Since it’s the realm of sports that interests me most, this week’s events have provided plenty of fodder for an airing of my opinion on each topic. However, no one needs to tell you how stupid and selfish Carlos Dunlap of the University of Florida football squad is, by a getting a DUI five days prior to the team’s most important game of the season. I don’t need to share with you my frustration that had my services been retained to speak to the student-athletes on drunk and alcohol awareness at the university, perhaps Dunlap would have gained something from my experiences.
No one needs to tell you that contrary to popular belief, Tiger Woods does not owe anyone an explanation for anything. This notion, as perpetuated by the piranha-like, sensationalist media, is ludicrous. Had this unfortunate incident happened to any one of us, no one would give two shits. The public is not entitled to be privy to everything that happens in a celebrity’s life.
Lastly, if you even remotely follow college football, no one needs to tell you of the lasting legacy, the excellence as a coach, the fine moral fiber, and the rare undying loyalty Bobby Bowden has exhibited over his many years at Florida State University. That being said, let me move on to a subject that intrigues me no end, Black Friday. Not the one having to do with the stock market, but the one that has to do with the misplaced overemphasis placed on Christmas shopping.
As a kid, I loved to go Christmas shopping. I was given a nominal sum from both my parents, as well as my grandparents, to shop for everyone on my list. If I saw something extra special, I’d kick in some of my allowance that I had saved. One day was designated where my grandparents took me to buy my parents presents. My parents in turn, took me to buy everyone else. The Short Hills Mall-it wasn’t as exclusive then-was the first stop. Specialty items were purchased at Two Guys, or E.J. Korvettes, in order to stretch every penny. When I went with my maternal grandparents, B. Altman, Lord & Taylor, and Bamberger’s were our stops. Going to see Santa required a separate trip. Shopping was over, done, finis. When I obtained my driver’s license, the known world became my oyster.
By this time, malls dotted the landscape of North Jersey. No more sojourns to Newark, Manhattan wasn’t very economical on a teenager’s budget, though seeing the tree in Rockefeller Center was worth the trip. No, I was relegated to a life of shopping at the Livingston Mall, The Rockaway Townsquare Mall, and the Paramus Park Mall. Daryl Keitel, my one-time girlfriend, showed me the wonders of the Woodbridge Mall. A couple of years later the Bridgewater Mall was a stop on one of my many forays looking for that “perfect” gift. The internet changed all that.
When Cory and I moved to Florida, once again, one mall would be sufficient for all our Christmas shopping needs. Fortunately, the Pembroke Lakes Mall was merely a stone’s throw from where we lived. I hadn’t lived in Florida long enough to become adequately familiar with the shopping terrain to venture to the numerous other malls located in Broward, Dade, and Palm Beach counties. Besides, if the Pembroke Lakes Mall didn’t have what I wanted, it must not have been that important to get. I always had a soft spot for little out-of-the-way emporiums that, for some strange reason, always had precisely what I was looking for. Florida was devoid of these places, much to my chagrin. I was homesick for Christmas shopping in rural North Jersey.
Christmas shopping now became drudgery, as antiseptic as the malls themselves. Malls were a constant clusterfuck immediately after Thanksgiving. Florida had no snow, or freezing temperatures to make it feel enough like Christmas was in the air to tolerate the mall madness. I started shopping on-line. It became a personal goal to see if I could do all my Christmas shopping without ever having to leave my house. Screw reveling in the spirit of the season. To hell with shopping for the best price. The only evening ventures out would be to see the wonderful displays of Christmas lights that dotted every neighborhood; where each resident tried to outdo the other. Then I got married again.
My new wife Helen, shared my enthusiasm for playing my Christmas Rock N’Roll CDs, while we oooohed and ahhhhhed at the enormous light shows that gave every executive at Florida Power & Light an erection. She also introduced me to a new form of Christmas shopping that, to me, had been previously uncharted waters.
One year early in our marriage, on a whim, Helen suggested we go to K-Mart at midnight to fill in the voids on our Christmas gift list. I was wary to say the least. Why the hell would I want to go out at an hour when only the Christmas nuts were out? Helen assured me it would be fun. Guardedly, I went. It was a blast!
The store was nearly absent of any humanity aside from employees. We laughed, shopped unhurriedly, browsed just because we could. We sang along with the Christmas Songs being played over the PA system. Everyone we came in contact with was in splendid humor. Not a droll face among the K-Mart staff despite the lateness of the hour. I couldn’t wait to do it again. But, for some inexplicable reason, we never have. However, our under the cloak of darkness soiree has, in recent years, put on a new face.
A few years back, Helen had the brilliant idea to go Christmas shopping at three-thirty….AM. On Helen’s gift list was a new bicycle. Sports Authority would have a limited amount available for purchase, at some ungodly savings, some brand name-which I can no longer remember-high tech mountain bikes. We just had to be there when they opened Helen reasoned, if awakening at two-thirty to go shopping contained any semblance of reason. I silently thought my wife was under the influence of copious amounts of some sort of high potency prescription medication. Again, obdurately I went.
I need to explain Helen’s shopping habits here. She loves to window shop. She avoids congested shopping environments by being at stores when they open. She gets in, and gets out, by the time most individuals have finished brushing their teeth. No muss, no fuss, minimal brain damage. I assumed Helen used this sort of reasoning and applied to the early morning excursion. That, and she could save a shitload of money but demonstrating this sort of psychotic behavior.
In the dead of night we awoke, expediently dressed, for having showered the evening before. This first step threw my entire OCD ridden psyche out of whack. No newspaper to read, no crossword, no soaking the ache in my legs away. We were on a mission. We left the house at three-fifteen for a four AM opening. Believe or not, it happened to be very chilly that particular morning. I’d go as far as to say it was almost Christmassy if you know what I mean. Forty-nine degrees is rather nippy for South Florida, especially when you’d be standing line, yes, there was a fucking line. Not only was there a line, but several other assholes in that line were talking on their cellphones. Who the fuck do you talk to at that hour of the morning; I mean besides your analyst?
The closer to four AM, the crowd grew exponentially. However, no one was in danger of getting trampled, there were still no more than forty or fifty folks in line by the time the doors opened. We all went in an orderly fashion to the items we came seeking. Helen and I made our purchases in less than ten minutes. Off we went to other stores, in the dark, before sunrise, not after it had set. We duplicated this self-imposed madness last year, capping off our expedition with breakfast at IHOP; our shopping completed by seven-thirty, the sun had come up a mere hour prior. It was odd, but for a reason I couldn’t my finger on, I really enjoyed myself. So much so that we did again this year, only this year I figured out why I like getting up in the middle of the night to buy stuff.
About two weeks ago I started to pester Helen concerning our Black Friday shopping to be done in the black of early morn. She said that there was nothing anyone had requested that necessitated going out well before crack-o-dawn. I was truly disappointed. On Thanksgiving Day, Helen’s son, after much prodding, said he needed a couple of items the local sales fliers had on special one day only, Black Friday.
Like years past, we were up at three-fifteen, with the intention of being at our primary target store -Kohl’s- at four. This was the same store where we began our quest last year. It was located in a new strip mall, where it was the only store doing business. This year, the secret was out.
Instead of driving the deserted back roads to our destination; Christ, most roads are deserted at that hour; I preferred to drive the up main thoroughfare, home to every conceivable major store chain. I was not disappointed by my decision. The line to the front door of Best Buy snaked through the parking lot for nearly a quarter of a mile. I was glad we needed nothing there, “need” always being open to debate. The line had started to form in front of the local Target, shoppers readying themselves for a five AM assault. It was about this time it hit. Amid our giggles of laughter, I realized “people watching” was my favorite part of this form of shopping experience.
When Helen and I reached Kohl’s parking lot, we found the spaces were quickly filling up. The game was afoot! With Swiss watch-like precision, Helen and I went to our predetermined departments, snapped up what we came for, and checked out, making sure we made our sales clerk smile first, she had a long day ahead. I love that component almost as much as eyeballing the nudniks. At each store, Helen and I would engage any employee who assisted us. We greeted them with a smile and a kind word. Sometimes we empathized with their plight, but let them know we appreciated them being there for us. We’d sometimes make comments about the insanity that surrounded us, and with any luck, they’d let out the smallest of laughs one can only muster at that ungodly time of day. Me and my companion, taking pleasure in what formally to me, was an unpleasant endeavor; the opportunity to exude optimism at the event at hand, to share this optimism with another. Even in the darkest hours before dawn, isn’t that what the Christmas spirit is all about anyway?
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