Christmas-Shopping Quarterbacking
Reflections on a Christmas shopping season, the day after delivery:
It’s three days before Christmas, sudden-death overtime and we’ve just arrived at the mall. There are a few people here already. I wind up parking atop a tree. Or maybe it was an elf.
“You’ll be my shopping coach,” I tell the little girl as we get out of the car.
“I can’t pucker,” she says, playing with her chapped lips.
“No one will notice,” I say.
We breeze past the boutiques and the luggage store. I have never bought luggage. I have no idea where our luggage even came from.
“I know someone who’s constipated,” the little girl tells me, as we carve our way through the crowd.
“Good for you,” I say.
“Want to know who?” she asks.
“Not really.”
To get into Macy’s, we have to pass through the perfume department, which has the aroma of 400 perfumes mixed together and boiled in lard.
The perfume department is pink beyond belief. Pink as a Molly Ringwald movie. It’s clear they don’t want men in here. We flee as if running from wasps.
“Run!” I tell the little girl.
“Where?” she asks.
“Just run!” I yell.
We are a family afflicted by Christmas. Some families have a passion for politics. We have a passion for Christmas, a sort of idiocy passed down from generation to generation like an heirloom.
“Here, this was your grandmother’s,” we say as we pass down this passion for Christmas. “Careful not to break it.”
It’s not a bad thing, this passion. It’s just something we have to deal with. Salinger’s family had its issues. We have ours.
So we overdo Christmas. It leads to too many bills and long, serious conversations with the TV off. Next Christmas, we’ll get this under control, we say. Then we don’t. See? An affliction.
“What do you want for Christmas?” the little girl asks.
“I could always use a nice sandwich,” I tell her.
“A sandwich?” she asks.
This leaves the little girl confused. She refuses to Christmas shop with me any longer, even though we’ve spent much of our time eating ice cream and studying the winter sunset.
“We’re supposed to be shopping,” she tells me.
“We are?”
“Dad, you’ve bought nothing.”
“What about this ice cream?” I say.
“Mom!” she yells.
So I turn to others for holiday help. Here I am with a long list. Christmas is closing fast. The late December daylight lasts about 12 minutes. I need a pro, someone with shopping experience and a kind and gentle heart.
“Do I get paid?” asks my lovely and patient older daughter.
“I’ll buy you ice cream,” I offer.
And back to the mall we go.
There are a few people here already, so I park atop a wealthy-looking woman carrying a small dog and a Nordstrom bag.
“Lock it,” I say as we get out.
We navigate the crowds. This late in the season, most of the women are done with their shopping. Now it’s mostly guys.
“This way,” my daughter says, leading us into a clothing store.
Apparently, this year everything is on sale. Everything. Every tag has the original slice slashed off and another one written in. Signs are posted, bellowing 50% off.
In America, no one pays full price for anything anymore. If you ever pay full price, call your doctor. “Doc, I just paid full price,” you’ll say. And he’ll immediately order you some tests.
Up the escalator we go, looking straight into strangers’ fannies, being bumped by their shopping bags and their purses and their bony elbows, hard as billiard cues.
“I once went Christmas shopping with Devon,” my older daughter tells me. “He caught pneumonia.”
“Did he die?”
“No,” she says. “But he never goes shopping with me anymore.”
My teenage daughter finds the experience exhilarating. There are roses in her cheeks. Her eyes are like snow globes. Like many of her ancestors, she’s high on Christmas.
Better yet, she’s helping someone in need. Me. The anti-Claus.
“You think Midol is an appropriate stocking stuffer?” I ask.
“For Mom?” she asks.
“For anyone,” I say.
We wait in another line. We stop talking. Blood rushes to my knees.
“See that purse?” my daughter asks. “That would look so great with my prom dress.”
“You already had your prom,” I say.
“That’s what’s so frustrating,” she says.
In women’s clothing, there are mostly sweaters, the heavy insulation for another harsh Southern California winter. A pretty woman in giant hoop earrings buys five.
“You think your mom would like a sweater?” I ask.
“Sure,” my daughter says.
“What about hoop earrings?” I tell her.
“Sure,” she says.
“This is easy,” I say.
At the register, the clerk punches some numbers, feeds things through scanners, punches some more numbers. Waits. Answers the phone. Waits. Re-scans the things through the computer. Waits.
Through it all, she doesn’t look up. Clerks know that making eye contact with the line is not good.
“Thanks for being so patient,” some assistant manager says to those waiting in line.
“Who’s being patient?” I whisper to my daughter.
“You are, Daddy,” she says.
As we wait, my arches cave. My posture worsens. I develop trouble with some teeth.
Eventually, my marriage crumbles. My job disappears. The continents drift slowly apart. Venus dies and falls irrevocably into the sun. All while we wait to pay for a simple white sweater, 50% off.
“Next,” the clerk finally says, and we step to the counter.
“Thanks for being patient,” the clerk says.
“Merry Christmas,” I say.
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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.
