Personal Yummy #26
The following holiday story is from my novel, The Grill on Murray Avenue. I hope you enjoy it. It is a story of friendship and generosity.
Happy holidays!
I walk in, draped in a winter coat, mittens, and my furry, rebellious brown hat, with its tattered strings peeking out everywhere (my mom hates it when I wear it), and Bianca hands me an envelope with “Jenna” written on it in fancy, perfect letters. “What’s this?” I ask, surprised.
“Just a little something for the holidays,” Bianca replies in a soft voice, touching me lightly on the arm.
I’ve come to the bar in search of a nightcap—a rum and eggnog with whipped cream and a sprinkle of nutmeg adorning the top—and a bit of holiday music and chitchat.
“Oh, is this from Bobby?” I wonder aloud, as I tear off my mittens, open the envelope, and take out a thick piece of paper. I look it over for a moment, and I am happy to find that it’s a gift certificate—worth fifteen dollars—for the National Record Mart, the music store around the corner on Forbes Avenue.
“Well, actually, it’s from Curt,” Bianca whispers, glancing around.
“Really?”
“Yes. He’s giving all of us who work here one, and he’s also giving one to many of the regulars too, like Rolanda.”
“Wow! That must be expensive for him—but it’s so sweet!… And my name,” I continue, running my fingers over it, “it’s written so beautifully.”
“Oh, well…that’s all of Curt’s calligraphy training when he was a child,” Bea explains.
“Calligraphy training… Are you serious? I’ve never met anyone who’s gone through that.”
“Yeah—that’s what happens when you’re raised by your grandmother,” she says, laughing.
“Oh, I didn’t know that…did…did his parents leave him or something?” I whisper, trying to be gentle.
“Well, actually…it’s really terrible, but…when he was four years old, his parents got killed in a car accident.”
“Oh my god!” I say, as much under my breath as possible. “Poor Curt!… I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, that’s how he is, you know. He sort of likes to keep that kind of stuff to himself. I mean,” she says, changing the subject, “take these gift certificates, for example. He does nice stuff like this but never wants to be fussed over. He’s trying not to make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t even want me to tell people who the gift certificate is from when I hand them out—thus the reason why he’s not handing them out himself—but of course I’m letting everyone in on it,” she says, grinning, and pausing for a moment. But then she begins again, almost dreamily, a faraway look in her eyes (and I’m amazed at how much she’s opening up to me tonight—it must be the topic of conversation). “Yes, you know, when we were a couple, living together—you do know that we used to be together, don’t you?”
“Well, I wasn’t quite sure, but that’s sort of what I figured,” I reply. (I thought there was something going on in the way that they familiarly engaged with each other now and again: a slight touch of the hand here, a lingering look there.)
“Oh—yeah—we were together for about five years, in fact… But… Well… Anyway… For my birthday and for Christmas—it never failed—he’d blindfold me and then lead me into the living room, slowly take the blindfold off, and then say, ‘Surprise, honey!’ And there they were, time and again. Gifts upon gifts stacked upon each other, wrapped in the most beautiful, shiny, colorful, glittering wrapping paper and bows—god were they beautiful!—and there’d be a desk one year, a computer another year, a TV the next, and the most stylish clothes and wonderfully smelling perfumes always…. Yeah, that Curt,” she says, pausing, shaking her head, “when he wants to, he certainly knows how to make you feel good.”
As she tells me this story, it makes such an impression on me, but not just the part about the lavishness with which he treated her, but most importantly the part about the wrapping and the bows. Because I’ve always thought—maybe because of some painful experiences I’ve had—that you can judge the character of a person by observing such particulars, although simple and seemingly mundane, like whether he takes the time to wrap up your presents, or just throws them in a bag (paper or plastic: in this case, it doesn’t much matter) and forgets to remove the price tag, and casually says, “I’m really sorry, but I didn’t have time to wrap them.” To me, it shows a deeper level of caring and concern if he takes the extra time to beautify something he is giving you, to show you how special and beautiful he thinks you are.
“Are you okay, Jenna?” Bianca eventually asks, looking at me inquisitively.
“Oh sure, Bea…sure… I was just thinking about what you were saying… But, anyway, thanks so much for giving this to me!” I say, holding up the gift certificate for a moment, and then lightly squeezing her hand.
“Sure, honey, my pleasure,” she says, adding that she really should get to table three and take their order. “You have a good night.”
Watching her hurry away, I take off my hat and coat, and place them on the back of a bar stool, the only one free in the place. Then I plop down on it and order my new favorite drink from Curt. And while he makes it, I decide that I have to—just have to—thank him for the gift. It was such a thoughtful thing to do.
“Really, Jenna, it was no big deal,” he says in response, as he places a goblet filled with the thick, rich deliciousness in front of me, then turns around and busies himself with opening up the cash register and making change.
So I let it go at that. It’s obvious he doesn’t need any overt recognition for his kindness, because he knows in his heart, already, what he has done.
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