free 2 be marlo

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Posted by Evil Schmoo @ 2:11 a.m. ET

So the Schmoo waltzes in to the local Gadget Emporium at approximately 17:13 on Christmas Eve. (That's a quarter after five for all you civilians out there.)

Now this is Christmas Eve. The single most readily-identifiable day of giddy commerce maybe in the world. The Friday After Thanksgiving. The Monday After The NCAA Basketball Tournament Field Is Announced. These, too, are de facto American national holidays devoted to financial transactions; one legal, the other, well, less so.

But Christmas Eve trumps them all. Or, at least, one would think that it should. The Schmoo is not one to decry the crass corruption of the theology of one Joshua Christos a couple thousand years ago. Rather, the Schmoo recognizes that crass commercialization is fundamental to the nature of American culture, and he accepts its existence with a wry smile, a roll of the eyes, and, like all of us, disturbingly large credit card debt. And above all, he acknowledges that there is no institution, anywhere, in America, churches included, that will refuse to drain every last drop of power, money, and demagoguery from the fictional date of birth of an ancient radical rabbi.

Or so one might think.

For upon strolling up the cemented parkway to this particular establishment, the Schmoo discovered that they were, in point of fact, "closed".

This is a little after 5 on Christmas Eve at the biggest electronics store for twenty miles. And they're closed?

Now, the Schmoo is neither blind nor dumb. He can detect the throngs of people in said store waiting to check out, and he can also discern that a sizable portion of the customer base is not actually in line, but milling about the aisles selecting their digital and analog wonderments. And so, when the Captain of the Guard -- ie, the 20-year-old rent-a-cop manning the front gate -- mentions that the Schmoo's presence is allowed to cross the threshold if and only if he desires to purchase a Gift Certificate, the Schmoo volunteers that this is, in fact, exactly what he is here to do.

And, briefly, the Schmoo actually considered purchasing six or seven different Gift Certificates for those people still on his list. But he has always depicted and perceived that doing so is a cop-out, and boring to boot. And maybe, just maybe, Junior Captain Fakebadge shouldn't have shouted a warning over his shoulder to the Schmoo that "we'll be watching you," thus ostensibly ensuring the Schmoo's compliance with the whole "Gift Certificates R Us" theory of Yuletide profitability.

Fuck the Schmoo? No, no, no, Senor MallCop, fuck you. For the Schmoo quickly observed that (a) you were not facing him; (b) you couldn't see the back of the line for the Gift Card Lady; and most importantly, (c) you had only glanced at the Schmoo as he traipsed gaily past your periphery. Meaning, you had registered the Schmoo as a young man of medium height and build, possibly with glasses and some facial hair, but quite notably wearing an oversized navy and pumpkin rugby shirt.

Hey. It's a favorite shirt, I've had it for years, it's heavy, and it's warm. Fuck off.

So, as the Schmoo is mincing away down the CD aisle, not even bothering to glance back at his Krispy Kreme'd persecutors, he ever-so-swiftly shimmies out of said shirt, leaving upon his person the Harvard Crimson T-shirt he never gave back to the fat neighbor he fucked two years ago.

And yes, she still loathes the Schmoo with a pathology so fierce she makes Leona Helmsley look like Rainbow Brite.

She ain't gettin' the shirt back.

So, having artfully shed his pursuit, GTA-style, the Schmoo wanders through the corridors of plastic and silicon, perusing the various and sundry entertainments and diversions available. At one point, a security guard, replete with sidearm, peers up and down the aisle and moves on, muttering something about "don't see him" into what could only have been a Nextel, as denoted by that insipid, ubiquitous double-beep to which every construction site attendee becomes inured within the first ten or so minutes on the job.

Funny what the native soundtrack of our lives actually sounds like sometimes.

And the Schmoo makes his selections, gallavants on over to the (by now much, much shorter) checkout line, and strives with discerning restraint not to appear in any way like he's not trying to appear like anything, since the Guard Tower (well, really just a desk with a phone, but I so like the concept of a mobile gun turret at Best Buy) is but ten feet from where he now stands.

And the tired checkout clerk glances at, and through, the Schmoo, and the Schmoo realizes that he's one of only two clerks left (out of a regular shift of ten, if the lane numbers are to be believed), and that the real reason that Best Buy was closing four hours ahead of schedule was to give its workers the rest of the night off to be with their families. And the Schmoo felt ashamed.

For the Schmoo was being taught a lesson by one of the central temples in which the capitalist religion is regularly practiced, by one of its most lowly parishioners. Christmas Eve really is about sharing the love of your family and friends, and possibly remembering the teachings of Jesus and holding them dear to your heart.

But Christmas Eve is also about running around like a madman trying to satisfy the base urges within all of us to be loved. To be able to say to the people that you do care about, "Hey, look, you matter to me, and even though I'm a lazy, cynical fuckup, I still got my shit together and got you something to show you how much you mean to me. And I'll be fucking damned if that's going to be a Goddam Gift Certificate."

So the Schmoo slung his bullseye of a rugby shirt into the sack that the exhausted, forlorn cashier was thrusting at him, and he slunk on outside the store. And as he passed the aforementioned mallcop pontificating at length about the store's (apparently unannounced) new hours to some other poor bastards, he grinned to himself, drew his shirt on, for it was a wee bit nippy, and melted into the night, his Christmas Caroled out for yet one more year.

God Bless America.

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