PRESENT TENSE

"Surrender to the Flow" by Kelly Saunders Art.

Let me confess—I have a particular idiosyncrasy that sets me apart from most “normal” people: I despise getting presents.

There is something nerve-wracking and even terrifyingly uncomfortable about being on the receiving end of a wrapped gift, unsolicited exclusive offer, or anything else that I clearly did not want nor expect.

And where did this neurosis originate? Let me take a deep breath. Back when I was a kid, there was a boy in my elementary class, Jeffrey Ortenberg, who was what I’d call a hybrid bully—somebody who loved causing me grief by constantly picking on me, never hesitating to trip me as I walked down a hallway, unashamedly grabbing snacks out of my backpack, throwing disgusting spit wads at the back of my head in class, and much more. But he had a certain talent: at any moment, he could seamlessly transform his sinister look into a macabre smile with syrupy demeanor. . . when he wanted something.

For “show and tell,” I brought my favorite plastic model car to school. It was a ’57 Chevy with oversized wheels, tall supercharger intakes jutting up through the hood, garish decals, and more. I had stumbled upon it at a neighborhood garage sale and was surprised that it was still new and shrink-wrapped in the original box. The model was part of the “Weird-Ohs”—an apt-titled collection of monster car concepts on steroids. The line was a big hit in the 1960s and featured ghoulish surfers, beatniks, and unforgettable creatures; it even inspired Pearl Jam’s “Gremmie Out of Control.” Though my model car was full of glue marks and paint smears, I was super proud of it because I had put it together without anyone’s help.

Ortenberg kept eyeing my model car and me throughout class and finally approached as I was leaving to go home. He went on and on explaining how much he liked it and would do anything to get it as a gift. I must have stared at him for a long time. I wanted to say no, that I was able to see through his act, but I knew better. Then came my pathetic proposal: in exchange for the model, would he promise to stop picking on me? He smiled that familiar phony smile and even swore that he would become my absolute, unequivocal best friend for life. After a deep breath, I sadly handed over my beloved model realizing deep down that I would never see it again. And, as far as his sworn promise. . . well, we all know how that turned out.

In the years since, I just can’t stop questioning every time someone gives me something I did not expect. I assume, right or wrong, that the giver has the same agenda, the same quid pro quo desire that I had all those years ago. But I can provide a semblance of justification.

Consider the ancient Egyptians. For centuries, Pharaohs would routinely accept gifts from conquered peoples, tortured souls, heads-of-state, and even slaves. And what did all these gift bearers expect in return? Blessings at the worst, their very lives at the best.

France presented the U.S. with a special gift: the Statue of Liberty. Why? They claimed it represented their ultimate display of friendship. Perhaps they wanted more. . . like addicting us to French fries, French perfume or, I don’t know. . . maybe even French kissing.

Recently, a foreign nation offered the U.S. the gift of a new Boeing 747 to replace the aging Air Force One. We can only guess what they may want in return.

It should be no surprise that my history with “free gifts” and “free offers” has only added to my overall angst. I can only think back on catastrophic disappointment and endless heartbreak when I accepted the gift of a so-called cash rebate bank account. . . the alleged free golf trip. . . the free gift gourmet dining experience. . . a custom-designed suit. . . and even the gift of a free toilet.

This all came to a horrific conclusion not long ago. I was having coffee at my favorite fast-food joint when a highly energetic 7-year-old boy dragged his mother over to my table. The mother announced that her son wanted to give me something. I swallowed hard and turned to the boy who was smiling. He handed me the toy that came inside his meal box.

I glanced nervously at the mother, then the smiling boy and back again. Why did he want to give this to me? What was the reason? Why me?

The boy, sensing my irritation, stopped smiling and haphazardly explained that this toy was a duplicate; he already had one at home and innocently thought I should have this.

I turned to the mother and asked her what the boy wanted in return. Her face showed a glimpse of irritation before she answered. “How about a little gratitude,” she uttered. And with that, the two walked out.

I felt a sudden rush of shame and embarrassment. I looked at the toy and realized that I had clearly taken all this way too far, for far too long. It was time to finally stop. I had the terrible thought that because of my reaction that innocent kid could grow up to be like me or even worse.

Panicking, I rushed out of the establishment and scanned the parking lot. Nothing. I ran to the other side and saw the mother enter an older Toyota, then slowly drove toward me. I walked out and regarded the young boy who was staring at me behind the car’s window. I mouthed the word “Thanks” as the car approached. It seemed like forever, but the boy suddenly smiled widely and nodded his head as the car drove off.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for me. . .