Here’s a fun fact: not all Valentine’s Day stories are hot steamy messes of eroticism and romantic escapades. Now that I think about it…do any of them ever really turn out that way?
Well, reality check aside, you can bet your sweet heart-shaped ass that I’ve got a Valentine’s Day tale for you. Even better, I promise it will be safe for all ages to enjoy.
Back in the spring of 2004 I had just mostly graduated1At some point I will tell the tale of how I accidentally graduated without realizing it. from Kansas State University, and was in search of any way possible to not use my physics degree while simultaneously eeking out an existence.
So I found myself in the hunt for some gainful employment, but didn’t have too much clear direction as to what type of jobs to seek out and apply for. One day as I was perusing the online want ads of the local newspaper, I saw a posting by a florist looking for delivery drivers for the three days leading up to and including Valentine’s Day, which happened to fall on a Saturday that year.
Seeing as how I hadn’t landed anything permanent yet, I thought it would be the perfect way to inject a little much-needed cash into my pocket–heck, I hadn’t made a proper grocery store run since mid-December!2I’m not sure if this is a story in it’s own right, but that streak actually lasted until mid May–a solid 5 months of a grown-ass man not buying groceries. It’s one of my more boastable accomplishments, and a strong contender for making it onto my headstone.
It’s not like I had anything else of note to do that V-day. Most of my guy friends were single at that time as well, so the only plans I had were to meet up later the evening of Valentine’s at a random Jamaican-cuisine-serving bar out in the boonies. We were calling it Bro-entine’s Day or Bachelor’s Day or something else obnoxious that I can’t remember off the top of my head.
Also, being the ever-over-thinking life philosopher that y’all know and love, I realized that this would be an interesting opportunity of sorts.
Let me reference the ultimate asinine life philosopher and personal idol of mine, Jerry Seinfeld. Those of you familiar with his eponymous TV show may recall the episode The Big Salad,3For a plot summary, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Big_Salad. in which George buys a big salad for Elaine. His flavor-of-the-month girlfriend, Julie, is accompanying him, and when they show up to Jerry’s to deliver it, she is the one who is carrying it and ends up being the one who hands it to Elaine.
Elaine then proceeds to thank Julie–not George, who actually paid for it. Of course, petty hilarity ensues.
The wisdom to be gleaned here is that people often subconsciously attribute credit to the person who delivers something–not the person actually responsible for it. This principle in theory should apply whether it be a big salad, good news, bad news…or, say, flowers and balloons.
So imagine all the warm, positive, and often “romantic” feelings a woman4Or a man, I suppose. might experience upon receiving a lovely bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Now imagine all those great feelings being subconsciously–and undereservedly–associated with my modestly handsome and youthful face, and perhaps even the sound of my voice.
In the short term, well…you know how they say “don’t shoot the messenger”? I liked to joke that in this case maybe I should be proclaiming to the recipient “Don’t kiss the messenger! J.K. Kidding…you can kiss me if you insist.”
But even better than maybe getting a kiss on the spot, was the Long Game that I was playing.
I need to invoke yet another episode of Seinfeld here, The Junk Mail,5For a plot summary, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Junk_Mail. in which Elaine inexplicably falls for a very ordinary looking guy, only to eventually find out that she’s so voraciously drawn to him because she recognizes him from a series of T.V. commercials where he plays “The Wiz,” a mascot for an electronics store of the same name.
The idea is that later down the road, if I happened to run into one of the ladies I had previously delivered flowers to while running around town, that they would be overcome by attraction and desire for me.
Now multiply that by the some-odd 50 delivers I would eventually make…yeah, that’s the closest to straight-up Evil Genius that I’ve came in my life. In theory, I could potentially have the legitimate need to “beat them off with a stick.” Too bad–spoiler alert–that investment never paid off…
Okay, philosophical digression aside, I responded to the ad, and as you all already know, after 5 rounds of interviews and 3 background checks, I scored the gig. Well, maybe it was more like half a round of interviews and zero background checks, but that doesn’t have the same zing to it, does it?
The first morning of the gig was a Thursday, and I showed up bright and early at 6:30. In fact, I was the first one there, even beating the shop owner.
He sheepishly greeted me, and explained that the demand for flower delivery before the regular work day started tended to be on the low side, so I might just be hanging out for an hour or so before things would start to pick up.
To my surprise, within about 30 minutes he told me to warm up the Camry, cuz I had my first delivery of the day! I was so pumped and ready to harvest all the undue adoration that I was sure was coming my way.
Except…well, I had better hope that the principles I laid out above wouldn’t hold for that first delivery. Because the last thing I needed was for a random group of friends and family to forever associate me with grief and loss and embalmed loved ones.
Yes, that’s right, my first Valentine’s Day delivery was to a mother ----- funeral home. And they weren’t even open yet, so I had wait around for 10 minutes, and then I had the joy and honor of being in a dimly light funeral parlor at 7:30 in the morning, where the dead definitely outnumbered the living. This was off to a swell start, indeed.
After that, though, the fun business picked up and, honestly, the next 3 days were kind of a blur, with me rushing about, making deliveries all over a 15-mile radius. The only one I really remember is the one I delivered to a girl that I had taken Public Speaking with 4 years earlier. The main reason I remembered her was because she was on K-State’s waterskiing team, and I recall being shocked to learn that we–Kansas State–had a waterskiing team. Anyways, at least we recognized each other enough that it wasn’t too awkward of an encounter.
The funny part about all of this is that I unwisely hadn’t clarified the terms of compensation beforehand, and it wasn’t until I was getting ready to head out for my final delivery run that I learned how much I would be getting paid. The deal was that I would get $5 for every successful delivery–which was actually a bit more than I had expected. I must have made ~45 runs because I calculated that I would pull in about $225 for my three days’ worth of work. It was definitely a pleasant surprise!
Though I was running a little late, I just needed to make 5 or 6 more deliveries, and then I would be able to go celebrate Celibacy Day with a cold beer, some jerked chicken, and the company of my homies.
I had gotten to the next to last delivery, which was actually a double delivery. Some thoughtful husband and father had ordered flowers for both his wife and his wrong daughter. I found it to be a very sweet gesture.
Now there are three important details here. First, I had parked across the street from their house. Second, since I had to deliver two vases, I had decided to carry them in the now almost-empty cardboard box that I had been using to safely and securely shuttle around my deliveries. Lastly, it had snowed a few days earlier, and so there was some hard-packed snow (now ice) against the curb, though the street itself was clear.
After making the delivery, I was walking back to my car with the empty box in my hands, and I needed to gingerly step over the strip of snow that was against the curb.
It was just wide enough that I couldn’t step over it, so I daintily hopped over it…
The next thing I remember is the box going flying in the air and my body shifting into a horizontal position about 3 feet in the air before gravity took back over and violently pulled me back to Earth face-down.
Apparently when I had hopped into the street I came down on some black ice, causing my legs to slip out from underneath me in very extreme fashion.
It really was a blur, but the main thing I recall is my right hand landing first, basically karate-chopping the street. It was lightly sore, but then again, so was the rest of my body.
Not being seriously injured, I picked myself up in embarrassment–though I’m pretty sure no one saw me–and picked up my box and hopped in my car. The final delivery was thankfully more uneventful, and I headed back for one last check-in with the florist to give them my total delivery tally.
I met up with my buddies and enjoyed a good meal with them, and I related to them how my little flower delivery adventure had gone, including the surprise twist at the end there.
That night when I got ready to hop in the shower, I discovered that, in addition to scraping my cheek and landing on my hand, I somehow had a long scratch down my chest. Nothing major…just odd. My theory was that I had slid forward as I landed, and that there must have been a little jagged bit of ice sticking up, slicing me gently as I slid across it.
As they say, fun times were had by all…
Of course it would have been wonderful if this here story ended with me incurring the most minimal of injuries and walking away from the experience with a cool wad of $225 in my pocket. That would have been great.
However, after a week, I noticed my hand was still a little achey, so since I was still enrolled in a photography class at the college, I took advantage of my access to the student health clinic.
The key point here is that “access” does NOT equal “coverage” or “insurance” or anything like that. Having my hand x-rayed on the first visit was reasonable, but had I known that I would be paying out of my empty-ass pockets for every ----- thing, I would have told the doc he could shove the follow-up x-ray somewhere only his licensed and trained proctologist could find it.
It turns that I had actually fractured the pinky-bone in my hand, and was prescribed a custom-formed plastic half-cast for a few weeks. So it was probably overall better for my health that I did have my injury checked out.
But after all was said and done, I got a bill in the mail for…$205.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
After taking into account the gas I burned making those deliveries, I was exactly $0 the richer for the whole episode.
In the end I had broken both my hand and dead even.
Unfortunately, I was too ----- hungry to appreciate the irony–and the beautiful symmetry–of the situation.
But really, the point of the story is you couldn’t fault me if I were militantly pro-“Medicare For All.” Of course the version I would be promoting would be retroactive at least 16 years…
I really, really want my hard-earned $225 back–adjusted for inflation, and with interest, of course.
Hmmph. That’s interesting…maybe–just maybe–I am but a bougie capitalist after all…
Happy Valentine’s Day, all you money-lovers!
Content created on: 7 February 2020 (Friday)
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