Just What I Wanted

(Looking at something she’s holding in her hands.) 

Thank you, it’s just what I wanted. Thank you so much! 

(She adds an enthusiastic but brief hug to the exclamation point.)

Really? Are you telling the truth or just trying to make me feel good? I mean, it’s not necessary. It won’t hurt my feelings, you know. It’s always better for friends to be honest with each other.

Oh, it’s the truth. How did you guess what I wanted? I never told you. And this is perfect. You are so perceptive. Nobody in the world could have guessed what it was - except you.

Well… it really wasn’t all that hard to figure out, you know. You’re easy to figure out, in fact. In my opinion, that is.

What do you mean easy? I never said anything that could have given you a hint, I’m sure of that. What makes you so sure you can read my mind?

Well, that’s not exactly true about your keeping it a secret. You did drop hints about it occasionally. Didn’t you know that? Maybe you did it unconsciously.

I did? I must have. Because I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.

Yes, you clearly did. You thought I wouldn’t pick up on it, though.

I think you’re making it up. I did no such thing. I…

STOP ALREADY! 

A figure in the corner in a very dark overcoat shrugs its (his) (her) shoulders and lowers its head to avoid eye contact. Still, the order for us to stop talking is not a timid one. The voice means business. We decide to be moderately prudent.

We stop talking about our own business. We want to know who’s giving us orders like that, though. We need some identification here, so we have to ask the unfamiliar figure, male or female, who’s making us uncomfortable. It’s pretty bad, what’s happening to society. The figure of this strange isn’t seen a pitiful or confused, but as a potential shooter. Still, we needed to know, and politely insisted:

Who are you? We didn’t hear you come in. We have a right to talk. This is a public space.

I CANNOT HANDLE YOUR JABBERING ALL THE WAY TO THE NEXT CITY. IT’S MY PUBLIC SPACE, TOO. IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP, YOU’LL BE SORRY…

(At this point the two women opt to change to another train car. That way they can continue talking. Pick your battles, right?)

So what do you mean I dropped hints? What kind of hints? That wouldn’t be appropriate. I never have done that. It sounds like like I was trying to get you to give me a present. Trick you.

No, it wasn’t like that. I just felt like doing it. A special occasion thing, you know. We’re friends, after all. Do I need any other reason? I don’t have a better justification, I’m afraid. No ulterior motive.

I wasn’t accusing you of having an ulterior motive, silly.

Well, I certainly hope not.

And it really was sweet of you. Thoughtful. Very thoughtful. By that I mean that I know a lot of thought went into the gift.

Thanks. So one question I have now is: Is my present really just what you wanted or are you just being polite because you’re a naturally polite person?

Is that all you want to know? Polite persons can say negative things; they just need to say them in the proper manner. I do not have anything negative at all to say. There’s no cover-up here, my dear.

Well, now I have another question: Why do you really like it? 

(Feeling guilty that this conversation was beginning to sound like an interview for a magazine article. Because it was. Dragging responses out of her friend instead of just talking to one another. A few simple words.)

(She is looking at what the other person is holding in her hands. She looks uncertain still if the recipient of the gift is being truly honest about liking the gift.) 

She waits for an answer. She is patient, and it comes.

The answer to your first question is that I like it because it’s very personal. It’s something I’m sure I can use and enjoy. I really needed something like it. I’ll say it again: you really pay attention to details…

Thank you. I was trying to do my best, plus since you’re my friend and it was for you… It had to be special. Not something from one of the big box stores or made in a sweatshop. I know you have values… you also like things that are one-of-a-kind, not a carbon copy of six billion other other stuffed Mickey and Minnie Mouse figures.

Well, you certainly hit the creative thinking nail on the head. My gift is simple, but it’s so unique. It talks, or at least it seems to generate lots of words in its vicinity. Like moths fluttering about, looking for light. Or fireflies, who provide their own light, but that’s fine.

I’m truly flattered. You’re sure you don’t mind my asking you all these questions?

(There it goes again. Journalism mode. And I’m not even a journalist! Not really.)

And the honest answer to your second question is that I haven’t the faintest idea what I can actually do with it. I’ve never been given anything like this before and it’ll be a challenge to figure it out. Guess you’ll help me, right? After all, you gave this to me…

And this, after all, was just what they wanted: conversation. Not one they read on a screen or held or by means of a fiber optic high speed line. Real time. In person. 

The result was a conversation that lasted hours, took many turns, flipped upside down a couple of times, turned many different blending colors (like those in a lava lamp), got cold and hot, went inside and out, used a lot of prepositions…, balked more than once, but more than anything was punctuated by laughter, the kind of laughter we all need in our lives from time to time. The kind that lives in us forever.

Remember the time…?

I know how scared I was to go through that scanner thing where they lock you and then tell you not to move while you’re in that ghastly tunnel so they can look inside you to see what’s ailing you. Walls too close for comfort.

It was to be expected. Those contraptions are like caskets. MRI sounds all right until they insert you in one of those. I feel the same way.

You’re right. Nobody likes being cooped up like that. Nobody. Except maybe those anchorite people.

Oh, they give me the creeps, the poor things. Clearly they aren’t claustrophobic and the time spent on housecleaning must be minimal.

(They are both getting silly now. Laughter is contagious. )

(The reminiscing appears to have no end in sight. The tales spin thicknesses that correspond to the thickness of the details they retain between them.)

Remember the day it rained so hard and we were sure we saw Noah’s Ark, all the animals locked inside?

Oh yes. I remember we felt really bad about the animals being squeezed in so tight. Later we would learn that people crossed oceans in extremely cramped quarters. We were angry then. Angry now. Maybe that’s why we’re both activists for different causes…

Remember the night we took flashlights and went to explore an old house where nobody lived? We went into the basement where you could hardly stand up straight and into the attic, which was more like a crawl space.

Yes. It would have been more of an adventure if we hadn’t dropped one of the flashlights into some dark hole in the attic wall while trying to see if there was a skeleton hidden there.

Haha! We certainly were odd kids.

Remember the year it snowed three feet in three hours, then kept on snowing? We all felt we had incurable cases of cabin fever. Locked in our cold, white spaces, cloistered.

Remember my bedroom in one apartment? Like a box, it was so small. 

But you already had a nun complex, so small shouldn’t have mattered. Right?

You’re hysterical! 

If you think I’m hysterical, get this: A guy found out how OCD his mother had become when he went to help her clean out her basement. Donate. Toss. Things like that. The basement light revealed many square feet of perfectly-stacked boxes, each with a label that was more than a label… oh, shades of Edgar Allan Poe!… 

Every box had note - brief, but informative - of any time his mother had gone to a box to search for something. Dates, time of day, reason for looking in box. She was in essence creating a visual diary on the sides of the boxes. How could that ever be preserved, short of forever leaving the boxes where they were? Documentation of rate of memory loss. Essential. Sad.

Non sequitur: I just recalled the time I got trapped in an elevator. Yes, the old movie scene of elevator-gone-wrong. Meant to be perfect for a love scene. I only ended up with an extreme case of claustrophobia. My meds for panic attacks were in my car. The cubicle only began to descend when I was seconds away from suicide by staring myself to death in the metal walls…

Suicide by staring at your reflection? Really?

Guess I was reaching a bit there…?

Conclusion (for those of you who are still hoping to hear what the gift was):

Next time you need to give someone, a friend, a gift, consider your options. Do the right thing. Do something unique. Do something that will take time for you to enjoy - both of you. Together.

Do something environmentally friendly, safe for the planet. 

Take a box. Size does not matter, not in this case. It would be nice if the box is presentable. You can certainly modify its appearance if you feel the need. Decorate it with remnants of your prints, paint it, collage it. None of this adornment is necessary, but just think about whether you want it to be your friend’s favorite color or not.

You may want the box to have a lid. That is up to you.

You may wish to wrap the box, but try to avoid wrapping it in anything that’s not eco-friendly.

Once the box has been received, be ready to initiate a conversation around - around? - it. The best way is to ask ‘Remember the day (month, summer, etc.) we did such and such?’ ‘Remember that funny restaurant where…?’ ‘Remember the teacher who…?’ Easy enough and you’ll have your own memories to draw on.

Another option is to come up with references to four walls, places that feel like cells, boats adrift, crowded places, locked doors without keys. Things like that. Keep it light, if possible. Sad childhood memories are simply not good taste when giving the box as a gift.

Because it’s obvious, I’m sure, that the best gift is not the thing that adds to the things in the world, which means landfills overflowing, land and water contaminated. Things that, if extremely special, never get used or seen. Ghosts of themselves, sad even in their unused beauty. Or because of it.

The box you give shows you its emptiness. Shows its recipient the same thing. Looks at you both in its minimalist way and begs you, prompts you - like a creative writing professor - to put something in it, on it, around it, above it… and anywhere else you choose. It is a prompt - and a prop - to conversation. It will sit back and let you do the work of the conversation, but you won’t mind. 

The point here, and this brings us to the conclusion, is that a box, a simple box of unspecified size or appearance, can generate, then hold, unlimited numbers of memories, likes and dislikes, fears and joys, plus a whole other assortment of stuff.

A box is a beautiful thing. Don’t ruin it by putting anything in it. Leave room for what comes after it’s on display. Pandora might have had an unpleasant experience because of what happened when she opened the box. The world suffered for her inability to contain her curiosity. That was entirely different. Every person who receives your box will tell you, and mean it:

This is just what I wanted. It really is. Thank you for being so thoughtful.