This has nothing to do with food...

This short (true) story which I wrote exactly a year ago (I'm posting it because I wrote it on Valentine's day and today is Valentine's day) really doesn't have very much to do with food. If anything, I suppose it reinforces the idea that our lives constantly revolve around food in some way. None of the events in the story below would have occurred had my mom not forgotten to bring the food she made to her office pot luck.

My Mormon Valentine…
And Why Heart Shaped Hamburgers Are Not a Good Idea
(In case you didn’t already know…)

This Valentine’s Day, despite being cold, was still very sunny. New York City had just seen record snowfall the Saturday and Sunday before, coating the streets in 14 inches of picturesque white snow. However, because of the sun, and the fact that I’m talking about New York, this snow has been pushed aside, leaving three foot walls of snow, speckled in gray from car exhaust with sporadic yellow splotches of dog urine, that block off most of the sidewalks in the city. The rest of the snow has been in a state of melting and re-freezing, leaving a swamp of gray slush-mud in the middle of most streets.

Today my mom had a minor crisis at work—she forgot to bring in her dish (she was assigned to the vegetables) for the office potluck. In a tizzy, brought on I’m sure by both stress at work and the fact that it is Valentine’s Day, my mother calls be and asks me to bring the noodles and cabbage she left in the freezer. Despite the fact that I really didn’t want to de-frost the noodles and bring them over to where my mother works, on Henry and Montgomery, a street on the Lower East Side that few know about, but no son can refuse a mother’s request on Valentines Day—so I complied.

My plan was to take a taxi over to her office, quickly drop off the cabbage and noodles, hop back in the taxi and then go over to Broadway and Fulton Street so I could pick up some printer ink for my father. When I got into the taxi, I told the driver casually:

--“I need to make two stops, the first is Henry and…”
--(looking pissed off) Sorry can’t do that
--Well I’m just going to drop this (pointing to the shopping bag with the cabbage and noodles, which he clearly couldn’t see) off and come right out.
--(shaking his head and glaring at me) I can’t leave the meter running, its not going to happen
--Well I’m just going to the front desk it’ll be no more than 90 seconds
--(friendly all of a sudden) Oh well why didn’t you say so? (Angry again) It’s not on a side street is it? I can’t stop on a side street.
--No its not
--What’s the second stop?
--Fulton Street and Broadway
--(really pissed off and shaking his head again) Nope, I can’t do that, not going to happen
--fine just take me to Henry and Montgomery
--Where is that?

Who the hell is this guy? “It’s not going to happen?” He’s a goddamn taxi driver! His job is to drive a taxi with me in it to anywhere I want to go. I’m not just making this up. There is a “Passengers Bill of Rights” posted in the back of the taxi that says so.

My mom later explained to me that this cab driver was probably reluctant to drive a young minority male to somewhere in the city where people sell drugs to make a “drop off”. I suppose the cab driver could have mistaken the two Tupperware containers filled with cabbage and noodles (and some mushrooms) for several pounds of cocaine, but I find that highly unlikely. This guy was probably just pissed off because he didn’t have a Valentines date.

After spending 20 minutes sitting in the back of the cab with the driver grilling me through the rearview mirror and making comments like “Where the hell are we going?” and “You need to give me better directions I feel like I’m lost here” we reached Montgomery Street. Even though we weren’t on Henry I told him he could pull over and I’d get out. After I paid him (I still left a 1.50 tip even though I lied to my parents and said I didn’t) he then said “thanks for the money, now get the fuck out of my cab you fucking idiot” and sped off. The last part didn’t actually happen, but I’m sure that’s what the driver was thinking.

After dropping off the cabbage and noodles to my very grateful mother and going through the requisite niceties with her co-workers, I had to find some way to get away from Henry Street and to the Staples on Broadway so I could buy Hewlett Packard 56 black ink for my dad. Sufficiently scarred from my taxi experience, and also due to the fact that Henry and Montgomery is generally an area where no cab driver dares to travel, I decided to take the M22 bus.

When I reached the bus stop I noticed that the shelter where one usually waits for a bus was filled with snow (the plow had simply piled all the snow into the bus stop and left a little path for pedestrians to walk to the bus. In addition, there was more snow piled up against the back of the bus stop with another narrow path left for pedestrians. This would come into play later) Since there was no place to wait, I leaned back against the gray link fence that blocked off a desolate public school playground, and took out the New York Times Crossword. Just as I was decided how to answer 57 across, Hook’s partner (Is it spelled Smee? Maybe it’s Smei? Smie?) I noticed something rolling towards me at a very slow pace.

Upon further inspection I realized that a young man, in his mid twenties was trying to navigate the narrow cleared path in his electronic wheelchair. The man in the wheelchair was probably in his mid to late 20’s and had straight black hair, glasses, white halitosis crust all over his mouth and had his head slanted distinctly to his left. He was struggling mightily with the narrow path since the battery on his wheelchair was not strong enough to get it over the little ice bumps. What’s more, the older man walking next to him didn’t appear to be helping—I felt really bad for the poor guy in the wheelchair.


As he slowly approached me, I realized that I was blocking his intended path of travel. When he was about 5 feet away, I moved further along the fence so as to facilitate his passing by. He then said in a very soft voice, “Sorry about this”. “No problem at all” I replied in a voice that I tried to make equally as soft. I then went back to my crossword puzzle so he wouldn’t think that hewas inconveniencing me, (which he was, a little).

As the young man rolled by me (about 30 seconds and some mechanical buzzing later) he addressed me again, saying “Thank you, God bless” while affording me a rather investigative glance. “No problem,” I replied again. After about another 15 seconds more of mechanized rolling, her performed what was a surprisingly agile 180.

--Can I ask you a question about family?
--I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you
--Can I ask you a question about family?
--(my family is weird enough I thought why not talk about them) Sure
--Do you believe that families can be together forever?
--(thinking if my family was together for more than another 70 years we would be strangling each other in our sleep)Huh? What do you mean by forever?
--(staring at me longingly) I mean for eternity

The older man, who by this point had walked ahead glanced back and rolled his head and eyes (much like someone would roll their eyes at a drunk friend who is peeing in a place that they’re not supposed to) as if to say “here we go again”

If I didn’t feel so bad for this fellow in the wheelchair because of his condition I probably would have said “no” But I really wanted to do all that was in my power to make him happy. So I replied…

--Sure, why not?
--Great I believe that too. I’m from the Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints…
(That makes him a Mormon, I thought to myself) and we believe that the family bond is a strong one and can exist for all of eternity.
--(I nod confusedly, what did I get myself into, but at the same time I was thinking “good for this guy” he might look miserable but maybe he’s happy)

--We Mormons believe in the scriptures and the bible but our interpretation of the word is much more pure than most Christian faiths. I regularly go to Church on 15th street and 1st Avenue would you like to be my guest for one of our meetings?

--Ummm…(Shit what the hell do I say now?) That’s very nice of you, thank you for asking, but I’m not really religious. You see, my father is a Hindu and my mother is a Catholic and I’m stuck somewhere in between (if that’s even possible).

--Well it’s exactly the fact that your not religious that prompted me to approach you. I think you would find great benefit in joining our church.

How could he tell that I’m not religious? I thought my excuse was a good one but apparently I should have just told him something along the lines of “actually I really enjoy burning images of your lord and savior, now go away…”


--Well thanks, and I’m flattered, but I’ll have to think about it. I don’t think it’s the kind of decision I can make right now
--Well maybe I could send some missionaries over to you house and they could speak to you.
--Umm, I’ll have to think about, its not really the kind of decision I can make right now (I think it was reasonable to expect him to understand that simply inviting a bunch of missionaries over to my house to try to talk me into Mormonism isn’t really a spur of the moment decision. What am I supposed to say? Bring ‘em on down! Convert away!)


--What’s your name? (The bus can’t possibly come sooner at this point)
-- (give him a fake name, give him a fake name) Arun (Crap)
--Its nice to meet you Arun
--Nice to meet you too (I still don’t know the name of this mysterious handicapped Mormon, he seemed like a Bruce though)
--(Almost pleading)Well Arun, perhaps if you’re uncomfortable with having missionaries come down to your house, I can give them your name and we can arrange a meeting at my church
--Uh, thanks again, but I really think it’s the kind of thing I should think about
--Arun, are you from around here?
--No
--Are you sure?
--Yes
--I’ve seen you around here before…
--I have to catch my bus its right over there
--(In desperation, it seems like he squirming around in his chair)Are you sure I haven’t seen you in this neighborhood before?

At this point I don’t understand how he doesn’t see that I’m a lost cause. Why is he still trying? I’m convinced that I must fulfill some sort of quota in the Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints. He probably gets a reward for brining in a previously-un-religious- half-Indian-half- Polish-Catholic-unemployed-just-out-of-college-kid-sporting-a-three day-beard-in-his-still early 20’s. Or maybe he just thought I had a lot of potential as a Mormon.

--My mom works here, so I guess you could have seen me. (Disingenuously) Thanks for everything, but I really need to get on my bus now.
--Arun, it was nice to meet. God Bless
--(walking away) Go—be good, good luck.
--Wait

I turn back around

--Arun, I hope that in the future you have the opportunity to meet another Mormon, a Mormon who is more prepared than I.
--Yeah me too, have a good day…

I then sat down on the bus and decided that the correct spelling was Smee.


As for the rest of the title… I originally thought that it would be a good idea to serve my parents heart shaped sirloin burgers for Valentines Day. However, after cooking the burgers, I had to serve my parents a plate full of hulking brown hearts, spewing greasy reddish-brown blood all over the plate on which they were served—a rather awkward Valentine’s message.