Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 43
Feb. 13, Spin: The fateful day is tomorrow and
panic has truly set in. You can’t concentrate on
work and your head spins from one bad gift idea to
the next. You briefly consider hiring her a male
stripper, but decide you don’t need the
comparison. You’re dizzy and feel ill and—that’s it.
You’ll call in sick tomorrow. You’ll have the whole
day to shop for your darling (Did we make up?).
You exhale, at peace with the lie you will tell
tomorrow. But the music still pounds: BUMPBUMP-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP.
Feb. 14, Step-up: You’re at the mall, bright and
early. You’ve stepped up to the challenge and your
charge card is burning a hole in your pocket. Those romantic feelings from the old days
have stirred and you’d actually be getting into this now, except, ironically, you woke up with
a savage sore throat and a splitting headache.
If you could afford a shrink, he’d have fun with that.
The hours fly by as you drag around, your watery eyes bewildered by the sheer amount of
stuff that your wife would not want. You keep finding yourself in Frederick’s, but you know
that’s just because the atmosphere helps you think.
BUMP-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP.
The thumping in your head brings you to your senses. You crawl up from your knees in
front of the “lacy” table and stagger out past the other empty-eyed men who wander the
mall like zombies. CRESCENDO, blood in the water.
You give up. You’ve failed. You sag into your car in the parking lot, fall asleep and into fitful
dreams.
