Gift Card of the Magi

by David M. Howell ©2004
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)


The impending Valentine’s Day haunted me like the gallows of an innocent man. There was no escaping my fate, I was going to have to venture out into the great unwashed and search for a gift that was itself insignificant, yet steeped in sentiment.

Was I buying love? All I was really doing was making a financial outlay for services rendered or purchasing future affection. Giving a gift wasn’t that much different than paying a prostitute. Well, except for the sentiment. Like underbody coating or Simonizing, sentiment isn’t something you install it’s embedded deep in the fibers. Neither seltzer water nor modern dry cleaning can get it out.

Looking into my dark closet reveals past sentinels of relationships. Hanging as if at attention are the gifts so tenderly given by past SO’s. They linger with the scent of sentimentality. A soft, button-down, flannel shirt kept prisoner forever condemned to a life of solitude until the eventful day when it is delivered to the Salvation Army. Schmaltz its only offence.

The Super Bowl reminded all of America that diamonds are forever. I guess it’s because once given you’re forever paying for their emotional value. Though my ex-wife absconded with her engagement ring, I still feel the anguish of giving something so precious to someone who only cherished it for it’s perceived financial value. These artificially induced precious stones carry more baggage than the cargo plane that delivered them. If you give a woman a diamond you’d better be prepared for what it signifies. You’re trapped. There’s no turning back. She can add 40 pounds and stop waxing her mustache hair, but you’re trapped like an unsuspecting dolphin in a tuna net. Like cigarettes, diamonds should come with a label: WARNING—may cause permanent damage leaving you helplessly emasculated and at the mercy of the wearer.

So I ruled out a diamond anything immediately. Not because I didn’t want to express feelings toward Gwen but precisely because I wanted to do that when I was ready and not let a piece of carbon do the talking for me.

Taking in the crisp February air, I walked up a crowded Michigan Avenue to meet some buddies for lunch. Leaping out like a hungry puma was Victoria Secret. With windows dressed in virtually undressed mannequins these scantily clad vixens—with nipples erect—revealed to the world lacy red scrapes of clothing that would be considered risqué on TV, but perfectly acceptable for the window shopping public.

I could picture Gwen wearing something as shear and revealing as the faceless mannequin. But here again, what was the message? That our relationship was based on sex? Well, it was. The dating only seemed to be foreplay to the real reason we saw each other. An intimate gift, especially from Victoria Secret could only reinforce this conclusion. Which then begs the question if our relationship is so shallow, why are we dating? I toyed with the idea of just arranging sexual encounters that could even replace one or two of my weekly gym workouts. On the surface this seemed like a healthy consideration. But then the only real difference between Gwen and a treadmill would be the handles.

I pulled open the side door to Flapjaws and stepped out of the cold into the cacophony of the crowded lunchtime bar. Like a fortress in the center the dark wood of the bar took the majority of the space. Surrounding the bar like lost children were two and four top tables all crowded with loose menus, condiments and fliers for upcoming events. Chuck and Val were already at the table when I arrived.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Hey,” we greeted ourselves like men as I pulled out my chair.

“Chuck here thinks the religious right is secretly part of the Ku Klux Klan…” Val said before I could even unwrap my scarf. Val was every woman’s catch. Tall, athletic with dark hair and deep blue eyes. In fact, he’d married right out of college to a writer he’d met at a small market ad agency. Vaughnda was a whimsical companion to his moody nature. They had three wonderful kids and were actually living comfortably in suburban Chicago. Together they’d pursued and wrangled in the American dream.

“Are you kidding, of course they are…just listen to them, though I can’t believe anyone would. Look at all the idiots who followed Wallace in ’63 when he tried to bar blacks from the University of Alabama! How stupid is that, and yet people rallied to him. The religious right is just a bunch of ancient segregationalisit looking for a cause. Gay rights gives them a reason to live. What they ought to be concerned that their own clergy is behind the pulpit buggering little boys.”

“Too easy, man. You can’t blame the religious fanatics for the Catholic priests.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “But the problem with marriage in America today isn’t gay rights, it’s divorce.”

Chuck nodded, “The army of god seems to foster a don’t ask don’t tell policy.”

Chuck and Sylvia had married a few months after me. Though instead of lasting only 8 months, they we’re now on their 8th year. Living downtown, both had built successful careers. Chuck as an advertising account executive, Sylvia in the financial industry. They talked about having kids, but the reality is the clock had run out a year ago. They were content with their lifestyle and would probably fulfill the fantasy of retiring early to a warm climate.

“Well, accept to tell on others,” I said stopping to order a burger, rare as you dare. “Hey, what are you guys doing for Valentine’s Day?”

“What, the committed bachelor having trouble?” Chuck said always looking to poke fun at the fact that I was the only one among us single and without kids.

“Not trouble so much as what’s the big deal.”

“Oh, it’s a big deal,” Val assured the table. “Vaughnda expects something that sparkles every year. Last year I told her we’d just dropped some major coin on Beatrice’s braces. And they were “sparkling” enough.” He even made the little quote sign around sparkling. “Whoa, she was pissed…”

“I remember that, Val,” Chuck added. “You ended up getting her a broach or something…”

“…a locket. I put a picture of the kids in it and Beatrice smiling through her mouth full of tinsel.”

“My point is Valentine’s Day gifts seem to carry more weight than say a birthday present or Mother’s Day…”

“What do you know about shopping for Mother’s Day gifts? Huh, ya brie eatin’, single bastard,” Val said in the bad Scottish brogue of Willy from the Simpsons. “Mother’s Day is the mother of gift holidays. Hell, Valentine’s Day is just a rehearsal compared to the thought and preparation you gotta put into a Mother’s Day gift.”

“Yeah, yeah. Val’s right. But sounds like you got a dilemma, buddy.” Chuck could read the concern on my face.

“Well, I don’t want to imply anything…you know by giving too much of a gift or too personal of a gift.”

“You’ve got a problem there, my friend,” Chuck leaned back in his chair as his burger arrived. “Too much gift and you’re bachelorhood is dead. Too little and your relationship is iced.”

This was useless. These guys were so far removed from dating they were more like spent chess pieces restricted to watch the game from the sidelines. They had their mates. Compared to marriage, dating was just a long job interview with heavy petting. There was nothing I was going to learn from them.

Like a heroine addict fresh from rehab my senses were filled with the glaring retail assault that plied my flanks as I walked back to my office. Signs and banners screamed, “Tell her you love her” from every window. But what if it wasn’t love? What if we just had a very strong mutual attraction? And why would that be bad? I just had lunch with my only two friends who were still in their original marriages. Even I was divorced which meant I’d played the game and to some degree won a hand. But in the end left more money on table than I’d started with. I think that’s what was actually creating my dilemma. I know the sentimental value of a Valentines and could no longer just give a gift-wrapped time bomb of emotional baggage.

Back in my office I surfed online for ideas that wouldn’t imply commitment and at the same time satisfied the relationship. The first thing I Googled was “The Vermont Teddy Bear.” How did this idea ever catch on? Sure I could see it for a sick child….

“Eddy, Philbert, your conjoined life is about to end. When the doctors finish, you’ll be separated.” The boys’ mother consoled stroking the soft curls of their heads. “You’ll sleep in your own beds and sit in your own chairs. And to keep you company, your dad and I got you these cute Teddy Bears.”

“Look, they’re sown together at the buttocks…just like you,” their dad would say.

“Holy crap…we’re ten…we want a PlayStation!”

No, this was not an adult gift. Teddy Bears are the last bastion of the unimaginative.

Then I remembered an article on a day spa in town. “This Valentines, give her soothing hands.” That’s exactly what I wanted to do, pay some other guy to give my SO pleasure. Oh sure, Gwen would enjoy the day and she’d thank me for the gift, but in the end, a day spa was nothing more than small appliance for the soul. I could just as well give her a mini-vac. It’s good around the house, takes care of small jobs leaving you feeling good about yourself. And it’s a lot cheaper to recharge its batteries than to recharge your own at a day spa. In the end, the mini-vac is more practical and makes clean up after the mudpack a cinch.

The other absurd aspect of this bombardment was the huge savings all the retailers were touting. Save $100, save $75 dollars, buy now and save an additional $150. If I did math the same way retailers did I’d be broke in no time. Saving always screamed that you’re paying too much in the first place. It’s like shouting, hey, we couldn’t get any one to buy this crap at the original price, so we’re lowering the price by $50…if that doesn’t work we’ll lower it some more until you buy it. Here’s a bold idea, offer the merchandise at the lower price in the first place and maybe you’ll sell more, faster. Retail is just a legalized shell game.

That’s about the time it hit me. The only thing that had any real value was a gift card. A gift card is worth exactly what you pay for it. There’s no discount attached, no hidden charges. And it would always retain its value. Best of all a gift card was carte blanche to get whatever you want. Store discounts didn’t matter because the gift card had value. It was cash in a plastic form.

I was excited about the idea. I could give Gwen anything she wanted. Well, up to a pre-determined value. But wasn’t that the whole gift idea anyway? Office gifts exchanges set limits…nothing over $25 dollars. Husbands and wives set limits—let’s not spend too much on each other this year…we’re saving to carpet the garage. (Another practical use for the mini-vac.) A gift card was a ticket to shop—what woman could refuse that? The only thing that remained was the amount. I wanted to say I care about you, but not you’re all I care about. There had to be away to put a dollar value on that.

$50 just sounded cheap. $100, better but expected. $150 seemed to say I like you, but you’re only good for sex. $200 now that feels right. It says “honey, you have value to me.” If I dropped 200 bucks on a nice sweater, shoes or a skirt, it would be received well…provide the color, style and size were right. You risk a lot shopping for clothes for a woman. Too big and she thinks you’re telling her she’s fat. Too small and it says, lose some weight. But a gift card says I want you to have something that’s just right for you.

With my head high, I felt a tinge of pride having found the perfect Valentine’s gift. Now all that remained was where to get the gift card. My options were endless. Even Victoria’s Secret had a gift card. Gwen could pick out her own dainty under things. Of course then I’d seem lazy because I could have gotten something sexy. It wouldn’t have mattered what it was, women never wear the lacy crap guys get them. It all goes into box on the back shelf of their walk-in closet. It’s a nice thought, she feels sexy, but would never be caught dead in anything so derisory. Sure, some women might humor their SO by wearing it once but then it retreats to the back of the closet. Victoria’s Secret was not a secret women kept.

I ran down the list of possible retailers and all presented their own set of drawbacks. All except one. Borders. Gwen knew how to read…or at least I think she does. I’ve never actually seen her with a book, but she had a few in her apartment. At restaurants, she could order off a menu that didn’t have pictures. (Thanks Denny’s for helping the illiterate enjoy a meal.) But I’m not sure what she’d like to read. She’d have to pick something out. It works! A Border’s gift card it would be.

I picked out a shirt-size box at the Hallmark store along with a cute gift card—Be an organ donor, give your heart to someone this Valentine’s—and some wrapping paper. Stuffing the box with newspaper, it made a lightweight yet generous gift. Now all that was left was the presentation.

Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday, perfect. I picked up a bottle of her favorite Shiraz, ordered in some sushi and lit every candle in my condo. The warm glow of the candles created a romantic atmosphere. Perhaps too romantic. I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. This was to be a nice evening not a proposal. I quickly switched the CD’s from Sinatra to Coldplay, Zwan and Foo Fighters.

Gwen stopped by after having drinks with some girl friends. The dim glow of the living room told her everything.

“David?” she said as if expecting me not to be home.

“Hey, Gwen…” I stepped into the hall. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

She held a shopping bag with tissue paper overflowing the top.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said with a hug. She set her bag down gently and I took her coat.
Conversation flowed slower than the Shiraz. Finally, I jumped up to retrieve her gift. In the thin glow of the candles the red hearts of the wrapping paper become pools of blood. I suddenly began to think this wasn’t a good idea. What was I thinking, a gift card… How impersonal. How thoughtless. I wanted to take the gift back, but it was too late. Gwen was already inspecting the package. With an anticipatory smile she read the unimaginative card.
She handed me the shopping bag.

“Happy Valentine’s,” we said in unison.

She ripped open the paper as I pulled at the tissue. The bag revealed a wrapped shoebox. Did she get me the Nike’s I’d been eyeing on Michigan Avenue?

I tore at the paper…it was indeed a Nike box. Gwen had her box open and was plowing through the crinkled newspaper. She found the envelope. My Nike box was too light to be shoes, I opened it to find packing peanuts, thousand of them. With one hand, I plunged into the white sea of weightlessness. There was an envelope at the bottom. I pulled it out spilling peanuts on the hardwood floor just as Gwen opened here envelope and pulled out the gift card.

“Oh, Borders…I love that store…” she said.

I opened the envelope from the shoe box. Inside was a $150 Home Depot gift card. I looked up at her.

“I need the shoebox back for bills,” she said.

The sex was great.