neighbourhood and caught the 7:33 bus every morning to go to his job in a pet store where he was apprenticing as an assistant cage cleaner, a position that gave him the same standing with the owner as a tree has with a dog. On the Monday following the week of fruitless phoning, Melissa made her way to the bus stop at 7:33 AM. Antonio nodded to her and she followed him onto the bus. She sat next to him and asked him to have lunch with her that day. He replied that his job at the pet store was arduous and that he never went for lunch. She then asked if he would meet her for dinner. He turned her down. “Prior commitments,” he explained.

  With her efforts again fruitless, Melissa decided that she was searching in the wrong orchard. Accordingly, she expanded her horizons. She determined to find out what it was that gave Antonio satisfaction and made him happy. A discreet and ribald discussion with the sister led to the discovery that he had but three passions in life: he raised rare soprano canaries; he lobbied for the protection of the world’s one remaining herd of wild Iranian goat-eating ocelots; and he occasionally locked himself alone in his closet where he engaged in wild imaginative sex assisted by pictures of Big Red Machine, the local women’s soccer team.

  After digesting this information, Melissa joined SCAT, the international organization of Soprano Canaries and Trainers, enlisted in conservation efforts to save Iranian ocelots, and began taking soccer lessons.

  A few weeks later, she caught the 7:33 bus and again sat beside Antonio. During the ride she pontificated on the difficulty of training canaries and waxed eloquent on efforts to preserve foreign ocelots. Antonio was intrigued and they started to meet occasionally for coffee and conversation. One day, he mentioned that Big Red Machine was playing a home stand and that he had never been to a soccer game. Melissa bought tickets and they went together.

  The ice hadn’t completely melted but the temperature was up a few degrees. They began attending soccer games, but Melissa found their relationship frustrating. It always halted at the final whistle, although Antonio occasionally allowed her to escort him home after a game. One evening, after she had brought him home and he had rushed inside to lock himself in the closet, she sat down on his front step, pondered their future and conjured up a new strategy. The next day she purchased a small tent and pitched it on Antonio’s veranda. She began sleeping in the tent, rousing each morning to escort him to the pet store.

  Weeks passed and winter approached. One cold night, Antonio opened the door and invited Melissa to come in before she froze to death. “You can sleep on the floor in the kitchen,” he said. She moved in and every night she surreptitiously moved her sleeping bag a few inches until it was positioned outside Antonio’s bedroom door. One evening he carelessly left the door open. Melissa quietly moved her sleeping bag to the foot of his bed and placed it beside Schnauzer, Antonio’s ancient pet dachshund. Schnauzer did not approve of this arrangement and pulled himself onto the bed where he hunkered down and slept across Antonio’s feet. This situation persisted well into the dry season.

  Melissa was close to exhausting her mental and physical resources and, in this state, she frequently neglected to eat. Soon, she was experiencing erratic blood sugar levels in spite of helping herself to the left-over pizza that Antonio set out for Schnauzer. One evening, slightly afuddle from constantly propping up blood sugar with second-hand pizza, she threw caution out the window and crawled onto the bed. Schnauzer snorted a protest, shook his head to evenly distribute a large amount of drool and moved back to the floor.

  The new arrangement lasted until the end of the summer rain — Melissa dozing alone at the foot of the bed, weak and barely able to arouse herself in time to catch the 7:33 bus. One morning, still perched at the edge of her quest and within easy hailing distance of defeat, she had a flash of insight, so brilliant it melted the cataracts in Schnauzer’s eyes. She accompanied Antonio to the pet store and then left to spend the afternoon shopping. That evening she donned a brand new Big Red Machine t-shirt before crawling onto the foot of the bed. Antonio offered an extended grin, lifted the blanket, and invited her to join him. Schnauzer, whose hearing was acute, pushed open the door and moved into the tent on the veranda.

  The breakthrough was complete. Melissa had mastered Antonio’s happiness. Eventually, they bought more T-shirts, transformed the closet into a recording studio for canaries, and tied the wedding knot. Their feelings for each other are so profound, so intimate, and they communicate so fully that their marriage has lasted for more weeks than their courtship. They continue to attend soccer games, train canaries, and they have adopted Anoush, a homeless Iranian Ocelot who lives happily in the tent with Schnauzer.

  Melissa and Antonio’s love sounds like cotton candy, tastes like neon, and sparkles like an operatic aria. Likewise Schnauzer and Anoush exist in perfect harmony although the tent now smells like the plural of armpit. The prognosis is that both of these relationships will endure.

  Adriana was roaring. “I’ve heard of love causing the earth to jump,” she cackled, “but love that causes an ancient daschund to move must be very profound. Perhaps you’ve stumbled onto a new standard for unrestrained feral romance.” She paused to wipe away tears and then abandoned herself to more hysterical mirth. “The wooing took longer than most people’s life expectancy,” she gasped. “Did they start a family … or did taking care of a dog, an ocelot and canaries fill all parental imperatives?”

  “Laugh if you must, but the story illustrates precepts that were hidden in the baggage we humans carried across the starting line.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From the beginning, we have all wanted to ‘be in love’. But being in love is not love. Love is the ore that remains after being in love is sluiced away … and that ore is not a limited commodity.”

  “I agree to the extent that forcing our biology to obey society’s rules has proven as successful as telling a cat to heel. I also agree that love and intimacy should have more prominence in relationships.”

  “Certainly they should, and they do when institutional conditions such as marriage, divorce, and monogamy take on less importance — which is the case when the goal becomes the other’s happiness rather than the other’s fidelity.”

  ‘But you have to admit that marriage is popular.”

  “Of course it is. It works! Marriage and its first cousin monogamy are embraced by most religions and governments. Priests and politicians love them. They are effective antidotes to passion and hence contribute to order and civilization. Passionate love is dangerous and the ideal citizen should have no appetite for it.”

  Adriana was suddenly serious. �
��But will having happiness as the goal guarantee perpetual bliss?”

  “Of course not. It can only tip the odds. We all know that some conjugal mergers are ill-matched and pitiful.”

  “Yes, they are … but why?” she asked. “For example, what is it that makes us so ill-matched? Is it because I have inherited a surplus of wisdom and God’s inventory was low when you were born?”

  “If love correlated with wisdom, my religious relic, your most romantic encounter would have been with your shower. Love is never an egalitarian experience. While both parties must participate, it is impossible for them to participate equally. Just as no two people exhibit identical patterns of baldness, no two experience the same pattern of love. Why is this so, you ask? Because, rarely are the tasks of lover and beloved approached with the same intensity by both parties.

  “It doesn’t matter from what angle you observe it, love is a perilous undertaking not to be tried by those in a weakened state. The chance of finding eternal happiness is minuscule. The probability of failure is almost as high as the probability that a priest will enjoy little success at celibacy.

  “To achieve the other’s happiness is not just to facilitate those things that give the other well-being, security, and contentment. There must be more. We must endeavour to help our partner become everything that is possible for him or her. We must also ensure that no element of coercion exists, so that each half of a relationship feels completely free to become the person he or she wants to be. This precludes all narrow concepts that serve to inhibit.”

  “What are you talking about? Give me an example.”

  “I’m talking about things like obedience and jealousy. Neither of them can exist without a sense of ownership and, when one person has that sense, then the relationship takes on many of the characteristics of slavery.”