My wife and I when we were dating in 1994.
I was an advertising major in college. I wanted to write commercials for radio and television. My goal was to one day work at a large ad firm in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, or San Luis Obispo. (I don’t think there are any large agencies in San Luis Obispo, but 1. I adore little beach towns, and 2. Don’t you kind of giggle when you say “San Luis Obispo?” Me too.)
In my dreams, I would have a
little office with a window view of the ocean, an oversized poster of The Joshua Tree hanging on my wall, a
mini-freezer filled with ice cream. Also one of those little basketball hoops
rigged atop a little wastebasket for the ultimate cliché of the tortured writer
who rips scarcely touched paper with half-written ideas on it out of the
typewriter, wads it up into a ball, and throws it at the wastebasket. Also,
everyone else in the office would give me a hard time for still using a
typewriter in this day and age.
In an effort to stay true to
my art form of writing and completely avoid developing any business savvy, I
took only one business class in college. It was held in a stadium-style
classroom with hundreds of savvy business students and me and my roommate/future
commercial writing-partner – Lincoln Hoppe.
We always sat in the front
row. I don’t know why we sat there; maybe because we felt out of place with all
the snooty business students. What with their briefcases, collared shirts, and
large brains. It seemed like the average age in the classroom was 42, and I was
at all times slightly uncomfortable, like somebody might stand, call my bluff,
and demand my dismissal from this and any business classes. “Pardon me, Mr.
Professor, your Honor, but I object to this hoodlum occupying a coveted seat in
the front row of this, your stadium classroom. Furthermore, I submit that he
has neither the inclination nor the maturation or substantiation for
comprehending the volumes of wise and insightful tutorials you have prepared
for us, your insatiable business students. Plus I heard him make a fart joke
when he walked into class today.”
But I remained dutiful in
attending my big business class. After all, I’d paid for it, I needed the
credits to graduate…and my future wife, Katie Fillmore, happened to have a
class in that same building, about half an hour after my class had started. And
she started this little tradition that I adored.
About 25 minutes into every
class, I would receive a love note from Katie. As if we were in junior high.
They were always thoughtful; but my favorite part was that she would write the
note, fold it up, and on the outside of the paper write: “Pass this note to the
handsome, dark-haired man on the front row named ‘Ken.’” She would then sneak
in the door of this monstrous classroom, tap the suit in the last row, at the
top of the stadium-style seating structure, and hand him the note. The guy
would read the instructions to pass it down, and he would hand it to the guy in
front of him. Down and down. Down and down. Down something like 36 rows of
seats the note would go, until somebody would tap me on the shoulder and hand
me the note.
Now, we had been dating
several months at this point, and I think Katie truly loved me. I think she
knew I appreciated getting these little notes. But somewhere in Katie’s psyche,
I think she also got the biggest kick out of this little phenomenon. That
amidst all the no-nonsense attitudes of these business students, who would just
as quickly clock you with their Franklin Planners as shoot you a dirty look for
disturbing them during a business lecture, she could single-handedly reduce
them to schoolyard behavior in three seconds flat. Inherit in everyone who ever
went through adolescence is the knee-jerk, sociological reaction to not ask
questions, just do what the note says and pass it along to the receiving end.
Like you have no choice in the matter. The instructions are clear; I must pass
this note on or endure the consequences!
I loved Katie for that. I
loved that she found hilarity in random acts of frivolity. I loved that she
thought of me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at 2:25 p.m. I loved that
she would write “the handsome dark-haired man in the front row” and assumed
everyone would know who that was. And I love that Katie still thinks no matter
what other vocation I pursue to support our family, I should never give up on
that little writing office with the typewriter that overlooks the ocean.
Happy Valentine’s Week to my
very favorite person!
