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The Gift
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The Velvet Underground
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Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had
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been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had
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to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone
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calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to
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Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would
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date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.
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But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when
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he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning
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underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he
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pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of
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some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.
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It was more than the human mind could bear.
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Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual
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abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how
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she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped
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every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and
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he wasn't there (Awww...).
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The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled
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to appear. He'd just finished mowing and etching the Edelsons lawn for a dollar
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fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from
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Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company
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of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.
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It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck
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him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
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true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself
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parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to
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purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a
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medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that
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with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes,
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some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as
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going tourist.
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By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post
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office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package
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"Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber
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cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and
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happiness on Marsha's face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the
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deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She
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would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of
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this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne
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up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
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Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough
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weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about
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it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all,
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it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he
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did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what
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Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.
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Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen
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door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I
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know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton
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robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on
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the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be
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taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like
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throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd
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seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the
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table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue
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vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to
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touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."
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She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the
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telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on
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a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I
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know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place."
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She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a
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while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't
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really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know
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what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over
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her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here
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she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.
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It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang
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the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson
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opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his
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green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had
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gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you
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think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back.
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She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living
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room. "I dunno."
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Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the
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muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down
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the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who
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it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the
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vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
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Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god,
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it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation.
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"Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the
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staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut."
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They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this
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thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still,
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breathing heavily.
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"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but
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all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her
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father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when
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she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter
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in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath.
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"Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and
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exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the
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end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough
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room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling,
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"I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her
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finger to her head.
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Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could
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barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his
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heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and
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walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her
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knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the
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long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through
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the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of
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Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red
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to pulsate gently in the morning sun.
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