Gift of the Year

“You pulled the arm off, bitch!” Liz screams full savage, putting every ounce of muscle and every string of tendon and ligament into the swinging arc of her fist. A pressure release pop beneath her knuckles of porcelain wresting from gum. The clinks of precious white China onto tile. Viscous streams of crimson follow, gloopier than she expected. The moment sears into Liz’s psyche joining her first period and her first orgasm and her first boyfriend, and now this, her first time punching a bitch’s teeth out.

The most desperate Moms take the biggest beatings. Rivulets of their blood Jackson Pollock into the remnants of their jagged-cracked white China scattered among the cherub arms and legs, fat, squishy torsos, and oversized, plastic heads.

For all their lack of pugilistic skills, these raging Momma bears with veins soaked in estrogen, the damage they nonetheless inflict would force a corner to throw in the towel. And a few do crawl away, begging for mercy. But most stay the duration, their impressive staminas heartened by ThighMasters and Jane Fonda Workout tapes.

Anything for their little Princesses back home.

These cul-de-sac dilettantes.

These phony Farrah Fawcetts.

These imitation Joan Jetts.

These artificial Strawberry Shortcakes.

This, the impromptu, melanin-free, suburban-wives fight club.

When the girls were in Home Economics learning to bake and sew and make good wives the boys were out behind woodshop learning to firecracker frogs and make proper fists, the thumb properly folded outside the balled fingers. These moms, having missed that fisting lesson, blindly windmill their arms, thumbs tucked improperly. Nutcracker snaps ensue.

An upper cut for little Amber. Pop!

A right hook for little Jenny. Crack!

Gusto making up for skill, as it will.

Cutex Perfect Color acrylic nails. Miniature blades in shades of fuchsia and violet Ginsu knifing cheeks and orbitals. Decorative artifice popcorning free like so many scattered rose petals, the real nail still attached. Raw, salmon nail beds percolating with fresh drops of renewed bloodletting.

An eye gouge for for little Christina.

A scratched cornea for little Sarah.

More paint for the canvas.

In the vice-grip of Liz’s toddler claim, possession and ownership being one and the same, the infant-sized prized doll splits and pulls, racked in torture. Threads and filling too feeble. Made in China no match for suburban Mommas on a Santa slug fest.

A humerus for little Becky.

A femur for little Jessica.

A torso for little Tiffany.

This toy department donnybrook a great class equalizer. Lawyers in gray button down power suits threatening illegal action. Doctors in white coats oathing most un-Hippocraticly. Liz, the dental hygienist chomping wayward digits, moisturized, manicured hands bearing the deep imprints of her canines and cuspids and molars. Kindergarten teachers cursing in Dr. Seuss rhymes.

A rich bitch gunt punt for little Stephanie.

An odd broad gash smash for little Melissa.

Releasing new stock to the barren shelf was chucking live chickens to an alligator pit. A few prized dolls escape in the grasp of fleet-footed ex-track stars, another trophy for their shelves. Another victory over the meek. The geeks. Jazz band and choir. Math club and drama. The remaining dolls end in pieces, their carcasses dismembered by the unrelenting clutches of progeny-pleasers.

And, just as fast and frenetic as a round of Hungry Hippos, the fracas is over. A mob of defeated Moms, sad in their collective loss, strew about, nursing black eyes and busted lips and bleeding ears. Moms cast beneath shelves like unwanted toys, fostering premonitions of disappointed daughters.

Melancholy for little Melissa.

Sorrow for little Susie.

Liz sits on the cold floor, leaned back against the edge of a shelf, knees pulled up, rocking in despair. Liz with the taste of copper in her mouth. Her wallet now empty, her last cash spent securing this lead. The last chance. Sure bet he had told her. Nobody knows they got a delivery. And yet, they had known. Descended on the store like emaciated hyenas. And now, without reward, Liz drowns in the reality of a Christmas morning just days away. Her daughter’s impending disappointment pressing into her chest, branding her heart. Scars on scars.

Liz at the next PTA meeting. The other Moms gloating over their successes. The other Moms with the better cars and bigger houses and more successful husbands. Liz with her 3-series BMW and her quaint house - oh how they loved to used that word. And Liz with her not-yet-a-partner, boring husband with her once-a-month missionary hump-and-roll-and-snore and Liz with her life wrapped up in her daughter’s happiness. Serving a hopeful proxy to Liz’s disappointing life.

There, wallowing in it all, Liz sits on the floor rocking, broken finger tapping at her bruised lip, the touch numb as Novocaine. A stranger’s finger. Thousand-yard stare. The feathers of her blond hair in disarray.

The stock boy peers over the top shelf. Long neck so his head hovers like it’s glued to a Popsicle stick. Dark hair. He psssts at Liz. Gives her the arched cartoon eyebrows. The stock boy nods at her. Come here the nod says.

Oblivious Liz.

Dejected Liz.

Busy foundering in her disappointment. Drowning in her sea of failure. Liz goes back to tapping at her busted lip with her broken finger. The numbness of adrenaline releasing, replaced by pain. The good kind of pain. The discomfort distracts her from the next Country Club mixer. The other moms bragging about how their daughters just adore their Cabbage Patch Kids. Liz, you got your daughter one right? No? Oh, that’s a shame. Liz with her 3-series car and her 3-series house and her 3-series life. Liz obsessed with giving her daughter more than a 3-series life.

The stock boy tries again.

Liz sighs. This fucking guy. Fuck off! She purses her lips, takes a deep breath, and looks over again. This time, the face peering at her from above the top shelf sports dimples on a cherubic face.

Adrenaline and blood and butterflies and exultation. Her jaw drops, mouth open, blood in the cracks of her teeth, big eyes, the taste of copper still fresh on her tongue. Her lips twist, cracking at the coagulating splits, into a grin. Liz clamps the tell, putting on her poker face. Purses her lips into whistle wrinkles. Bites her fat tongue, squeezing more copper.

The other women obliviously tend to their own ailments. Their bruises. Their fat lips. Their black eyes. Her fellow casualties. Nobody else had scooped the prize. Liz gains her feet, casually, using the shelf as a crutch. Hummingbird heart palpitating. She brushes the dust from her ass, and slowly, casually, inconspicuously follows the trail of the stock boy, through the double swung doors into the back room.

The stock boy wants cash for the prize. Liz’s thin billfold, barely a few singles, her plastic fat, but a Diners Club imprint won’t settle this bill. He sets off to find another buyer. Wait she grabs his wrist. She bites her lower lip, peers up at him with her blue eyes, pulls down on the neckline of her blouse.

The stock boys eyes go saucer big.

This offer better than cash.

He carries the doll at the end of a long arm, the box pinched between his fingers. The doll calls to her. Follow me. She trails to the dark recesses of the stock room, behind the racks, behind the shelving, hidden from view by stacks of boxes stamped with Hasbro and Lego and Mattel and Parker Brothers.

The stock boy turns, an eager grin on his face. Liz closes the distance, reaches out and rubs her hand over the bulging fabric. Up and down he moans already. She plucks a button. She tugs the zipper. Pulls his fly free. Pulls him free. He quivers. It doesn’t take long.

A blowy for little Brittany.

A hummer for little Heather.

Liz spits him on the stained concrete floor, grabs the doll, and spins her exit. Her triumph.

This Cabbage Patch Kid, The Gift of the Year, wrapped beneath her tree.

Her daughter’s joy.

Her husband’s ignorance.

Liz’s Merry Christmas.