2005-03-07 - 6:20 a.m.
Today is my 31st birthday. Really no big deal. Now 30, that was hard. Although actually the days of anticipation leading up to it were harder than the event itself. Once it happens, it�s really just another birthday. But fear and loathing of the weighty milestone did provoke my retreat to my parents� house for the traditional birthday dinner of Mom�s meatballs and spaghetti, which I�d ask for as a little kid.
I should qualify that my current surroundings did make 30 especially hard. My regular-age classmates are used to people who are 21, 22, maybe 23. So when asked how old I was, I could say �Why, I�m twenty� nine� and that was okay cause it�s in the sequence. But thirty. That�s a goddamn quantum leap. I couldn�t relate; I certainly didn�t expect them to.
Anyway, I was thinking of recounting memories of the most delicious cake I ever had, which Alithea made for my 29th birthday. A pinkish-purple, it had butter cream frosting, two layers of different non-chocolate filling (I�m allergic), and was decorated with flowers. What really made it the most delicious cake ever was that it was made with love. I was going through a pretty tough time � I had just found out about K. and my roommate was really starting to get me down. Alithea threw a birthday party for me and had invested so much time and effort into making this cake. It made me feel so special.
But instead I want to relate the story of another cake, not nearly as delicious, but pretty good. It was in fact a birthday cake, but not mine. In late 1995, Harvard and I had finally parted ways and I was living in Cambridge with a fellow fuck-up. A slim Chinese guy, he seemed to have an undiagnosed hearing problem because he always talked REALLY LOUD for no apparent reason. At the time (I hope this has changed since) he was not very happy generally and seemed to be quietly struggling with his sexual identity. One evening, I came home to find him with a dapper Asian fellow who�d been hanging around recently and who I�d been hearing stories about. He had an odd first name (I don�t really remember, but I�ll say it was Royce).
�Hey Geoff! We got you a cake! It�s on the kitchen counter!�
Ooh, cake. I went to have a look.
�Yeah, we went to this bakery in Chinatown and they sell birthday cakes that didn�t get picked up for like a dollar!�
�This says �Happy Birthday Royce� on it.�
Royce himself looked like he wanted to shrivel away and disappear. My roommate gave a tepid, guilty-seeming half-smile. In a split-second flash, I recalled stories about Royce�s troubled relationship with his girlfriend and their recent break-up and pieced some things together.
She had gotten him this cake (Royce was from the burbs; his family wouldn�t go to a Chinatown bakery). As described, she was one of those types who lived in an Asian bubble-world. Gayness was not considered in her thought process. I could sense her confusion and questioning. �Why doesn�t he like me anymore?� The desperate attempt to make nice and win him back through this cake. The tears and frustration.
Of course, maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe there was another explanation. But I could taste the heartache in every bite.
It was delicious.
� 2005 Geoff Gladstone
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