by Piper Stone
The mall had opened at six AM that morning, but by then, I had already been there for an hour, along with what seemed like twenty million other mindless fools. The outside temperature was hovering around eighteen degrees when a trembling young sales clerk with bright red hair finally approached the double doors, holding a key.
The freezing crowd moved forward, pressing against the glass doors while they stomped and chanted, “Now, now, now,” in one sullen voice. Seconds later, the doors gave way, and the shrieking mob surged into the aisles like a horde of Vikings too long at sea. As I saw the red-haired clerk disappear in the tidal wave of human flesh, I could only hope that the mall offered its luckless employees generous medical coverage.
That had been almost nine hours earlier, and I had long since stopped worrying about the fate of the red-haired sales clerk. I had woes of my own. What I was focused on now was my aching back, my swollen feet, and the throbbing blister on my right heel that was making every step agony. Kicking off my shoes had been a risk, since my feet looked like a pair of grotesquely overstuffed German sausages, and the chances were excellent that I would never get the damned shoes back on. I would have to meet Dennis for dinner shoeless, with my pantyhose in shreds and with a couple of gobs of bubble gum stuck to the bottoms of my feet. Which would guarantee me not a kiss of welcome, or even a cheerful “Thank you for doing all of my Christmas shopping, darling,” but one of his stern, disapproving frowns. Dennis is very big on proper behavior in public.
Unfortunately, my day wasn’t over yet. After shopping for all of Dennis’ colleagues, clients, relatives, and, of course, his dog Francine, that last, all-important gift had thus far eluded me. The gift that Dennis most wanted in the world, and that some unseen, cruel fate was trying to deny him. That Holy Grail of gifts, and the rarest and most sought after toy of the Christmas season – the annual Billings Oil Company Lights and Sounds Truck, this year’s model is a Tanker Truck. The folks at Billings Oil had figured out some years earlier that producing their annual schlocky advertising gimmick after Thanksgiving, and in severely limited numbers, produced a flood of publicity, in the form of a yearly feeding frenzy. The nightly news almost always included taped footage of at least one department store melee, with hysterical shoppers clubbing and clawing at one another to snatch up the last truck available. I had already clubbed and clawed my way through six stores – and come up luckless and truckless.
To Dennis, though, I knew that failure was never an option. My bruises and abrasions would only prove that I hadn’t applied myself properly to my assigned task. So, even as I lay there with my swollen feet and my oozing blister and my hair in my eyes, looking like a slatternly bag lady, my fevered brain was working out a plan of attack. I glanced at my watch, and made some quick calculations. Time was of the essence, of course, but I knew I had to gather my strength before storming the gates of that teeming bastion of Yuletide greed and excess – Bloomingdale’s Toy Department. Knowing that I would need strength and courage for the battle, I had already fortified myself by downing a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese, and a giant cup of Starbucks coffee laced with chocolate, caramel, and whipped cream.
Somewhere, I told myself, there simply had to be a Billings Oil Company Lights and Sounds Tanker Truck with my name on it. I had been a good girl all year – mostly. Surely, God owed me this one teensy-weensy little favor, after all those stifling summer mornings spent in Daily Vacation Bible School when I would rather have stayed in bed, or gone out shoplifting Snickers and Milky Ways at the drugstore with my best friend, Carla. (I gave up shoplifting at the age of nine, after my second try, when I was apprehended and dragged home to face retribution. My mother sentenced me to doing all of the dishes by myself for a full month, which might not seem a severe penalty, until you take into account the fact that I was domestically challenged, and usually broke as many plates and glasses as I washed. As a point of interest, the significance of which will be revealed later, I was not spanked for my crimes – of which there would be many, over the years. It wasn’t so much that either Mom or Dad had a philosophical or moral objection to spanking. I think it simply never occurred to either of them that it was all right to hit someone littler than they were. Yeah, they were that kind of parents, and that kind of people.)
Carla, by the way, continued her life of crime, graduating to bigger and better things. She resided for some years at the Hallville State Prison for Women, where she learned to do macramé and to crochet, and to make adorable Smiley Face potholders. She also learned to make “shivs” out of plastic spoons, and to give tattoos with nothing but a safety pin and ballpoint ink, but that’s another story.
And so, I got bravely to my feet, collected my bags, and staggered off to Bloomingdale’s – with hope in my heart, and no shoes. Once I made my way up the crowded escalator to the second floor, swearing under my breath, I fought my way down the crowded aisle until I saw a big red sign reading, “Toys.”
“Not a chance, lady,” the first clerk I asked snarled. “We had fifteen of those freaking trucks. Ran out this morning. You shoulda been here when we opened.”
Ah, yes. Precisely the story I’d been given at every other store I’d visited that day. Now, if only I could have figured out how to be everywhere when every store first opened, I’d have a freaking truck, right?
I turned away, dejected and beaten. All hope was lost. Dennis was going to be bitching the entire drive down to my parents’ house, where we were scheduled to spend the weekend. A visit to my parents with Dennis was never a barrel of laughs, but this visit was especially important. I was going to announce to my gathered family that Dennis and I – after four years of cohabitation – were finally engaged to be married. It was not an announcement I relished making. Although they’d never said anything negative to me about Dennis, I knew that they felt I was making a mistake – two carat diamond or not.
And then, just when I was certain that I was doomed to go truckless, a miracle happened. As I trudged toward the doorway, with my head down, something on a cluttered bottom shelf caught my eye. Something in a familiar bright blue – Billings Oil Company Blue! Less than three feet away from where I stood, stunned, the corner of a bright blue box peeked out. Tucked under a stack of ravaged toy boxes, unseen, and undiscovered – the very last available Billings Oil Company Lights and Sounds Tanker Truck in the known universe! Astonished by my good luck, I reached down with trembling fingers to claim my prize – a split second before it disappeared. With a gasp of horror, I looked up and saw a tall man in a denim jacket with the bright blue box under his arm, heading for the sales counter.
I grabbed the man’s elbow. “Excuse me, sir,” I gasped, pointing to the box. “But, that’s mine… I mean, I was just about to buy that truck you’re holding.”
He glanced around the crowded toy department. “There’s a whole counter of trucks over there,” he said.
I shook my head. “Not like that one. It’s…” As I watched his face, I could tell he knew perfectly well what he was holding. Now was the time for a bit of strategy.
“But you don’t understand,” I cried. “It’s for my little boy. He wants it desperately!”
The man gave me a pleasant smile, but held onto the damned truck. “Sorry, but so does my niece. Looks like any other truck to me, but what do I know about kids’ toys, right?”
Kids’ toys, my ass! I thought. No one in his right mind let a kid play with a Billings Oil truck. It was an investment. You put it in your damned safe deposit box, along with your first edition Superman comic books and the Krugerrands. “Oh, please!” I explained. “I’ve looked for that truck for days and days. He’ll be just heartbroken if…” I grabbed an enormous doll with a red velvet bow tacked onto her blonde, curly head and thrust it into his hands. “This would be adorable for a little girl!”
He chuckled. “Adorable.” He set the doll down. “Nice try, but not for this little girl.”
“How old did you say she was?” I pleaded, looking around
frantically. “Your niece?”
“She’s eight, despises dolls, and she’s already a rabid feminist – counting the days until she can burn her bra, like her grandmother did.”
Okay, mister, I thought. Time to bring out the heavy artillery. I sank back against the counter, and put on my most pathetic expression. “All right,” I sighed, with just a hint of a sob. “It’s only fair that you take it, since you did pick it up first. It’s just that… Well, it’s been really hard for my little boy – for poor little Mikey, since… Well, since his daddy went away.”
“Away?” the man asked. His face looked stricken, and I sensed victory. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business, but…”
I lowered my eyes sorrowfully. “Iraq,” I said softly. Okay, look. I didn’t exactly say that poor little Mikey’s father was a soldier, did I? Not in so many words. Is it my fault that people jump to conclusions? All I really said was the one simple word, Iraq. Good heavens, if someone wants to take the absolutely wrong inference from a single word, is that my fault? Really?
“Well, it’s late, and it’s a very big mall,” I said wearily, hoping to inject a note of stoicism into my voice. “But there are still a few hours before it’s too late. Maybe if I just keep looking, I can find something else to cheer him up.” I glanced down at my watch. “Of course, I’ll have to call Mr. Henson, and tell him. He’ll dock me for the hours I miss, but gosh, what the heck, it’s Christmas, right?” I pulled a crumpled tissue from my coat pocket and dabbed at the corner of one eye. “I’m sorry to get so emotional. It’s just that I’m so tired, lately. I don’t get a lot of sleep since Mikey’s dad went… Well, what with worrying, and working two jobs to make ends meet, and… I’m sorry, really. I hope your niece likes the truck. I really do. All children need something they truly want for Christmas, at least once in their lives. She’s a very lucky little girl.”
And then, right on cue, the tall stranger did what I knew he would, and turned into a Really Nice Guy. He took my hand and placed the boxed truck in my palm. “Take it. I’ll get my niece the talking Batmobile, instead. Maybe the Flames of Hell Action Man.”
I looked up at him with damp eyes, and sniffled. “You’re very kind. I don’t know how to…”
He closed my fingers around the box, and smiled down at me. “No thanks necessary. Just go home and be with Mikey, and try to have a merry Christmas. And try to get some rest, while you’re at it. Maybe Mikey’s dad will call.”
I clutched his hand and smiled, hoping the overhead lights were catching the misty look I was going for. “Thank you, so much. I promise you I’ll never forget this – and neither will Mikey. Not ever!”
He smiled again, and then disappeared into the throng of shoppers before I could say anything else – which was a damned good thing, since I’d pretty much exhausted my acting skills. Little Mikey was wearing out his welcome.
I turned my prize over in my hands, and sighed. “Ah, the things we do for love.”
I was fifteen minutes late meeting Dennis for dinner, and predictably, he was looking annoyed. I staggered into the charming little café with its charming view of surly mobs of last minute shoppers, and dropped into a chair.
“You’re late,” he reminded me. “Did you get everything?”
“Define everything,” I growled, waving my hand at the mountain of bags. “I’m not sure, but I think there may be some odds and ends left up on the second floor.”
“Stop being so negative,” he said, glancing down the wine list. “It’s still three days until Christmas, and you know how I hate it when you get PMS during the holidays. I’ve been sitting in a meeting all day, and I still have to pick up that engraved pen I ordered for Rawlings.”
He gave our order to the waiter, and then turned to me with a grin, anxious to hear the good news.
“All right, I’ve been patient long enough. Did you get the truck?”
“Well, I got a little confused,” I said coyly. “There were just so many trucks! Let’s see, now. Was it the red one you wanted me to look for, or the green one?”
The look of alarm on Dennis’s face discouraged any further teasing. I rummaged around in the Bloomie’s bag and handed over the truck.
“For God’s sake, Meg!” he grumbled. “You should have known better than to have it wrapped. A scrap of Scotch tape on the box can seriously decrease the value.”
I slumped in my chair, drained a glass of white wine in one gulp, and prepared myself for the flood of complaints. I hadn’t even looked at the freaking box. God help me if it was scratched or dented.
But Dennis seemed happy. No Scotch tape, just ribbon. I was saved.
“You didn’t open it, did you?” he asked nervously. “Or try to? The box is almost as important as the truck, itself, you know.”
“Yes, Dennis,” I said wearily. “I know, and what you have in your hands is a one hundred percent virginal Billings Oil Company Lights and Sounds Tanker Truck. And box. Both guaranteed pure of taint, and untouched by human hands.” I thought for a moment. “Unless the box is empty, of course. How will you know, if you don’t open it? Think of it. What if some clever, evil-minded criminal, or maybe a desperate, deranged truck collector has tampered with the box? Substituted last year’s model, or worse, yet – another brand! From another oil company!”
“That’s not funny,” Dennis replied sullenly. He looked at his watch. “Damn it! I’m not going to have time to eat. I have to pick up Rawlings’ present and get back before he leaves the office. I’ll see you at home, later. Be sure not to leave anything behind when you leave the restaurant.”
And to think I was about to ask him to take some of the bags to the car. I decided that when he left, I would order another glass of wine and a slice of chocolate truffle cheesecake – with whipped cream.
Dennis disappeared down the mall, and I was about to call the waiter back when an all too familiar face suddenly appeared at the table. The Really Nice Guy from the toy department was standing in front of me, shaking his head.
“Mikey’s a little older than I thought he’d be,” he said pleasantly. “But he did seem pleased with his truck.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward, wondering what else could possibly go wrong before this crappy day came to an end. “His name is Dennis,” I said glumly.
“I understand that Santa takes fibbing very seriously,” the Nice Guy said, taking a seat in the chair that Dennis had just vacated. “The rumor says the old guy keeps a list. If I report this, you’re probably going to find a lump of coal in your stocking, and maybe a switch. Santa can get real testy about lying.” He grinned. “Of course, I’m always willing to consider a bribe. Like getting my truck back? Then again, you could just have dinner with me, and keep the truck.”
“The truck is mine,” I snapped. “And I don’t do bribes.”
“Just my luck. An honest citizen.”
I groaned. “Okay, so maybe I lied – a little. But I did have a very good reason.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. What was this very good reason you had, if I may ask?”
“Dennis likes to get his way.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough. All men like to get their way. It’s in the genes. I’m a man, and I know these things. Try again.”
“Have you ever seen a thirty-five year old man throw a temper tantrum?”
“It sounds to me like Dennis deserves a lump of coal in his stocking too,” the Nice Guy said. “And also maybe that switch I mentioned. Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Ask first, and I’ll tell you.”
“Are you and Dennis… serious?”
I extended my hand to display the engagement ring Dennis had given me just last night – a dazzling two-carat, pear-cut solitaire.
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I’d say that’s pretty serious. Put it away now. You don’t want to risk getting mugged just before Christmas.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” I said, tu
rning the ring to catch the light. “He gave it to me last night. So, I guess you could call it an early Christmas present, as well as an engagement ring.”
He yawned. “So, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. This Dennis guy gave you a rock the size of a baked potato, and you gave him a $19.95 toy truck.”
I gave him what I hoped was a really dirty look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just an observation. And yours did come nicely gift wrapped, of course. With a bow.”
“He makes more than I do,” I explained sullenly. “A lot more. Tons more! And besides, Dennis is actually extremely thrifty and cost conscious. He says that a good-quality, high-end diamond like this one is an excellent investment. A hedge against inflation.”
The Nice Guy nodded. “Always my first thought when I buy a lady a Christmas present – or an engagement ring, for that matter.”
I frowned. “Are you trying to be disagreeable?”
“You bet I am. I’m the poor working class stiff you swindled out of his truck, won’t go to dinner with, and now you tell me you’re engaged to Daddy Warbucks. That entitles me to pout a little bit. So, tell me, is there really a little Mikey, Virginia?”
“I’m sure there is,” I conceded smugly. “Somewhere. Look, I know what I did wasn’t fair, especially at Christmas, but I simply had to have that stupid truck.”
“Have you ever heard the term ‘instant gratification?’ Child Psych 101. It’s what infants want, and adults want but usually don’t get.”
“Are you a college professor or something?”
“No, I’m a carpenter, and an adult who knows not to expect instant gratification.”
I sighed. “You’d understand if you’d ever met Dennis.”
“Looks like I’m about to. He’s coming back this way.”
I looked where he was pointing, and sure enough, Dennis was making his way toward us, pushing through the mob with both elbows. And it was obvious that he was steamed about something.
