The Shopper

It’s 3:00 on Christmas Eve. He sits alone at his desk. The empty office echoes.
The holiday cheer evaporates. The scent of wine lingers longer.
Everyone’s gone. The hum of his computer is the only sound he hears.
He looks at his shopping list, a white sheet filled with names.
So many names, no gifts. He taps it with his pen, chews his nails.

His watch reads 3:05. No more procrastination. Time to shop.
He gets up, grabs his coat, keys and walks briskly to the parking garage.
He remembers Christmases past. Always the same, last-minute shopping.
He heads to the mall, confident in his quest. The roads are clogged.
He sees the mall. It mocks him. It closes at 6:00. Traffic is a Gordian knot.

No vehicle moves. Damn it, he utters, blows his horn. The clock ticks 3:18.
He fidgets, curses. He pounds the steering wheel, sweat wets his collar.
One lane moves, not his. Cars cruise by. Drivers yack on cells, celebrating.
He inches into the flow. A grandmother pays the price. She wrecks.
He arrives at the mall to an empty lot. He wonders what’s going on. It’s 3:27.

He jogs in, no time to spare. Men roam clueless in the mall.
He checks his list, plans his route. Bare shelves greet him in Brookstone.
He searches Macy’s. Not much. Moves to Brooks Bros. Nothing.
Neimans…over-priced and picked over. He stops at Starbucks.
A coffee. The clerk moves like molasses. He paces, tick, tick, tick.

Saks is his savior, he smiles smugly. He saunters in, thinks of his wife.
Clerks lounge, yawn, lethargic. They shun him. He despises them.
He inspects the shoes, Jimmy Choo, then Monolo. He’s shocked.
The prices stab him, surpass his comprehension. He moves to cosmetics.
He dawdles with perfume testers. The air smells sweet. He makes no choice.

He moves to the handbag section. Three men linger there.
Choices are few. One Bottega Veneta. All want it.
Words erupt. Someone is shoved. Elbows fly, two men grapple on the floor.
He reaches for the bag. Too slow. A fist finds his face. The bag vanishes.
He shakes it off, looks at his list. Half complete. Tick, tick, tick. 4:29.

Time’s tick taunts him. He rushes into the corridor. Shops close early.
He checks out DeBeers. Their door slams shut. He gets lucky at J. Crew.
He leaves, passes Victoria Secret. A mob of men gather. They gawk.
The staff changes the manikins. The men point, discuss, drool, dream.
He knows their Santa list. Disappointment will fill their stockings.

His watch frightens him, 4:58. Time stalks him relentlessly. He becomes manic.
He shops the tawdry kiosks, grabs the garish junk, satisfied with the scraps.
He’s a pinball, bouncing shop to shop, running wildly down the corridors.
His cell rings. His wife calls. A party? Our home? 6:30? He emits an expletive.
He looks at his watch, 5:24. Doors are closing fast. No gift for his wife.

He is a feral savage, delirious. His bags bulge, his wallet wilts.
He’s punished by time, assaulted by the constant tick, tick, tick. 5:48.
Shops are closed. In the distance a dim light shines. Maybe, he hopes.
He remembers the toaster, the blender, the picture frame he gave her.
She cried. His children mocked him. She abandoned the kitchen forever.

He bursts into the store, grabs the clerk, shakes him violently.
My wife, my wife, what have you got for my wife? He’s hysterical now.
The best you have for her. What is it, man, what is it? Price no object.
The clerk recovers, shows him a shiny see-through model, the latest rave.
I’ll take it, I’ll take it. What is it? Why, sir, it’s an Oreck vacuum. The best.

Yes, he shouts, at last, at last. He’s ecstatic. It’s 6:05. He’s done.
He sprints to the exit. The doors are bolted shut. He’s trapped.
He rages, shakes them uncontrollably. Alarms sound. Security subdues him.
He pleads his dilemma. They release him, kick him out. Tick, tick, tick. 6:15.
He finds his car, drives madly, weaving wildly, a lunatic at the wheel.

He arrives home. His pulse pounds. He’s disheveled. His necktie is a noose.
He races in, kisses his wife, dumps his bags. His watch tortures him. 6:26.
She’s calm, smiles, says Merry Christmas, reminds him guests are arriving.
She sees his panic, pours him eggnog. Says to calm down, relax.
Don’t buy me a present this year, she says.

He’s stunned and confused, asks her why. She grins, points to the garage.
I saved you the trouble she says. I bought my own with your Visa. Go see.
He does. In the garage is a shiny new black Mercedes Benz convertible.
He stares in stark horror. Terror stalks him.
The doorbell rings. Guests arrive. The clock chimes 6:30. He faints.

Merry Christmas!

Bud Hearn
December 15, 2011