christmas eve eve

So this time, I’m at the bookstore to Christmas shop. And for pity’s sake, it’s today, Christmas Eve Eve, yet, apparently, I engage in this activity without any nod to reality or consequences or the fact that other people actually exist.

Within 10 minutes, however, I behold the snaking line — 5,000 selfish shoppers deep — and retreat, hyperventilating, to the refuge of the store cafe, with a small coffee and a Real Simple magazine. I’m always drawn to this magazine with the condescending name, hoping against hope every time that I will suddenly find that everything IS real simple after all. But, obviously, Real Simple has never been to this particular bookstore on Christmas Eve Eve. So, you know, do shut up, Real Simple.

Next to me, at a larger table, sits a little man with slick dark hair. His tucked-in shirt is red, his belted jeans are “mom,” his tennis shoes and socks are black. When I glance down, I can see his black socks peeking beneath his mom jeans with large red letters proclaiming USA! His companion, an older woman, sits across from him, wearing huge googly glasses. His mom, perhaps? I don’t know. She quietly reads a Gourmet magazine while he noisily spars with the latest edition of Hello! I’m not kidding. He doesn’t just read it; he attacks it, debates it. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him zip through it, turning pages with a wild fling of his arm. Sometimes he stops and thumps the page in dismay, barking to the woman in a foreign guttural tongue. Enraged by the latest photos of Brangelina’s brood? Driven mad by Britney’s shenanigans? Who knows? He looks so mild-mannered, a Turkish Bruce Banner maybe, but I fear his Hello! magazine is pushing him to some horrible Hulking brink. With each outburst, the woman across from him murmurs shhhh …. shhhhhh … soothing him like a colicky baby until he quiets down again.

For maybe thirty minutes, while Real Simple compares olive oils for me, this is the routine: the thumping uproar, the growling upset, the soft shushing. Shhh ….. shhhhhh. They seem accustomed to this procedure, as if it’s some strange companionable groove they’ve carved out over the years.

Thump …. grrrrr …. rrrr ………. shhhh …… shhhhhhhh ….

I never look at him directly, just sideways, but I can see that when he’s done with one magazine, he slams it shut and shoves it to the side to make room for the next one. I have to admire him, really. He’s fully present, fully engaged, doing his thing his way, in his own little world. Nothing and no one else exists for him, it seems. Just those magazines with all those vexing people inside. Each time he’s shushed, even, he responds to the sound, but not to her.

Finally, done with all his magazines, he jumps up and rumbles at her until she gets up, too. As he tromps past me toward the door, I hear him grumble behind me, quick and low, “Merry Christmas!”

And, I don’t know why, really, but I begin to cry.