Secret Valentine

I never knew my mother. And nothing about her from my father. He worked plumbing and heating and electrical. He paid an old lady next door to watch me after school. Actually, I came to realize that he was paying her to watch her TV shows and ignore me. So, as soon as I could, I persuaded Dad to let me spend my after-school hours at the local branch of the public library.

You could find me there through my entire public school years. I read all kinds of stories, many from the 1800s like Jules Verne and Charles Dickens. Even romantic authors like Brontë and Austen. I used a dog-eared old paperback dictionary to help me acclimate to the obsolete language.

In high school I was accused of plagiarism because my style was so influenced by the archaic language I was familiar with from my library readings. To prove I wasn't copying from some college text in my high school assignments, I had to sit down and write three paragraphs off the top of my head (about the Civil War).

In my school years I had serious asthma. I couldn't participate in sports and was often bullied. I seem to have grown out of that sensitivity, thankfully, although I stay as far away as I can from smoke and dust. But what began, I suppose, as an innate sense of shyness had become crippling by the time that I finished high school. I never dated, had no friends, and did not attend the graduation.

The strange thing about those years: I didn't feel depressed or lonely. Detached might be a better word. Many of the stories which I read included love and romance. I accepted that these things existed, but they just didn't apply to me. My father never dated; from him I took my example.

Absorbing so much literature meant that I romped through the college entrance exams, and I earned a full scholarship and early entry to college. While I was there my father passed away, his estate and financial aid were enough to live on until I could finish my degree and then get going in my investment research career.

My work is far too boring to describe here, but it does pay well. Even better, it happens almost entirely on paper and/or on-line, so I'm not meeting with people very much as part of my job.

Don't get me wrong, I'm older now, I can present myself and have conversations. My behavior is normal enough that people can be comfortable interacting with me. It's the tension hidden inside that's so unpleasant for me.

I am still incapacitated when I feel any attraction towards women. It's bad. Even frightening. I've watched as women that I want to talk with have moved off, before I can sputter out word one.

So, in the language of business, how am I presenting myself to you? Quite the catch, this Jacob, yes?

Jacob, "language of business" is right. You're giving me a biography, a goddamn résumé, and describing your incapacity to date.

Soldiering on.

It was while I was in college that my attitudes shifted. Where I would have lunch, I got in the habit of listening and watching my peers, from the side of the room. My eyes settled on this guy who was also sitting alone, eating his lunch. Even coming from a completely heterosexual viewpoint, this guy was objectively beautiful. He looked like a model: skin, hair, and body. As if he stepped out of a magazine ad for the branded athletic gear that he was often wearing.

I noticed that the young women, and a few of the men, were visibly drawn to him as they passed by. It was their reactions that drew my attention. Once I recognized the pattern, I couldn't un-see it. A few of the young women would circle back and try to engage with this guy.

But he wouldn't look up at them. He said very little, I got the impression he didn't do much more than mumble. If anything, he just looked uncomfortable. Invariably, they would leave, looking frustrated, while he would sag and look defeated. I watched this same sad story play out repeatedly over a few weeks.

About now, Melanie, you might be thinking, problem solved! Jacob (me) decides to be friendly, learns the secrets of romance, starts dating, end of story.

Not hardly. I took from my observations of Mr. Model a different, opposite, lesson. If HE couldn't succeed with those women despite having every physical advantage, then I was so far out of the picture it was never going to be different. I am very average looking and didn't attract attention like he did.

Oh, Jacob. Wrong answer!

I was human, obviously, but I wasn't social. Some kind of sub-species. I stopped watching people, I focused on my studies, and then my career.

And then something happened that turned my head completely around.

But I can't tell you about that now, because I'm having the worst anxiety attack ever. I am desperately afraid this has already gone too far as a confession.

My fear says, you have the red pen uncapped, ready for the "X" mark.

Don't do it, I beg you. Give me one more day. Just one. I am a better man, now, I hope.

I know I am. I will show it, I promise.

Constantly, I am: Thinking of You. — 22 —

Jacob

Melanie sat back in her chair, her mind racing.

Shit! Fuck! Motherfucker! I was AFRAID this guy, Jacob, was a dipshit. And I STILL don't really know who he is. There must be two dozen guys in this complex with "J. Something" on their mailboxes.

She went to the kitchen and flipped on her electric kettle, preparing a mug of herbal tea. Ten minutes later, back at her laptop, she was ready to respond.

To: chary974@proton.me

From: fourscars@beltwest.net

Subject: The Red Pen

Monday, January 23, 2023, 10:00 p.m.

Jacob, I want you to "listen" very closely to what I have to "say" to you in this message.

My days start with getting us fed and ready, never easy with a kid Amy's age. Then getting through my horrible job, that job which is worse on Mondays. Then getting us home, making dinner, cleaning up, and then getting to bed at a reasonable time.

My days are EXHAUSTING. Mondays are the worst!

Your letter tonight, is exhausting me MORE. I'm so fucking tired right now, I could spit.

I know, I have to thank you for the daycare fees, the car repairs, Safeway, and the movie. And I do thank you. Truly, I do. But right now, this here is the best I can do.

Maybe I can circle back another time.

You know what, though? Despite my gratitude, that red pen is almost uncapped. Because, although I can't deny the tires, an emergency situation, and the movie was great—paying Amy's fees was STALKER-ish.

"Hear" me, Jacob.

STALKER-ish.

Just because of my looks, and because of spying on me with my daughter around where we live, you decided to follow us. You must have followed me to her daycare. Followed us!

You paid her fees with a money order, to keep your identity secret. You didn't know me, hadn't exchanged any information with me. But you made me worry about some unknown guy trying to get to me at my most vulnerable, through my daughter and through our poverty.

I can imagine you protesting now. Your pure intentions. Only wanting to help, etc.

FUCK THAT NOISE. Using your pile of money to foster a relationship is manipulative. It's a step down a sordid path. Ultimately, that path can lead some desperate mothers to prostitution.

That feeling you're having now? Respect it. You better get sensitive to that right now. I'm too tired to explain it any further.

From now on, you talk to me FIRST, for anything more than chocolate. Or that red marker will go straight up your asshole, at the end of my foot.

I know you want to pour out your life story. You are so full of your pent up feelings. These things are clear from your message.

But I want you to think first about ME and MY feelings. Get out of your own head and STOP with the grand surprise gestures. To me, they are NOT romantic. I can't make that any more clear for you.

Shy or not, don't try to manipulate me. I don't care if you're a billionaire, respect me as a human of equal worth.

You have my curiosity, and enough good will, that still I want to know you better.

But first, I want you to WAIT. Your next message should not come to me before THURSDAY. And it should show that you have reflected on what I managed to put down here in THIS message.

Show me that "Thinking of You" means more, that you are thinking about my concerns, and my feelings. Not just my looks, or my daughter's behavior, or YOUR feelings.

Show me that you understand what I am telling you. Thursday is your one chance. I hope you take it.

Melanie

Ten minutes later, she was asleep. The next day, she saw this:

To: fourscars@beltwest.net

From: chary974@proton.me

Subject: Waiting for Thursday

Tuesday, January 24, 2023

I promise, I will wait until Thursday, with an appropriate response.

Until then, I am Thinking of You — 21 —

Jacob

In her mailbox, just the card "Thinking of You — 21 —" and two chocolate squares. The next day, the same card, "Thinking of You — 20 —" and two lollipops.

Melanie pulled up her calendar and then figuratively smacked herself in the forehead. "Of course!" Wednesday, January 25th was 20 days until February 14th, Valentine's Day.

Chapter 7: This is Your Chance, Jacob.

On Thursday, nervous the whole day, Melanie finally pulled out her phone to check her email in the parking lot after work. Relieved, she saw that Jacob's message was there for her.

Once again, she brought Amy to McDonald's for a Happy Meal and their interior playground to blow off some energy and get her to bed early.

Last time for this restaurant, that meal might be called happy but it sure ain't healthy.

In the mailbox with the card, an ordinary chocolate Twix, with their names carefully lettered on each side. Jacob had correctly guessed that Amy could already recognize her own name, so she was thrilled.

Just chocolate. Good. At least he is still paying attention.

Later, with Amy tucked in to her bed, her tea brewed, laptop booted up, Melanie was ready.

To: fourscars@beltwest.net

From: chary974@proton.me

Subject: A Better Man

Thursday, January 22, 2023

To start, I ask, no, I beg for your forgiveness. I am not so oblivious that I didn't worry about your reaction when I secretly paid Amy's daycare fees. But I was so caught up in my imagination of you and your being grateful (I hoped), that I just ran past any reasonable considerations.

It was a dick move. It was manipulative. You have it exactly right. I am ashamed. And I could have, should have, ASKED you, if you needed and wanted help. From a source you could feel confident in.

And then there was fixing your car, which just aggravated all those bad feelings.

I guess we have agreed, though, that your tires were an emergency situation where Amy's safety was paramount. So we can let that go, I hope.

The small things in your mailbox, like the lollipops and the movie tickets, I would like to continue. But I will stop them if you wish it.

Further, I swear to you, I will instantly stop anything I might do in the future that makes you at all uncomfortable. All you have to do is tell me.

And soon, I promise, we will be face-to-face to make that easier. Until then, no more surprises.

Until we are face-to-face, please, please, accept my complete, sincere, regretful, repentful apology.

In written form, I can imagine this is all sounding ridiculous, my tone is over-the-top. I know. It is because I am actually, literally crying at my keyboard. (Shit. Even that sounds crazy.)

And my horrible shyness has prevented the normal talking we should been having, by now.

I was so afraid, am so afraid, that I have blown it with you. I was tearful all of Tuesday thinking about and re-reading your "wait until Thursday" message. I'm tearful again now, trying to type this out to you.

I gotta say one thing for Jacob. He's not Mr. Macho Bullshit. I think I believe his apology. He does sound legitimately regretful and distraught.

Another thing you are 100% correct about, I really do want to tell you my story. It impresses me how you understand things so deeply. Perceptive, intuitive, empathetic. I think these words might apply to you. I hope that I get the chance to find out.

Hoping it's not a problem, I decided to use MS Word for the rest of my story. This is only so I could edit it more easily and attach it to this email. (Let me know if you have any issue opening the attachment, Jacob-Story.docx, and I will re-send in a different format.)

After reading my story, please give it some time and thought like you asked of me this week.

Friday evening, if you have decided we are at an end then please just email an "X" to me. But I hope you don't!

Laugh at me, fine, but it is upsetting me just pushing the "X" on my keyboard.

But if you're not sending one of those symbols, then if you want to write something back, Saturday might be better. Up to you, of course.

In the meantime, I am working diligently on overcoming the shyness that keeps me apart from you.

In the spirit of "I show you mine, then you show me yours," I would ask—respectfully—for as much of your story as you are willing to tell.

I'm asking for this because the more you can tell me about yourself (and Amy!), the less anxiety I will feel when we can start talking and when we, finally, meet each other in person.

I am, constantly, Thinking of You — 19 —

Jacob

Attachment: Jacob-Story.docx

Melanie saved the attachment to her Downloads folder. Then she muttered, sourly, "Just this once, will you please work properly for me." She opened the Windows Notepad, then switched to her Downloads folder and clicked on the downloaded document.

Word sputtered, and complained, and insisted she needed updates and upgrades, and finally opened, showing Jacob's text. Wisely, she clicked on his text, pressed Ctrl-A to select everything, then Ctrl-C to copy the selection.

Next, she brought up the Notepad window, and pasted the entire copied text. Then File - Save As - JacobStory.txt - [Save]. "Phew!" (Only then could she relax, because she expected Word was going to die for good in the near future. Not to mention, Windows itself, or the laptop. Then what? A new laptop was about as feasible for her as a new BMW, correction, a new anything car.)

Switching back into Word, she began reading.

Chapter 8: Jacob Spills His Guts. Ew!

Continuing Jacob's Story.

I was 24 years old, making good money in my new investment research job. Research convinced me to buy a house for the potential appreciation, but I needed to have tenants to cover the mortgage payments. So I buy this house with an internal in-law suite, I will live there, and rent out the rest of the building.

My tenants are a middle-aged couple, Ginny and Robert. Robert had been a high-level corporate officer, but he was permanently early-retired. That was because he had a complete disability from a neurological disease: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's Disease.

Ginny worked as an LMFT, that's a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, certified by the state government. She would see clients in a little office space set up in the front of the house.

She also was counseling me, although I didn't realize it at first. First, she got me to leave open the connecting door between my unit and the rest of the house. This was so that when I smelled the delicious dinners she made, I was unable to resist their invitation to join them. Very sneaky.

Of course, she was highly aware of my various emotional and psychological issues.

But our dinners were relaxed conversations. For the first time in my life, I was interacting easily with other people. It started to feel normal to me. Robert and I would discuss business news. Ginny would, within the bounds of privacy, talk about her past and her current clients (using invented names for privacy).

Again, she was subtle, as she told a lot of stories about men who were introverted, who were shy, who had trouble showing or feeling affection. Men who had overcome these issues.

As is unavoidable, Robert was deteriorating from his ALS. It was making him progressively weaker as the weeks and months went by. He went from using a four-wheel walker, to a wheelchair, to being bedridden. We moved our dinners to the master bedroom so he could eat with us while propped up in his mechanical bed.

Well before that, Ginny and I spoke privately about her husband. It was before the pandemic, but I was already working from home. (My investment research job was entirely on-line, so there was no issue with my employer to arrange that.) Ginny asked me to be an extra hand for Robert in case he needed help while she was busy with clients in the front of the house.

I was happy to assist as needed. But I asked Ginny, "You guys seem to have plenty of money, why have you avoided hiring skilled help for him?" Ginny explained herself, in a way that affected me greatly. I remember very clearly everything she said to me then.

They had met and married in college, and Ginny was soon pregnant. But, when she went to deliver, there were complications. Bad ones. Ginny was dreadfully injured during labor, when her uterus ruptured, and her baby died while still inside her body. In the midst of that incredible tragedy she very nearly bled to death.

"Within the space of 40 minutes, Robert lost his baby and almost lost me," she explained. "But they brought me back, somehow. I went home nineteen days later, minus the wreckage of my womb. Robert had made sure the nursery had been emptied and returned to being a guest room. But I still went in there and cried and cried for our loss. Of course I needed, and received, psychiatric help. He made sure of that."

"But in all the other hours and days he was my rock, he held me, and comforted me, and soothed me. It was months, but I fought my way back with his faithful help. That's when I went back to school for my counseling degree and license, and why I do this work now."

And so, Ginny explained, his illness, the ALS, meant it was then her chance to help her husband, in any and every way she could.

Hearing all of this was too much. Something broke inside me. I cried that day, and for days following. I'm sure Ginny was concerned by my over-reaction.

I think this was the first time I fully understood what love and caring for another person could be like.

I thought of Robert in that ghastly situation. What it must be like to be in a loving marriage relationship, expecting your first child, and then have it all be almost ripped away. The unfairness, that a good man like him was denied the chance to be a father. And then, in his later life to be afflicted with this truly terrible, untreatable, and terminal disease—the ALS.

I went to Robert and told him I now knew Ginny's hospital story. That I would be helping out with his needs. That he could count on me, not as his landlord, but as family.

As time went on, Robert lost more strength. We stopped putting clothes on him, it was a pointless hassle since he wasn't leaving the house and lifting him up in order to get shirts and pants on him was a heavy effort for Ginny.

Now, the sad thing about ALS is that Robert had little muscle control, he was weak as a kitten. But his genitals weren't affected, he still had sensation, he still had erections. For convenience, we had a urinal bottle with a four foot long hose. He would pee into the end of that hose and the urine would drain into an attached bottle, which we would empty and wash later.