The Gift
Christmas 2009
The Indian food arrived via a yellow slickered delivery man, and the smells of cumin, garlic and ginger, wafting from the slightly soggy paper bag, within a plastic bag, titillated my taste buds and made my mouth water. It was already past 8:00 pm and I hadn't eaten since my 9:00 a.m breakfast of lovelessly scrambled, dry and cold diner eggs and toast. I was famished. I took the bag and, being in a festive holiday spirit, tipped the dude an extra $20 for having to work on Christmas Eve, and ride a bike in the rain so I could dine extravagantly in the comfort of home. I couldn't wait to dive into creamy baingan bartha, (roasted, spiced mashed eggplant), tarka dal (lentils) and chicken saag. (Chicken in creamed spinach). I was excited for the multiple foodgasms.
Alan had arrived home from work a short while before, so I cleared and cleaned the table before peeling a 2 pound bag of carrots, and cleaning a bunch of celery. Regardless of what cuisine we ate, Alan’s dinner always included carrots. Alan ate so many carrots that the palms of his hands were permanently stained orange, a condition known as carotenemia. He didn't mind cleaning his own vegetables, and I intensely disliked peeling, but since it was Christmas eve, I decided to do it for him as an act of kindness, one of my love languages..
I brought the bags of food into the kitchen and sat them on the counter, while our cats Twitchy and Kitty meandered in and wound themselves around my legs, as they always did when they heard bags rustling. Feline’s highly developed and sensitive olfactory systems caused them to salivate at first sniff, even though for these 2, people food was strictly verboten. I shooed them away gently so I didn’t trip over them as I moved around the narrow room, emptying bags, pulling plates out of the cabinets and flatware from the drawers.
I got out the placemats and napkins, and set the table in the living room, where we usually ate dinner and watched TV. Living in New York meant having multi-functional furniture, and our coffee table could be instantly converted to a dining table with one simple pull of a spring loaded handle. The table from Ligne Roset was one of my favorite possessions, an elegant and practical solution to limited square footage.
When I returned to the kitchen, I opened a bottle of 7 Deadly Zins, a red wine that we’d recently tried, juicy and rich with berries and pepper, and smooth, even tannins. Al and I drank a lot, and while I enjoyed wine, Alan was no oenophile. He preferred vodka, and called wine “the local” and vodka “the express”. While the wine breathed. I pulled containers of food out of the bags and spread them across the one narrow kitchen counter we'd been able to fit in the space.
When I reached into one of the bags, sitting on top of yet another brown bag which contained foil wrapped onion Naan, was a small, simply wrapped gold gift box. I thought, what a nice touch, must be some treat for the holiday. Classy. At Christmas many restaurants added such little niceties, which, as a business owner, pleased me to see.
Bra Tenders sent its good customers Christmas cheer every year too: bottles of the favorite adult beverages of the wardrobe crews, lingerie and underwear to those who accepted our offer to come shopping. we gave dozens of cash loaded gift cards to our best customers.
I set the box on the window sill, having run out of counter space, and tended to the rest of the dinner, thinking I’d serve the treats at the end of our meal, with tea and dessert.
Alan came to the kitchen in his home clothes, a long sleeve black henley and baggy black pajama pants, and poured us each a short vodka in crystal glasses. He raised his and said, “Cheers. Happy Christmas and Merry Chanukah.” I raised mine back and repeated the toast then downed the rocket fuel in one gulp, feeling heat spread through my body. So far, so good. Express indeed.
“Everything’s ready, let me know when you want to eat.” I said, mindful not to rush him. I spent a lot of time being mindful not to offend or upset Alan in any way, to keep the order and peace, especially at home. He was highly routinized, and deviations to his routines caused him to unravel.
“Ready now, plate it up,” Al replied as he poured himself another shot.
“What’s in the box?” Al asked, pointing to the small one on the window sill. I was surprised that he’d even noticed -when I changed my hair color from red to brown it had taken him a week before he asked if I did something different.
“Came with the food. Probably some Indian confection for dessert. We’ll open it after dinner.”
“So be it.” So be it? What the hell did that mean?
Seemingly satisfied, he ambled into the living room and sat down in his lime green leather recliner on his preferred side of the table, at the farther end of the room, within arms’ reach of his desk. He flipped through TV channels as I moved back and forth between kitchen and living/dining room, and laid out foil tins of remarkably still hot food.
We had a good year at Bra Tenders and felt celebratory. We had finally hired a key employee who seemed capable, and serious about longevity with the company. We’d gone through a dozen assistants in as many months, and the process had been disheartening and wearying. Angela seemed like good fit for us, and Alan and I looked forward to taking some much needed time off. We even talked about...a vacation.
The kids from Brooklyn done good.
Being Christmas Eve, many restaurants were closed. But this being Manhattan, many also remained open. I had developed a crush on Indian cuisine after eating at a restaurant in Bay Ridge called Indian Palace. The Punjabi chef owner, Farouk, a polite and genial man with cracked brown skin, thick white hair and straight, slightly yellowed teeth was a gracious and generous host, and his food was the most delectable of its type I'd ever indulged in.
I had the happy distinction of being the person who introduced 44 year old Alan Kaplan, aka Mr. Vanilla, to Indian food, and perhaps opening his NO SUGAR NO SALT NO FAT palate to a new world of flavor. Not yet accustomed to spices, Al sputtered from time to time when he got an especially spicy morsel of food, but all in all he had learned to enjoy the tastes and smells of India with me. I'd work up to Vindaloo very slowly.
When the last grain of basmati lemon rice had been voraciously vacuumed from his plate, Al declared dinner done, and cleared the table while I boiled water for tea in his glass teapot, a relic from his grandma’s kitchen in the last century, and a staple in every Jewish kitchen I’d ever been in as a kid. how else would you properly prepare a glezl tey, a cup of tea?
Al wasn’t much of a sweets eater, unlike me, a sugar fiend, so I’d prepared baked apples stuffed with walnuts and honey, drizzled with port wine for dessert, and that satisfied us both. We also had the treats in the gold box sent by the restaurant, and I was eager to discover what new tastes awaited. I made cardamom tea and we settled back in our chairs to relax.
“Why don't you open the box?” Al asked, causing me to wonder why he was so suddenly so interested in something he really didn't fancy.
“I will, I will,” I said. “Do you want to watch a movie? I don't feel like watching the Yule Log.”
“A movie is fine. Why don't you open the box?”
By then I was feeling just fine after the vodka and bottle of wine we’d finished, and I'd added some port to both our cups of tea, so I decided not to prolong Al’s curiosity and open the box. I peeled off the wrapping paper to reveal a white cardboard box, and when I opened that, expecting to see chocolate or nut balls, I found instead a small blue velvet jewelry box. My hands started to tremble.
I slowly opened the box and was nearly blinded by the brilliance of a 2 carat cushion cut diamond flanked by two sapphires connected by a platinum band filled with micro diamonds.
“Oh my god, Oh my god. Oh my god! Holy shit. Wow!”
I started to cry and laugh simultaneously. “Thank you Al, it's beautiful. I love it. Oh my god. It's my first “real” piece of jewelry.”
I was 53 and had never had a diamond before, much less one so big! Tears streamed down my face as I continued to laugh. i felt every emotion one human can have simultaneously. I got up from my chair and walked to Al’s and bent over to give him a kiss. He kissed me and swatted my ass.
“I hope you like it. Happy Chanukah.”
He smiled like the Cheshire Cat, puffed up, victorious.
“Oh my god. I love it, love it, love it!” I put the box on the table, hyperventilating, laughing and crying.
I was also confused as to how Alan had managed to get that box in the bag of food without me noticing, since I hadn’t really left the kitchen since he arrived home. It took a minute, but I finally figured he must have done one of 2 things: stopped at the restaurant and put the ring in the bag before it was delivered; or and most likely, he gave the little box to our evening doorman Brahim, and had him put it in the delivery before sending it up to our apartment. We tipped very generously, and the building staff took excellent care of us. We trusted them, and for Alan, that was a very big deal. i decided it wasn’t important enough to pursue, and to just enjoy the new sparkly prize.
“Don't you want to put it on?” He got up and slipped the ring out of the box and slipped it onto the ring finger of my right hand,
“I’ll never take it off.”
October, 2015
A bell jangled above me, and the doormat below my feet chimed when I stepped into the jewelry mart on West 47th street in New York’s Diamond District. I looked around at the jeweler’s stalls, and picked one at random.
“So, how much can I get for it?” I slipped the diamond off my finger, and placed it onto a little velvet cushion. The jeweler picked it up, took a few minutes, during which he nodded and mumbled.
When he removed the loupe from his eye, he squinted at me, “Nice ring. Six tousand" he said.
Alan had mentioned on more than one occasion that the ring had cost 35000. Money that I earned, for “us”. Money he tried to gaslight everyone else into believing was money he earned as a result of his labor.
Alas, I had no use for the diamond. I looked at the old man, and said “Sold. I’m going to use the money to pay my divorce lawyer."