I like writing parodies of old classics in my spare time, so here's a "Gift of the Magi" one not-just-in-time for Christmas. Be forewarned, though, I make my humor like I make my coffee: Dark and in poor taste.
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies, so you just know you're going to be dealing with a pissed off cashier. Oh, and the people in line behind you? In the middle of the Christmas shopping season? Jesus, forget about it!
Della could have gotten a job, but she decided that there was nothing she could do but fling herself onto the tattered couch and let the bedbugs massage her scalp.
While the mistress of the home consorts with her thirsty friends, let's have a look around. It was a furnished flat that went for $8 per week, due in part to the busy railway ten yards from the front door that transported hazardous freight at all hours. It was also haunted by the ghost of a serial killer that used the leather torn from his victims to fashion a recliner, an ottoman, and other handsome living room essentials. But hey, it was furnished, so you can't beat that.
James Dillingham Young was away now, hard at work in a textile plant across town. Whenever a child laborer got their fingers mangled in the razor-sharp, unregulated machinery it was his job to wipe away the soft tissue and mop up the peasant blood before it stained the product. James had been thrilled when his supervisor announced the implementation of "employee discounts" to everyone in the factory. He hadn't realized that what they had meant was they wanted their employees at a discount, and his wages were cut by $10 a week (approximately $1000000000 in future people money).
Della began to feel anemic from blood loss and decided that now was not the day to be found cold and covered with flies after James' 16-hour shift. It was so close to Christmas, after all. She rose and stood by the window. Every day, the view was the same. Each surface gritty with industrial waste, stray cats fighting and breeding endlessly. Maybe a dead hobo in the yard, stray cats fighting and eating him endlessly.
Tomorrow was Christmas, and Della had only $1.87 to purchase her husband a gift. For months she had wandered around town scouring the sidewalks and flinging herself into wishing wells, and this was all she had to show for it. Only a $1.87 for Jim, who had never asked her to be both barefoot and pregnant. Just the first one, because broads are always wasting money on shoes. Am I right?
Della stepped back from the window until she could see her reflection in it. With a flourish and a shower of swollen parasites, Della allowed her hair to cascade freely over her shoulders.
Poverty didn't allow for many precious possessions, but Della had always cherished her hair. Its gorgeous length flowed like gossamer, and was the envy of all who were fortunate enough to see it. Jim had a treasure as well. The heirloom pocket watch never left his side. He never failed to gently polish it with a clean-ish rag every Sunday evening, whether it needed it or not. Secretly, Jim enjoyed the jealous eyes that fell on him whenever he pretended to check the time; allowing the golden device to catch the light. That the jealous eyes usually belonged to starving child laborers wasn't enough to diminish his love for the trinket.
Della pulled her hair up again quickly before the temptation to change her mind overwhelmed her conviction. She threw on a jacket and left in a hurry. Della walked with a purpose until she stood before a sign that read: "Ooooh Gurl! Weaves and More!" The shop was atop a narrow flight of stairs that Della climbed with labored, trembling steps. Pausing to collect herself, she closed her eyes and opened the door. A woman with her hair elaborately done up like a large Christmas bow looked up at Della and openly appraised her worn clothing with a cynical stare.
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I dunno. Maybe," the woman replied without much enthusiasm. "Let's see what you've got."
Her hair rippled down a final time.
"Twenty bucks, I guess," the woman muttered, rising to collect her instruments.
"Give it to me quick," said Della."
The stylist laughed. "Girl, if I had a dime for every time I--"
"No!" Della interrupted. "Sorry, just--Can we do this already?"
For as long as it takes to grow hair as fine as Della's, it took only seconds for it to be cut cruelly away. The swaying weight of it was gone, making the muscles in her neck feel strange.
As heavy as Della's heart was over the loss of her hair, the money in her pocket made her feel light and free. She moved from store to store, searching for the ideal gift for Jim.
She found it at last in Henry's Cash 4 Gold Mart. Lying in a display on a bed of purple velvet was a platinum watch chain. Just like Jim's golden watch, it was simple and understated. The substance that made it precious was enough to convince anyone of its value, especially if it caught the light just so. After parting with $21 (approximately $532934 in future people money), Della walked home as fast as she could without drawing attention. She felt like a stagecoach driver moving a bank's strongbox through the territory of highwaymen.
Once through the door, Della's adrenaline high faded and she regained her wits. Though she had obtained the perfect gift, the price she had paid was high. Something had to be done about what remained of her hair before Jim returned home. Grasping a can of grease drippings in a fit of inspiration, she went to her bedroom mirror to begin the sad task of repairing her butchered scalp. Forty minutes later, her hands sticky with grease, she decided that there was nothing more that could be done.
"God, I look like frigging Peter Pan over here," Della muttered.
At 7 o'clock, coffee was beginning to percolate next to the pan that was currently frying the rat steaks. Jim always arrived home promptly, and it was prudent for Della to make it seem as though she hadn't neglected her rightful place in the kitchen (haw, old timey people).
Della sat at the table and cradled the watch chain in her hand. As the unmistakable thud of his boot striking the first stair sounded, her beating heart began to answer in kind. Her eyes did not blink as she watched the door and listened to his approach.
"Please God, let him still find me pretty," she whispered. "People still like Ellen Degeneres, right? That's something!"
This did little to comfort her, for she didn't quite know who Ellen Degeneres was.
The door opened, and Jim stepped in. He was thin and serious, his apron smeared with orphan chunks. It had clearly been a hard day.
Jim froze in the doorway and stared at Della, frozen as though she were Medusa. With a shout, his trance was broken and he stumbled back against the door.
"Dear God, Della! Call the constable!" he cried. "We're being burgled by a lesbian biker!"
"Jim, darling!" she sobbed, rising from her seat. "I had my hair cut off and sold! I couldn't live through Christmas without giving you the gift that you deserve! My hair--my hair grows very fast! It will be at pixie-cut levels in no time!"
"You've cut off your hair?" Jim muttered. His voice was low and empty of emotion like the bloody, naked ghost that leaned over their bed and whispered about what he had done in Hell that day while they were trying to sleep.
"And I sold it," Della continued. "I think we have a paper bag in the cupboard. If you'll just let me cut eye holes you don't--"
"You said that your hair was gone?" he rasped.
"Yes!" she replied, trying to remember everything she had read about aneurysms. "And I did it for you! I know you'll love your gift! Please stop forcing blood into your face."
Jim flung himself against Della and held her to his chest, sobbing. A hideous feeling of foreboding clouded Della's soul, and soon she was weeping as well. Suddenly, Jim pulled away and slammed a package on the table. An assortment of combs clattered out onto the table, the very ones that she had fawned over in the storefront window for ages. Of course, she had always known that the beautiful things were far beyond their financial reach. Unless...
"Oh God, Jim. You sold it, didn't you?" she shouted, balling her fists in front of her pale face. The chain felt like it was burning into her palms.
"Yes, the watch. I did it for you, and I'd do it again a thousand times over. Oh, if I had only known that fate would play such a cruel trick on us!" Jim lamented.
"The cruelty is greater than you know," Della gasped, holding her open palm out to Jim. The chain seemed dull in the gloomy kitchen. All the promise that it had held was torn away.
"Oh God! It's perfect! But you!" Jim screamed, his finger thrust at the sky. "You couldn't let us have this moment, could you? What did we do to you? Was it the baby? I just know it was the baby!"
Della rushed forward and grasped his shoulders. "No, it wasn't! You couldn't have known! You're not responsible!"
"Apparently I've been found guilty by the Judge of Heaven!" Jim cried. "'Drop it off at the fire station,' they said! 'It's completely legal," they said! But they never told you where in the fire station to place it! And the rubbish bin was a warm enough place. Someone was sure to take out the garbage in a matter of minutes and discover the wriggling bundle there! How was I to know about mechanical compactors? Who knew such a damned thing existed at this point in history?"
Della pressed her face to his chest. Her hair stabbed into his jaw while they cried together in a state of hysterical misery.
"What shall we do, Jim? What can we do?"
For a time, Jim did not answer. His breathing became slow and even. Della could feel his mind arriving at an inescapable conclusion.
"I know of a bridge," Jim began. "It is high, and this time of year the water is cold enough to stop a heart in mid-beat."
"Let's go, darling!" Della implored. "Right now! Together!"
"Yes, Della. Today we escape this torment forever!" Jim returned. In spite of everything, he began to smile. Then he laughed.
Della, grinning too, began to pull him towards the front door. "Freedom, Jim! Isn't that the greatest gift of all? Oh, I hope the ice is as deadly as you say!"
"I hope it is twice as fatal for you, my dear! But let us not forget to burn this place before we depart! Burn it right down to its odd-smelling foundation!"
Della seized a lamp and began to slosh the oil across the kitchen, laughing all the while.
"Cleansing fire!" she shouted. "Let this Hell we occupy better represent the Hell that lies in wait for us!"
"Yes!" Jim cheered! "Burn it all, and then we shall gladly dash into the Devil's arms!"
The magi, as you know, were terribly misinformed men. They brought things like frankincense and myrrh to a newborn baby, after all. What, exactly, is a newborn baby going to do with potpourri? Is it even safe for them to breathe in all those vapors and crap, because I know it isn't cool to burn incense right next to a frigging kid that's just a few hours old.
Anyway, when the magi found out their mistake, the exchange of gifts was terribly awkward (although not as bad as the little drummer boy that gave a SLEEPING BABY a drum solo). As the tales of that child's incredible acts began to spread, the magi were reminded again and again of their failure. Finally, the burden of it grew too heavy. All three flung themselves from the summit of the highest temple. And though they were oppressed by the cruel memory of that night around the manger, they did not have to escape the tyranny of a squandered life alone. Sometimes, the greatest ambition a man can entertain is to find someone willing to help them step off that high ledge.
Jim and Della, just like the magi before them, achieved this noble goal.
26 Dec 2013, 5:32 pm
