Marry this Man
Hammond Castle, Gloucester MA 1985
Affairs of the heart…
In my late twenties, after a long romantic drought, a unicorn appeared on the barren landscape of my love life. Perhaps because I had finally abandoned an active hunt for the “perfect partner” (one who shared an interest in travel, art, and music) the Fates stepped in.
I’ll never forget my first sighting of the mythical being on my work horizon where bland polyester clad engineers labored alongside support staff that included technical writers like me. We all sat with heads bent over piles of paperwork in a vast field of desks arranged in long depressing rows illuminated only by strips of cold fluorescent light; the sunshine reserved for executive offices along the windowed perimeter of the high-rise building inhabited by roughly 6,500 employees. Then one portentous morning, a striking, sandy haired, strong jawed, blue-eyed specimen strode confidently down the distant interior corridor in a perfectly fitted WOOL suit. I feared it was only a fleeting mirage. Had I wandered too long in this corporate desert?
The unicorn was elusive at first. But eventually, brief sightings in the building’s lobby, near brushes while waiting in line for morning coffee, and tantalizingly close encounters in elevators, finally culminated face to face at a water fountain. Despite his best efforts to engage me in conversation over the vase of flowers I was replenishing, my nerves and pent-up anticipation took over. In response to his coy suggestion that the blooms were intended for him, I awkwardly blurted out “no, these come few and far between,” spun away red-faced, and slinked back to the safety of my flock (ex-teachers, Hemingway hopefuls, and other misfit creatives adapting to an uncomfortable corporate habitat).
Meeting the unicorn…
Luckily my unicorn was a successful marathon runner who set goals and stuck to them. Determined to cross the Rubicon of my social awkwardness, he set a deadline to introduce himself by end of the week. Coincidently, his self-imposed target date was the day before I was to change apartments and room mates. After he honed in on my workspace, strategically located on route to the typing pool, the slow mating dance unfolded in full view of my colleagues. As the clock ticked precariously close to 5:00, his first passing did not go unnoticed, nor did his second even slower stroll accompanied by a side glance. Finally, on the third attempt, he abruptly stopped and bravely interrupted my group’s deep discussion of weekend plans. My heart pounded and my co-workers, who knew the sorry details of the fountain disaster, scattered like roaches in sunlight. Making note of the name plate on my “in/out” mail trays, he extended his hand and calmly claimed, “Hello Theresa Gallo, I’m John Brown and I thought it was time we met.”
The first date...
In response to what I might be doing that weekend, I assured John I would be busy with packing and relocating; completely oblivious to his attempt at setting up a date. Luckily John persevered and rightly assuming I might be surviving on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches during the transition, suggested a lunch date. During our mid-day rendezvous the following Monday, conversation flowed easily from family backgrounds to educational paths and to my travels. He listened intently to my summary of ventures around Europe during a two month academic seminar (that I couldn’t afford until a year post graduation) and a more recent sabbatical from our company to teach English in Japan for several months.
When he asked how the move went and if I was settled into my new place, I indicated it was a slow but steady process and that my roommates and I were subsiding on pizza delivery. He took advantage of my empty cupboards and suggested a second date: dinner at his condo in Boston’s historic up-and-coming South End. Pulling out all the stops, John produced a bistro worthy meal followed by star gazing on his rooftop deck.
The gentle August air drifted over us and nearby glittering skyscrapers. The atmosphere was divinely reminiscent of a seminal evening in Paris when I first stood alone on the Champs Elysées and wept with some strange mixture of mystery and joy. When it was time to leave, he gallantly offered to ride with me in my beat-up Renault “Le Car” (a prophetic choice for my first vehicle?) through questionable neighborhood streets until we reached the main intersection leading to the highway home. A shy first kiss on the cheek before hopping out of the car as the traffic light shifted from red to green, signaled the start of many long-shared adventures ahead.
Meeting the parents…
Several weeks later John (now “JB” to me, the brief moniker designated by his sister to distinguish him from his paternal namesake) invited my parents for a first meeting at his place over another well-crafted meal. I looked forward to the evening with some trepidation as none of my previous suitors quite met my father’s expectations. The worry was unwarranted.
As I had hoped, my father’s and JB’s common background in engineering, coupled with JB’s Scottish lineage, stacked in my favor. Dad harbored a strange fascination for my mom’s “Glasgwegian” roots and proudly wore a tie with her family tartan like it was his own, despite an undeniably southern-Italian profile and complexion. The fact that JB’s mom was also from Glasgow and his father from nearby Coatsbridge, instantly catapulted my suitor to another level. However, it was the meal that sealed the deal with my dad, for whom food was next to godliness. After just a sip of the first course, legendary Julia Child’s zucchini soup, my previously picky father put down his spoon, locked eyes with me across the table, and much to my mom’s mortification, declared “marry this man, he can cook!” And so, I did.
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