tIS THE SEASON INDEEd

dECEMBER, 2000 - dIZZY from a turkey overdose, I waved goodbye to Uncle Filbert and his second wife Edna, climbed in a rented Subaru - or some other orb shaped suburban vehicle - and drove home, to await my signal. Just as we've all agreed that Labor Day marks the "end" of summer, Thanksgiving (in the United States at least) marks the "start" of Christmas. And Christmas marks the shopping climax that etches the final high water mark of our annual GDP. I always do my part.

As if waiting for jolly St. Nick himself, I lay awake most of the night anticipating the day after Thanksgiving headlines, beginning the holiday shopping season. To pass the time, I re-watched my burgeoning VHS collection of "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire."

Shortly before dawn, about the time I could recite most Regis Philbin lines verbatim, the paperboy delivered my wish. The New York Times front page showed me dozens of distorted faces pressed up against glass doors. I thought they might be part of some awful tale about masses huddled in Kosovo waiting for soup. Then I read that these huddled masses were in New York waiting for Macy's to open 7 AM.

With an acquisitive surge racing through my veins, I closed my eyes, dreaming of the avaricious shopping alta plano ahead. Sneaking another peak at that Times photo, I remembered lining up with my sleeping bag for Pearl Jam tickets a few years ago, squeezed among like minded fans in our own Top 40 version of a rockin' Russian bread line - but I digress.

Clipping a discount coupon for Ricky Martin Sings White Christmas, I grabbed my coat and raced for shopping land, images of fruitcakes and credit cards dancing in my head.

Soon searching for my entry point in the tornado of revolving doors into my local megalo-mart, I happened upon a Santa, ringing his Salvation Army bell before a basket collecting money for the poor. Dressed in the traditional red and white Santa uniform lovingly designed early this century by the Coca-Cola Company, he personified the seasonal spirit of giving. Sadly for this Santa, he didn't take American Express, so I pushed on clamoring to find things to give to myself.

I was not disappointed. Inside, the massive mall hummed at its holiday best. Hordes of shoppers juggled giant boxes loaded with necessities like dancing reindeer, mechanical foot massagers, singing bird clocks, and at least one nostalgic "Macarena Monkey."

At the center of it all, countless counter clerks smiled, beckoning like sirens atop corporate shoals, calling me to offer my life's savings to the men who hired them. Children yelled and parents obliged in a setting that would surely convince Christ that all that nasty business up on Calvary Hill was well worth every minute.

Me, I just took it all in, skipping blithely - nay - nakedly, from display counter to display counter, teasing eager clerks with my big stiff Amex card.

Now I don't know about you, but this time of year holds a certain romantic cache for me anyway. And what better way to display your romantic cache than with a shiny trinket. That seemed to be the message as I passed the jewelry counter and its clever invitations:

"Show Her You Love Her With A Diamond"
"What Better Way To Show You Mean It, Than With A Ring That Proves It."

Makes sense, I thought. After all, everyone seems to agree - an impressive diamond equals and impressive girl hooked to it. That's the rule. How else would all these thoughtful ring companies stay in business year after year. But more important, these invitations inspired me to look beyond myself and explore what I could do for someone else.

Groping for my Amex card again, I asked for the most expensive ring on display, reasoning that with it, I could snag myself the most impressive girl waiting for her man. Cost be damned, I thought. I'm young, I've got decades to pay this thing off, all the while, whiling away my lay-away years - my grateful honey at my generous side.

As the friendly counter clerk stroked a bevy of rings, their rocks glimmered before my dazzled eyes. Eventually snapping from my trance, I noticed that most of the diamonds looked a lot alike. For that matter, so did most of the rings. So many, yet so few.

"So where do you get all these diamonds," I asked?

"Oh these," the clerk answered with a sweetness that comes your way whenever you've got a card with a spending limit to spare, "these are all mined by the DeBeers company of South Africa."
Gee, I thought, all these diamonds mined by just one company?
"Oh yes," the sweet clerk assured me, "continuing the fine tradition-of-excellence started by DeBeers a century ago."
"Really?"
She nodded assuredly.
"I wonder what a guy like me did to get a girl before that?"
"You mean before a century ago?!"
"Yeah. Whenever that was."
The clerk shrugged, "I guess dating was just a lot tougher back then. We're lucky to be alive today instead."
"Got that right," I nodded thankfully as she swiped my card, flashing numbers I once associated with government spending.

With a holiday glow now beaming from my cloying face, I marched off clutching my ring. Passing that bell ringing Santa still outside, I joyously waved "now if this isn't the Christmas spirit, then what?"
As he awaited my contribution, I expanded.
"I mean think of it - free dating tips from a multinational mining company. Commercial thoughtfulism at its Christmas best."
'Tis the season indeed!

Yours Truly,

Xandor
Copy Boy In-Chief

go back

© 99/00 screedme.com
all rights reserved