The Twist
November/December by David Feela
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" Unknown to the wife, the husband sells his prized watch to buy her a set of combs for her long beautiful hair. It's really a story about love and the awkwardness that flourishes when our desire to surprise each other overwhelms our need to communicate. " |
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O'Henry published a short story in 1906 titled "The Gift of the Magi" about a couple that scrimped and saved to buy each other the perfect Christmas gift. The story's end demonstrates O'Henry's usual flare for a dramatic twist, because the woman cuts and sells her hair to buy a fob chain for her love's pocket watch. Unknown to the wife, the husband sells his prized watch to buy her a set of combs for her long beautiful hair. It's really a story about love and the awkwardness that flourishes when our desire to surprise each other overwhelms our need to communicate. It's also important to understand that at the turn of the 20th century, when this story took place, that standard retail exchange and return policies did not exist, with or without a receipt.
I have a similar story to tell that takes place in the Southwest, and while it's still about love, it lacks the innocence of O'Henry's classic tale. Pam bought me a special gift: A small writing desk that would fit in our living room near the propane stove. I own two other desks, situated in my study, but in the winter it gets cold at that end of the house. She wanted to buy me this gift because I love words and writing is close to my heart.
Unlike the woman in the story, she told me what she intended to buy, even going so far as to show me on the Internet some desks that were priced within our budget. Which desk did I prefer? she wanted to know. I looked over her shoulder and nodded, but in the end I said, No, thank you very much, I could get along just fine with the desks in the writing room where the cold weather temperature never gets above 62 degrees. Good writing is born of suffering, I said. She sighed.
I wanted to replace a cashmere sweater, the one she bought from a local thrift store a few months before Christmas. She loved it, because it was warm and exquisitely soft. She'd never owned cashmere. Sadly, the sweater had very tiny moth holes across the back, which were not obvious until she wore it. I asked her if she'd like a new sweater, but she explained how new cashmere is ridiculously overpriced. She'd rather throw the defective sweater away and find something more conventional in cotton or wool. I believed her. She's a woman of passion and conviction. I knew she'd not spend our money on foolish fashion.
How the story managed to take its O'Henry twist is difficult to say. You see, on second thought I decided the desk would be nice, so I ordered one of those discounted products made of pressed sawdust from the jungles of industrial China off the Internet site we'd scouted. I even told Pam that I decided to order it, and she smiled, said she was glad. Then, to further complicate the plot, that evening I talked with my brother on the phone and he asked if I had any ideas about what Pam might like for Christmas. I mentioned the demise of her cashmere sweater, copied its size surreptitiously off the tag in the rag bag where it ended up, and speculated on the color, a kind of burnt orange. He thanked me for the idea. I smiled.
When the desk arrived, I unpacked the box, got my screwdriver and hex wrench (the only two tools required for assembly) and went to work, erecting my ivory tower. I had to drill a pilot hole where the Chinese had missed one, but overall it assembled nicely and I had a new desk to work at in the tropical climate of our living room. It was almost perfect, except for one detail: I couldn't get my knees under it. I had carefully measured the space in the living room before ordering it, but only the distance between the propane stove and the wall. It would fit, I remember telling myself, with a few inches to spare. What I hadn't checked was if I would fit.
When the cashmere sweater arrived, wrapped beautifully in a box with a bright ribbon, I put it under the desk with all the other presents. You see, I had decided to decorate the desk with lights, since it was rather pointless as a desk. On Christmas Eve, Pam unwrapped her present and her eyes grew wide as she held up what could have doubled for an extra-large, bright orange cashmere hunting vest. I covered my face to keep from laughing. She glanced at me with suspicion in her eyes.
Since then, the sweater has been returned and exchanged for a gift certificate, and the desk has been turned into a small but useful bookcase near the door. In our household we have resolved to give up trying to surprise each other. Personally, I am working on reducing the number of times I end up surprising myself.
David Feela, recently retired from the Montezuma-Cortez English Department, still receives complaints about his writing at the high school. Please address all correspondence to "Former Occupant," and include a red pen.