They want to see the big tree, the lights. They want to stand in an endless line to skate in Rockefeller Center and take a picture with Santa at Macy’s in Herald Square. They want to watch the fucking Rockettes and eat a family dinner at a restaurant whose menu has been price-gouged to the gills.
You can forget about getting a cab—they’re all taken. And even walking down the sidewalk is an exercise in frustration, because every few feet a stroller-pushing, shopping-bag-carrying tourist will come to a complete frigging stop right in front of you to take a picture of the red-and-green-lit Empire State Building.
You think I sound pissed off? How very perceptive of you. The Christmas spirit and me? We’re not friends. Ebenezer Scrooge had the right idea: bah fucking humbug.
The reason for my current antiholiday rant is because I’m in line—the same line I’ve been in for forty-five minutes—trying to buy a last-minute gift for my perfect wife.
Please, take my money and just let me fucking leave.
When it comes to gifts, I’m usually way ahead; eleventh-hour purchases aren’t my style. But walking past Saks Fifth Avenue, I saw a pair of Valentino crystal and silk heels that would look amazing on Kate. She’ll enjoy wearing them, and I will definitely enjoy watching her wear them—especially naked—so it’s a win-win.
Except for the line.
I’m not used to waiting in lines. I’m used to personal shoppers and commission-seeking salespeople vying for my attention with phrases like, “Can I hold that for you, Mr. Evans?” “We have that in four other colors, Mr. Evans.” “Would you like that wrapped, Mr. Evans?”
But this is Christmas Eve. Which means stores don’t give a crap about the quality of the shopping experience. It’s all about quantity—getting as many shoppers through their doors as possible before closing time. Which brings me to my next point:
Most people in the world today are fucking idiots.
Don’t laugh—you may be one of the walking stupid and just not know it. But it’s true. Say what you want about income inequality or the inferior public school system—the harsh truth is, the majority of the population is simply not intelligent. And even more suck at their job. They don’t give a rat’s ass about doing it well or longevity; they’re only interested in performing the minimum required to get a check.
And there’s no better example of that than the temporary holiday employee.
Companies don’t hire them because of their skill or what they may contribute to the work force. They’re hired because they have a pulse. Spare bodies, decked out in holiday ensembles, whose main purpose is to corral consumers the same way a fence encages cattle. And they’re equally as helpful.
The twentysomething blonde behind the register is one such employee. You can tell by the slow, cautious way she pecks at the keys and her confused expression if someone—God forbid—asks her where an item can be found. She’s the reason for the sick amount of time I’ve wasted waiting to buy these shoes.
The good news is, I’m about to cross the finish line. I step up, with only one more customer left in front of me—a tall, regal-looking older lady in a pricey red coat and genuine pearl earrings. I take out my wallet so I can pay as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.
See the blazing yule before us,
Fa la la la la la, la la la la.
Strike the harp and join the chorus,
Fa la la la la, la la la la
But my hope of an imminent escape is crushed when the blond temp rings up the purple Burberry of London tie and tells the old lady, “That will be one hundred and ninety-five dollars and thirty cents.”
Pearl Earrings looks offended. “That can’t be correct. This tie is on sale for one hundred and fifty dollars—not one eighty.”
A panicked expression swamps the blonde’s face. She taps a few buttons on the register and swipes the tie’s bar code with the red laser beam. “It’s ringing up at one hundred and eighty. Plus tax.”
I push a hand through my dark hair and listen for the predictable old woman response.
“That’s false advertising! I refuse to pay a penny over one fifty.”
The hopeless temp looks around for assistance, but there’s none to be found. So, like the knight in shining armor I am, I come to her rescue.
“Why don’t you do a manual override?”
Her eyes gaze at me without a clue. “A what?”
I gesture to the register. “It’s a computer—it has to do what you tell it to. Override the price and put it in as one fifty.”
She gulps. “I . . . I don’t know how to do that.”
Of course she doesn’t.
“I’m going to have to find my manager.”
No. No way I’m gonna stand here twiddling my thumbs for another twenty frigging minutes. And I refuse to walk out, either—too much of my precious time is already invested in these shoes.
Despite the frustration churning in my gut, I shift my attention to the pearl-wearing red coat and turn on the charm that—even with a ring on my finger—women of all ages are still helpless to resist. “Last-minute Christmas shopping?”
She nods. “That’s right, for my husband.”