Marriage, lies and videotape

Sunday in the park with Mark. It isn’t a sequel to “Sunday in the

Park with George.” It’s what I did last Sunday, in the park, with

Mark.

It was a little weird. I looked stupid, which is easy, and I was

afraid someone was going to see me. Actually, the councilman and his

wife did, but we’ll come back to that.

Meet Mark Hartley. Mark is an administrator at Redlands

University, which is in Redlands, thus the name, “Redlands

University.” In another time, Mark was a standout student-athlete at

Estancia High School, which is a high school in Costa Mesa, thus the

name, “High School.” Mark was all-time most popular everything, big

deal jock, school heartthrob, etc., etc. He also happens to be one of

my daughter Lisa’s best friends, dating back to her days at Estancia,

the aforementioned high school.

Last Friday, who should ring me up (a British term) but Mark

Hartley. He tells me he plans to pop the question to his inamorata

(an Italian term) -- a lovely young woman named Heather. The question

in question will be popped at high noon on Sunday at one of Mark’s

favorite spots -- a little Newport Beach pocket park on Kings Road,

high above Coast Highway, with a great view of the harbor, boats,

etc. He wants to get the big moment on tape, which means he needs

someone to cleverly and surreptitiously tape it -- which explains why

he’s calling me, since he knows I have had extensive experience both

in taping things, which I do for a living, and in being clever and

surreptitious, which is strictly a hobby. I am glad to help, but I do

have a simple but significant question. What if she says no? Looking

like some lonely loser alone in a park with a video camera is

embarrassing enough, without jumping out of the bushes at just the

right moment only to get a really tight shot of Mark’s true love

saying “Uh, let me think, no.” But Mark assures me that he is in like

Flynn.

Anyway, by the time Sunday morning rolls around, I am stressed.

Problem 1: The weather stinks. An August morning in Newport Beach

looks more like a November evening in Scotland. It’s gray, cold and

misty.

Problem 2: The camera I thought would be available is not. A few

quick calls turn up a camera with a buddy, prominent Superior Court

Jurist Dan McNerney, who is enjoying Sunday brunch with his family

until I burst in and say, “Hi. Give me the bag. Bye.”

Much more important than either Problem 1 or 2 is Problem 3: When

Mark said “ ... a little park on the hill across from the Bay Club,

between Taco Bell and Margaritaville ... you can see it from PCH ...

” I said, “Oh, yeah, sure, I know it,” which was a total lie. I hate

to admit I don’t know where something is. It’s a guy thing. If you

ask me “You know where the Pear Blossom Highway crosses the 14 near

Boron just before you get to the access road outside Pearsonville?”

I’ll say, “Yes,” without missing a beat. I can’t help it.

By the time I reach Coast Highway, it’s 11:40. I try one direction, then the other, scouring the hillside for something that

looks like a park. At 11:45, I can just make out a low wall of

railroad ties halfway up the hill and I figure that has to be it. I

wind my way up the hill to King’s Road. And there it is -- a charming

little park, exactly as advertised, with what really would be a great

view on a day that didn’t look like a scene from “The Hound of the

Baskervilles.”

I shoot a few scenes to get the feel of the camera when the “low

battery” warning starts to flash. That’s a bad thing. I rush back to

my car to change batteries and see a car pulling up. Perfect. I am

not in place and my battery is dead. I am pathetic. As I look up, I

see that it isn’t Mark and Heather, but an elderly couple who have

stopped -- I swear to you -- to ask for directions. They ask me if I

know where a street I’ve never heard of is. “Yes ... I do,” I answer

and send them on their way with a quick but meaningless series of

left and right turns.

It’s 11:58. As I am loading the second battery, another car pulls

up and someone calls out, “Peter!” I look up to see two puzzled faces

attached to two good friends, Birgit and Gary Adams -- yes, as in

famous Councilman and former Mayor Gary Adams. They were taking a

little drive after church and are understandably surprised to turn a

corner and find me lurking near the park, in the mist, with a video

camera. They listen to my quirky little story about the two young

people and the soon-to-be-popped question. They smile and nod and say

that’s really nice but I can tell they don’t believe me. I know I

wouldn’t.

I take my place in the still-empty park, eyepiece pressed tight to

my eye, pretending to shoot one patch of mist then another, then

carefully “adjusting” the camera settings for effect. At the stroke

of 12, Mark and Heather arrive. Mark does a good job of not

acknowledging me, and I him. I still pretend I’m shooting, but I’m

watching their every move from the corner of my eye. I can’t help but

notice that Mark has a lot of props. He has a jar of something, a

small tote bag and a file folder. A moment later, Mark walks back to

the car, which worries me. He returns with even more props: a

blanket, which makes sense, and a shirt, which is puzzling. As

Heather sits patiently, Mark becomes quite busy arranging props,

checking file folders and searching for things in the tote bag. All

of which is fine, except that I’m getting another “low battery”

light.

I start to sweat. I don’t know how much time I have left and Mark

is still arranging props, checking files and draping blankets. I

start to worry that I may have to drop the camera and help Mark with

his set dressing to make this marriage happen. Mark finally drops to

one knee, and I drop all pretenses and turn the camera on the main

action, which makes Heather very uncomfortable and produces an icy

stare at me that is about 30 degrees below icy. Mark extracts a poem

he’s written from the file folder and finally, the telltale black

box. He says the magic words, she says “Yes!” and there is a general

state of pandemonium, crying and kissing, by which point my low

battery light is blinking furiously.

But it’s too late now. It’s all been captured for posterity, a

permanent memento of one of life’s passages. So congratulations and

all the best to Mark and Heather, and the next time you see a strange

man alone in a park with a video camera, I’d call 911, just to be

safe. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs

Sundays. He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.