"For the "Dellas" of the World"

For the “Dellas” of the World

“A slow cooker?” “You bought me a slow cooker for Christmas?” The tone of those words would plague John right into New Year’s Day. He was positive that Denise wanted a slow cooker. She had seen it in Chef Central and kept telling him how she wanted to spend more time in the kitchen now that they were both retired. “You know, doing wifely duties,” she smirked. As they cruised the store three weeks before Christmas, this gave John plenty of time to save up for Denise’s dream cooker. After all, didn’t she deserve the best? It was a Cuisineart. Countertop perfect, programmable, stainless steel—all the features she had asked for just three weeks ago! It even matched all of the appliances in their kitchen. Yes, this was the perfect gift and no matter the cost, John would buy it. He would be Denise’s Merlin—steel in hand ready to transform her dull life into one of culinary notoriety. She would become Guinevere—hair flowing, arms winding around the savory pot roast with those red potatoes only she knew how to make for him. He just had to get this gift for his dear wife of twenty years. She deserved it and nothing, not even his recent layoff, would deter him from his conviction that perfection was almost within his grasp. He could feel the weight of the box. He could see the look of utter contentment on Denise’s face.

He arrived at the store a few days before Christmas but finding a parking spot would not be easy. The place was mobbed with last-minute shoppers. All those people who procrastinate hoping Christmas Day will somehow blend in with the rest of the week. He circled for twenty-five minutes and finally found a spot he could squeeze into right next to the city’s garbage dumpster. Now, opening his car door would be another issue. He managed to fit through the slit in his door but this maneuver cost him a shoe. Now with one foot protected from winter’s unrelenting presence and one foot dangling in the bitter wind, he managed to hop to the trunk for his broom to hook the shoe with the broom handle. He thought he had it all figured out. As usual, he didn’t. The broom handle trick failed miserably. In all the confusion, he had put the opposite end of the broom into the car, so now the dusty bristles only served to push the shoe around along the car mat. No problem. He would go into the store sans shoe. Who would notice? The parking lot was damp and cold but once he got himself inside the store, the floor tile actually felt comfortable. So his gait was a little off—so what? He was on a mission. Once he told Denise all the trouble he had gone through to get her gift, she would wrap him in her warm embrace and the smell of meat, onions, carrots and those succulent red potatoes all wafting from the slow cooker would soothe this beast. The store was having its red tag sale which meant that all the items tagged would be an additional twenty percent off the regular price. He was thrilled. It would mean he could buy a card, wrapping paper and a bow for this monstrous declaration of his undying love for his Denise. Grabbing the box with both hands, he made his way to the cashier for purchase. The people were lined up like endless railway cars he and his friends would count while they were playing treasure hunt on the tracks near his childhood home. He placed the box on the floor because it was cumbersome and pushed it along with his “good” foot. Now, people around him snickered and stared at him. “Look at the guy with one shoe,” they yelled. All eyes were on him. Was he homeless? Was he ill? Before he could explain his plight, security approached him and asked him to leave the store. “Not without my cooker?” he said. Some people thought they heard the word “hooker” and an uproar began. Mothers covered the ears of their children. Old ladies grimaced. Men looked around for the floozy. Thank goodness he was using his American Express card. Never leave home without it! He repeated “cooker” for the entire store to hear and everyone said “Oh.” Security backed off and allowed him to pay for the item and he left the store—once again hopping into the parking lot towards his car. There was another problem. He couldn’t place the cooker on any of the seats because all seats were covered with canned goods he was bringing to the local shelter. The trunk was already filled with last year’s camping equipment. Time to make that New Year’s resolution—clean out the trunk. No problem. The cooker could metamorphose into a Christmas tree and he could tie it to the hood of his car with twine. This he did. It worked perfectly until he hit a speed bump and the cooker went tumbling down into traffic on Central Avenue. With flailing hands, he waved everyone into another lane while he picked up the dented box and retied it. This time the twine held the cooker in place. He looked at his watch. He was already late for the shelter’s pickup. He was undefeated. There was time for one, last adventure. He made a U-turn and drove towards the shelter hoping that the twine would hold the cargo.

Once he arrived at the shelter, he brought all the canned goods inside. A hump-backed, elderly man was traveling up each aisle. He asked the cashier for something he could cook his Christmas dinner in. She showed him pots, pans, baking dishes and aluminum throw-a-ways. He wanted a crock pot or the “new invention” as he called it—a slow cooker. Everyone at Pecan Road Senior Citizen Center was talking about these cookers. John looked at the slow cooker sitting proudly on the roof of his car. He knew he couldn’t give him Della’s slow cooker, so he reached into his pocket and gave the man the change from the red tag sale plus an additional fifty dollars. Perhaps he could buy something with that. Maybe someone in his complex could show a senior citizen discount card or something. The man looked into John’s eyes and cried. John was a hero; he would get even more accolades from his darling wife on Christmas Day. She was a sucker for stories about the elderly.

There was no card, no wrapping paper. He used some crayons and paper to draw a manger and the words “To My Dearest, Sweetest Wife” at the top of the makeshift Hallmark. Thank goodness for heavy duty Reynolds Wrap. His treasure would glow brightly under the tree lights. With all the excitement of a little child, he brought out the box. As Denise looked quizzically at his patch work, she tore the paper off the box. He was speechless—she wasn’t. I believe in the Dellas of the world.