It’s 3:00, Christmas Eve. He sits silently at his desk.
The office party cheer evaporates. A faint scent of wine lingers.
The empty office echoes the hum of his
computer. Masks litter the floor.
He checks his shopping list, a white sheet
filled with names.
So many names, no gifts. He taps it with
his pen, anxiety sets in.
His watch reads 3:05. No more
procrastination. Show time for shopping.
He girds up, grabs his keys and walks
briskly to the parking garage.
Christmases past flood his mind. Always
the same, last-minute shopping.
He heads to the mall, a conqueror in his
quest. The streets are clogged.
The mall appears in the distance. 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 soaks his collar.
One lane moves, not his. Cars zip by,
drivers yack on cells, celebrating.
He squeezes a grandmother out of the lane.
She shrieks. He shrugs.
The mall parking lot is emptying. 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. Shelves stripped at Staples.
He scans Macy’s. Motley merchandise. He moves
to Belk’s. Boring.
Neiman’s, over-priced, picked over. He
stops at Starbucks.
A coffee. The barista moves like molasses.
He paces, tick, tick.
Saks might save him. He smiles smugly, saunters
in, thinks of his wife.
Clerks on cells yawn. They shun him. He
despises them.
He inspects the shoes. Jimmy Choo, Manolo.
He’s shocked.
Sticker 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 handbags. Three men linger
there.
Choices are few. One crocodile Veneta. All
eyes are on it.
Words erupt. Someone is shoved, Elbows
fly, two men grapple on the floor.
He grabs for the bag. Too slow. A fist
pounds his head. The bag vanishes.
He shakes it off, reviews his list. Half complete. The watch reads 4:32.
He checks DeBeers. Their door slams shut. Luck
at Lululemon.
He leaves, passes Victoria Secret. A
cluster of old men gather there, gawking.
Window mannequins get fresh lingerie. They
point, discuss, drool, dream.
He guesses their Santa wish list.
Disappointment will fill their stockings.
His watch frightens him: 4:58. Time stalks
him. He becomes manic.
He shops tawdry kiosks, grabs the garish
junk. Satisfied with scraps now.
He’s a pinball, bouncing shop to shop,
running wildly through the hallway.
His 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 now, delirious. His
bags bulge, his wallet wilts.
Time punishes him, assaulted by the
incessant tick, tick, tick.
Shops are closed. A dim light shines in
the distance. Maybe, he hopes.
He remembers the toaster, the tumblers,
the tenderloin he gave 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.
“The best for her. What is it, man?
Hurry. Price no object.”
The clerk recovers, demonstrates a shiny
see-through model, the latest rave.
“I’ll take it,” he roars. “What
is it?” “Why, sir, an Oreck vacuum, the best.”
“Yes,” he shouts, “at
last, at last.” He’s ecstatic. It’s 6:05. List done.
He sprints to the exit. The doors are
bolted shut. He’s trapped.
He shakes them uncontrollably. Alarms
sound. Security subdues him.
He pleads his dilemma. The cuffs come off,
he’s kicked out. 6:15.
He finds his car, drives madly, weaves
wildly, a lunatic at the wheel.
He arrives home. His pulse pounds. He’s
disheveled, the necktie 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 soon arrive.
She sees his panic, pours him eggnog, says
to calm down and relax.
“Oh, Honey, don’t buy me a present
this year,”
she says.
He’s stunned, confused, asks why. She
grins, points to the garage.
“I saved you the trouble. I bought
my own with your Amex. Go see.”
He does. A shiny new black Range Rover greets
at him.
He stares in stark horror, estimating the
cost. So long company bonus.
The doorbell rings. Guests arrive, the
clock chimes 6:30. He faints.
Here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas and
hoping your shopping was everything you dreamed it would be. Sales begin soon.
Relax.
Bud Hearn
December 23, 2021
No comments:
Post a Comment