How to Get Your Loved One the Perfect Holiday Gift!

by Chris Iovenko

First, of course, you must get off your couch and put your shoes on. Then you have to locate your keys. 45 minutes later bathed in sweat from your increasingly frantic search, you are ready to go. Then you try to struggle into a winter coat that used to fit before the pandemic; now, for some reason, it doesn’t. Your arms still fit, so that’s good, it’s just the rest of it that’s the problem. You suck in your gut and that fixes it. You’ll be able to get it zipped up just fine now. Phew!

You relax your gut once you get the zipper gets halfway up. And the zipper jams. It’s stuck at the epicenter of your belly bulge, so you suck in a deep breath and jiggle the zipper up and down and then this way and that but it seems welded in place. You’re stuck. You can’t get it off and even if you could it would take forever. You don’t have time to put on another coat; the stores will close soon so you have to get out of the house now. Besides, this coat is very warm and it’s probably not that cold outside.

Once you step outside, into the pitch dark of a December weeknight, you have a heart attack. At least that’s what it feels like when an icy gust of wind stabs into your chest through the gaping canyon formed by the stuck zipper. The wind circulates through the jacket like seawater through the hull of a wrecked ship and before you can even get down the steps you are shuddering with cold. Turn back and give up?

No. The car is right down the block so it will be fine. Besides, you come from Pioneer stock, your ancestors settled the plains or something and you are made of tougher stuff than most. You cross your arms over your chest and that helps a little to keep the cold out. Not being able to use your arms for balance, you struggle awkwardly but carefully down the snowbound sidewalk through a narrow trail smoothed by winter boots.

As you bravely crab your way down the treacherous sidewalk trying not to slip and fall, you spot a small object at the side of the trail. It glitters metallically in the light from the street lamp. You lean closer and see an honest-to-God gold ring sitting forgotten on a crust of dirty snow. You uncross your arms and a blast of wind flash freezes your heart again. No matter! You’re the beneficiary of a Christmas Miracle! The brutal past three minutes of suffering are finally over! You have your gift! Everyone will marvel at your kindness and great generosity!

Careful of your balance, you squat down and check around to see if anyone is watching. It’s not theft, exactly, finders’ keepers, and all that, but it would be awkward if a neighbor happened along and wondered what you were doing. Of course, you’d do the right thing and turn the ring in at the police station. Probably. Anyway, with the bitterly cold weather the street is still empty so you’re fine.

Your hands are trembling, either from the cold or excitement or both, as you reach for the ring. You grab it and something immediately feels wrong. It’s much too light and flimsy. You hold it up in the light from the street lamp and study it. It’s not a gold ring, just some worthless gold-colored children’s trinket. You abruptly stand up, knees cracking like cannons, suddenly overcome by fury. How unfair and cruel the world is! In a fit of pique, you hurl the ring with all your might into the empty street.

As your arm flings violently forward, you lose your balance, your feet come out from under you, and you tumble backward into the banked snow which at least saves you from a cracked tailbone. Small victories. You sit in the snow for a moment recovering and try to take a series of deep breaths but the arctic air sears your lungs.

You struggle to your feet. Your ass is frigid and you realize that now the seat of your pants is soaked through. You bind your arms together, put your head down, and make it the final 50 feet to your car. The windshield, like those of the other cars on the street, has a crust of ice and snow on it. You yank the frozen door open, get in, and immediately start the engine. You turn the defroster on full blast which results in a cold wheeze of air from the defrost vents.

Time to clean the windshield so you can see out of it. The scraper isn’t in the glovebox like it’s supposed to be. But that’s OK. You’ll figure it out.  You look around the car but other than a stray candy bar wrapper, there’s nothing much in it.

Shivering in the cold car, you do a mental inventory of your pockets. Keys scratch glass so that’s no good. What else? A cell phone of course but it could also scratch the glass or get scratched itself or broken. Wallet. What’s in your wallet? Credit cards. Bingo!

You pop the door open and try to rise from your seat but you can’t. Your wet pants have become glued to the freezing vinyl seat. You sit back down. If you waited 15 minutes it would probably melt but you’re already running late and out of patience. Options? You could piss your pants and although that would fix the immediate problem it would also create a new one. Nobody likes piss-soaked men at the mall at Christmas.

You take a deep breath that almost turns into a sob but doesn’t. You can do this.   You open the door and place a foot outside the car and then push up with the other foot. At first, your pants stretch but still hold fast. Come on man, you can do this! You burst up to a standing position and the seat of the pants detaches, accompanied by a dismaying ripping noise. You gingerly step out of the car onto the sidewalk, and the wind, like some sort of vengeful spirit, howls up through the ripped ass of your pants freezing your wet rump like a grocery store cutlet.

With shaking hands, you fumble your wallet out of your pocket but your numb fingers can’t extract your credit card from the tight leather fold.  You struggle with it, rage building inside you, and then suddenly you stop. Tears well out of your eyes and you start noisily sobbing and silently cursing the cruel, indifferent world and the callous hands of fate.

You feel a light touch on your shoulder and you turn and there she is. For a moment, you see yourself as she must see you, a sobbing man in a wrecked outfit, incapable, alone, worthless, and unlovable. The person you have always been and will always be. Then she hugs you and you start to feel better.

“What on earth is going on?” she says.

“I just wanted to get you the perfect Christmas present,” you sob, snot running out of your nose, and freezing in the cold.

“Honey,” she says, letting go of you. “Christmas was 3 weeks ago.”

Now you feel ridiculous and even more humiliated, a situation you didn’t think could exist.

She opens the car door, leans in, and turns off the engine. She closes the door and holds out the keys before pocketing them.

“I guess I didn’t do a very good job hiding them,” she says. “I’ll take you shopping on Saturday if you want but we need to go back now to the house and get you cleaned up. It’s fucking freezing out here.”