The Last-Minute Shopper

It’s 3:00, Christmas Eve. He sits alone at his desk. The empty office echoes.
The office party cheer evaporates. The scent of wine lingers longer.
Everyone’s gone. The hum of his computer is the only sound he hears.
He checks 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 streets are clogged.
He sees the mall. It mocks him. It closes at 6:00. Traffic is a Gordian knot.

Nothing moves. He curses, blows his horn. The clock ticks: 3:18.
He fidgets, pounds the steering wheel, sweat wets his collar.
One lane moves, not his. Cars cruise by, drivers yack on cells, celebrating.
He elbows a grandmother out of the way. She wrecks. He shrugs.
He arrives to an empty mall parking lot. He’s confused. Only 3:27.

He jogs in, time is crucial. Clueless men roam the cavernous 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.
Neiman’s…over-priced, picked over. He stops at Starbucks.
A coffee. The barista 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, shun him. He despises them.
He inspects the shoes. Jimmy Choo, Monolo. He’s shocked.
The prices stab him, surpass his comprehension. He tries cosmetics.
He dawdles with perfume testers. The air smells sweet. He can’t choose.

He moves to the handbags. Three men linger there.
Choices are few. One crocodile Veneta. They all want it.
Words erupt. Someone is shoved. Elbows fly, two men grapple on the floor.
He grabs for the bag. Too slow. A fist finds his face. The bag vanishes.
He shakes it off, reviews his list. Half complete.

Time’s tick taunts him. He rushes into the corridor. Shops closing early.
He checks DeBeers. Their door slams shut. He gets lucky at J. Crew.
He leaves, passes Victoria Secret. A cluster of old men gather there, gawking.
The staff changes the mannequins. The men point, discuss, drool, dream.
He knows their secret Santa wish list. Disappointment will fill their stockings.

His watch frightens him: 4:58. Time stalks him. He becomes manic.
He shops tawdry kiosks, he grabs the garish junk. Satisfied with scraps.
He’s a pinball, bouncing shop to shop, running wildly through the hallways.
His cell rings. Wife calls. A party? Our home, 6:30? An expletive escapes.
It’s 5:24. Doors are closing fast. Still no gift for his wife.

He’s a feral savage, delirious. His bags bulge, his wallet wilts.
Time punishes him, assaulted by the incessant tick, tick, tick.
Shops are closed. In the distance a dim light shines. Maybe, he hopes.
He remembers the toaster, the tumblers, the tenderloin he’s given her.
She cried. His children ridiculed 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, hurry. 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, 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. Doors are bolted shut. He’s trapped.
He rages, shakes them uncontrollably. Alarms sound. Security subdues him.
He pleads his dilemma. They remove the cuffs, kick him out. Tick, tick. 6:15
He finds his car, drives madly, weaves 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 some eggnog. Says to calm down, relax.
“Honey, don’t buy me a present this year,” she says. “OK?”

He’s stunned, confused, asks her why. She grins, points to the garage.
“I saved you the trouble,” she says. “I bought my own with your Amex. Go see.”
He does. A shiny new black Mercedes Benz convertible smiles at him.
He stares in stark horror. His knees buckle as he estimates the cost.
The doorbell rings. Guests arrive. The clock chimes: 6:30. He faints.

Here’s hoping your shopping was a pleasure. Merry Christmas.


Bud Hearn
December 22, 2016