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It was the final week before Christmas and time was running out. I started shopping. For five hours I did the Mall, sidestepping the slow-movers and ignoring those irritating bell ringers with their little red pots. I was totally focused. I didn’t even stop for a soft pretzel. Get in the store and head for the nearest sales rack. Yep, looks good. Slam the item down on the counter and hand over my credit card. One down and on to the next. I shop best under pressure. By the end of the afternoon I was down to my final purchase. Isotoner slippers for me. My feet hurt. I spied a checkout register with only one customer waiting - a man. Great! Take my advice - always get behind a man at the checkout. They don’t waste time by asking foolish questions of the clerk, "Do you think my daughter will like this?" and they don’t care if the item is on sale or not. They just want out. My kind of shopper. I stood at the checkout, hot, tired and irritable. The corded strings of the four enormous shopping bags I toted were threatening to cut off all circulation to the upper parts of my body. I could only hope that the person before me would complete his transaction before the numbness mounted to my head and I keeled over, right there at the J.C. Penney’s Accessories counter. The gentleman laid his purchase down. "And how will you be paying for this today, sir?" the salesgirl asked with the mechanical courtesy one encounters everywhere in this season to be jolly. "On my charge," he replied and handed the girl a credit card. As I waited, I took a last look around the store, mentally going through my checklist of Persons to Buy For. I had no intention of returning. I heard a giggle. Startled, I turned my attention back to the sales clerk. She was holding the customer’s credit card and staring at the signature. The giggle turned into a laugh and she called out, "Hey Connie! Come over here and take a look at this!" I looked inquiringly at the man in front of me. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Now both girls were laughing. "I can’t wait to tell the people in Shoes about this!" one of them said. "Would you mind my asking what the joke is?" I questioned the gentleman, curious to know what all the fuss was about. He smiled again. "My last name is Christmas," he explained. "I get this kind of reaction every year." "Oh." I dropped my bags, flexed my fingers to get the circulation going again and said, "Well, in that case, girls don’t step over to the Shoe Department just yet." I fished my wallet out of my purse, found my credit card and handed it to the sales clerk. "I’m charging my purchase, too." You see the last name on my credit card is Rudolph. What Are the Odds? was previously published as "Christmas Shopping" on the Ink Spot web site. |
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© 2000 by Laura Rudolph
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