Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, December 19, 2014

The Frantic Shopper


Bob’s a procrastinator. Loves the last minute. He’s a microcosm for men at Christmas.

**********

It’s 3:00.Christmas Eve. Bob sits at his desk. The office party’s over.
Holiday cheer has evaporated. Scents of stale wine still linger.
Everyone’s gone. His computer hums a mournful lament.
He checks his shopping list. The white sheet’s filled with names.
So many names. No gifts. He taps it with his pen, chews his nails.

His watch reads 3:05. Time for action. 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.
Traffic is a Gordian Knot. The mall closes at 6:00. Anxiety sets in.

Nothing moves. He utters expletives, blows his horn. 3:18. The clock ticks.
He fidgets, curses. He pounds the steering wheel, sweat soaks his collar.
One lane moves, not his. Cars cruise by. Drivers yack on cells, celebrating.
He inches forward, cuts off a grandmother. She wrecks. He’s oblivious.
He finally arrives. The lot’s almost empty. He’s confused. 3:27. Tick, tick.

He sprints inside. Vacuous-eyed men roam clueless. Time gets shorter.
He checks his list, plans his route. Bare shelves in Brookstone stare back.
He searches Macy’s. Not much. Moves to Brooks Bros. Nothing.
Neiman’s, over-priced and 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, lethargic. They shun him. He loathes them.
He inspects shoes, Jimmy Choo, then Blahnik. So many styles.
The prices stab him, surpass his comprehension. He moves to cosmetics.
He dawdles with perfume testers. The air smells sweet. He can’t choose.

He moves to the handbag section. Three indecisive men loiter there.
Choices are few. One Bottega 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 punches his face. The bag vanishes.
He shakes it off, looks at his list. Half complete. 4:29. Tick, tick, tick.

Time’s tick taunts him. He runs into the corridor. Shops close early.
He checks out Belk’s. Doors are slamming fast. He scores at Sears.
He stops at Victoria Secret. A mob of men assemble there. They gawk.
Young models in black lace drape the manikins. The men drool, dream.
Bob guesses their list to Santa. Disappointment will fill their stockings.

His watch frightens him, 4:58. The pressure builds. 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 empty corridors.
His cell rings. His wife calls. A party? Our home? 6:30? Expletives flow.
He now hates his watch. 5:24. Doors are closing fast. No gift for his wife.

He becomes a feral savage, delirious. His bags bulge, his wallet wilts.
He’s punished by time, assaulted by the tick, tick, tick. It’s 5:48.
Most shops are closed. A dim light shines in the distance. He’s hopeful.
He remembers his wife. No toaster, blender or picture frame. Last year’s failure.
She cried. His children despised him. She quit cooking, took up yoga.

He bursts into the store, grabs the clerk, shakes him violently.
My wife, my wife, something 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?” Clerk says, “An Oreck vac. 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 kick him out.6:15. Tick, tick, tick.
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, 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 black Benz convertible occupies the garage.
He stares in stark horror. Terror overwhelms him. Images of bankruptcy flash.
The doorbell rings. Guests arrive. The clock chimes. 6:30. He faints.

**********

Men, don’t panic…Time and Amazon are still on your side. Merry Christmas!

Bud Hearn
December 19, 2014

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