Trip the Lights Fantastic, Part 1

A whiff of lilac hung in the air on one of those perfect spring days when seemingly every winter-worn Minnesotan finally comes out of hibernation. The sun glistened off my baby-blue 1988 Renault while I drove to the downtown Minneapolis agency where I worked as a copywriter, composing prose about precision screw threads and replacement windows. My own car window was rolled down for the first time in months as I waited at a red light on Hennepin Avenue while singing along to the Talking Heads’ “This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody),” which I played incessantly at the time: “Home is where I want to be/pick me up and turn me ‘round ….”

            A jackhammer or some other midday noise jarred me out of my daze, and I turned my head to peer out the passenger-side window. There, above a small store just around the corner, hung a blinding marquee of seemingly thousands of lights, worthy of a Hollywood premiere—except these bulbs spelled out my lover’s name: T-H-E-O. My mouth fell agape. It was as if the Universe had confirmed our love in a blazing display for all to see.

            I could hardly contain my glee as I raced back to tell Theo of my illuminating discovery. Exiting the ninth-floor elevator, I headed straight to his office which, while crammed full of books, file stacks, and research material, was always neatly organized, the yin to my own office’s yang. I found him frantically dabbing at his pink-striped tie with a wet paper towel.

            “What’s the matter?” I queried, still catching my breath.

            “I got some schmutz on my tie during lunch.”

            “Don’t you have another one?”

            “Yeah, but it doesn’t match.”

            I glanced down at his feet. Peeking out from above a pair of classic brown loafers was the hint of pink socks. Theo’s tie always had to match his socks. Always.

            “Jesus, you are so anal, the loosest thing about you is your morning bowel movement.”

            Theo stopped his labor and looked up. A beat, and then he burst out laughing. “Shut the door.”

            I started working at the agency the year before, and despite our respective rungs on the corporate ladder—Theo was the executive vice-president; I, a junior copywriter—we were friends from the start. He reminded me of Woody Allen: slight, Jewish, bespectacled, and totally anal retentive. I found him totally endearing. The two of us had long had closed-door powwows, so there weren’t any raised eyebrows from our coworkers, yet. Like college coeds, we enthusiastically discussed a wide range of topics.

            “I appreciated Manhattan,” Theo declared, “but he’ll never outdo Annie Hall.”

            “‘We can walk to the curb from here.’ Cracks me up every time.”

  “What do you think Gorbachev’s gonna do about the Lithuanians burning Lenin’s portrait?”

“He’s gotta snub that out. Not like Bush will do anything, he’s ready to go into Kuwait.”

“Yeah, he’s getting us into World War III, for sure … Hey, did you watch the Lakers last night?”

“Of course! Can you believe Magic’s behind-the-back to Byron?”

“I know, right?”

Lately, though, our tête-à-têtes had turned into passionate make-out sessions, and I gushed my enlightening news about the storefront in between our canoodling.

It would be weeks before I discovered that the store with Theo’s bulb-lit name above it did not actually exist. A year passed before I realized that our relationship was not so starlit, either. More a comet in full blazing glory before atmospheric pressure causes it to burn out.

            La dee dah, la dee dah.

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