Marty Night Is a Tradition That Keeps Evolving
Who knew a movie could mean so much?
Ours was an unlikely romance. We’d worked together in a bookstore for nearly a year but had barely spoken a dozen words to each other beyond what was necessary to run the business. I didn’t speak because I believed him to be an arrogant misogynist. He didn’t speak because he was in love with me.
Then one day he made me laugh. I don’t recall the exact turn of phrase that tickled me so much. If he said it today, I doubt I would find it so amusing. But that day I laughed so hard I had to excuse myself from the counter and walk to the ladies’ room to catch my breath and wipe my eyes.
After that I began to enjoy coming to work, happy to see my name on the schedule next to his, disappointed if I worked with some other associate.
He finally asked me out. Not out, really, but asked if we could see each other. He could come to my apartment, I said. We would order pizza. I invited him to bring a video of his favorite movie, and I would have a video of my favorite movie.
I ordered a large supreme pizza from Corsi’s, the little Italian restaurant only locals knew about. They delivered it just at six o’clock, moments after he arrived with a video in his hand. The movie he had brought was Marty. The movie I chose was This Is Spinal Tap.
Marty played by Ernest Borgnine, is a thirty-four-year-old bachelor in Brooklyn. All of his younger brothers and sisters are married, and his Italian mother plagues him about doing the same. But Marty has had his share of heartache, declaring, “Whatever it is that girls want, I ain’t got it.” Miserable and lonely, Marty spends one more Saturday night with his buddies, trying to decide what to do, finally ending up at the Stardust Ballroom. There Marty meets Clara.
Clara (Betsy Blair), a high school chemistry teacher, is on a blind date with a young doctor who is clearly disappointed that she is “not especially attractive.” Clara, at age twenty-nine, has also had her share of misery. That very night, her date dumps her when he sees another, sexier girl he knows. Marty watches the drama unfold and approaches a weeping Clara to console her by asking for a dance.
After they dance on the crowded floor, Marty and Clara take a long walk on the streets of the city. They sit in a coffee shop and bare their deepest fears. They seem to understand each other’s souls. A turning point, a moment of decision appears to occur when Marty says to Clara, “I’m Catholic. Are you Catholic?” And she smiles and nods.
I watched this movie sitting next to a man who, like Marty, called himself a professor of pain. He saw himself in Marty, a man whom women made feel like a bug. And I, a lonely school teacher in my own right, watched Clara fall in love with Marty. It was May 26, a date we would forever refer to as “Marty Night.”
The following spring we were already married, and we reminisced about that first date. I recalled sitting on the loveseat in my tiny apartment, my hand next to his on the cushion, never touching. I recollected how warm my face felt when Marty and Clara kissed, the one and only kiss in the movie, a tender, tentative one, lips barely touching, the most romantic kiss in movie history.
We decided to celebrate the anniversary of Marty Night. Thankfully, Spinal Tap didn’t survive the tradition.
I ordered the pizza only to find that Corsi’s no longer delivered. So my husband had to drive to the restaurant to pick up the pizza. No matter — I was expecting our first child and the thought of pizza was not very appetizing.
We borrowed the video from the library, only to find an entire scene had been cut out, the scene where Clara returns from her date and sits on the edge of her parents’ bed trying to describe her indescribable night. It did not alter the story, but we missed it all the same.
There was no discussion or plan to celebrate Marty Night every year from then on. It just happened. I marked it on the calendar as an anniversary to remember, and no other engagements were allowed.
Thirty-four years have passed. Thirty-four Marty Nights, each one different. Several years in a row we had to pause the movie over and over so we could settle one child or the other into his or her crib, bring one out to nurse, or change a diaper. One year all three children sat on the floor in their pajamas watching with us. After a while, they wandered off to find blocks, coloring books, or some other diversion from a movie that had no dragons or princesses or even color.
Another year we just didn’t have the money to order pizza, so we had to settle for a $2 frozen pie from the grocery store. He was working two jobs one year and fell asleep halfway through the movie. Then there was the Marty Night when we had a fight and we were not speaking to each other. We watched the movie sitting at opposite ends of the couch, not giving the other even a glance. Even in the middle of our fight, we knew we did not ever want to look back on a year with no Marty Night.
Corsi’s has closed. We order pizza from a different joint every year, trying to find one that comes closest to the memories. One year, they accidentally put onions on it. Another time, the crust was a little too sweet.
Last year, our thirty-third year, we were living in Florida, over nine hundred miles from our families. For the first time since that first date, we were truly alone. We leaned against each other, sipping wine with our pizza, reciting lines we know by heart, noticing small things in the background, something new every time we watch.
This year, since I am in Maryland with my ailing parents, he will make the ridiculous drive from Central Florida because “We can’t miss Marty Night.”
At the end of the movie, there is the implication that Marty and Clara will live happily ever after. My husband and I like to speculate. What do you think Marty says to Clara on the phone in that last scene? How long before they get engaged? Will Clara move to Portchester? Will Marty buy the butcher shop? How many children will they have? Will Marty’s mother live with them?
Our answers change each year, depending on our moods and experiences. But always, we decide, the couple will be together, and they will dance on their anniversaries, even if the Stardust Ballroom closes down. And each year, there is the implication that we, too, will live happily ever after.
