The Christmas Purse


It was here again, Christmas. There I was, waiting in line at Best Buy. Some lady was bitching about the holiday compilation CD she was purchasing. Something about it being in the bin marked $7.99, so she wasn't about to pay regular price. Holiday cheer overwhelmed me. Just one more stop and I'd be home free… except for the wrapping and the cards I still had to fill out… Oh, and those damn fruitcakes I had to bake. My journey was almost complete. So, I got through that line and past the receipt-whore… who decided to check mine of course. (Santa knows I look like a thief.) Out to the car I went. I glanced at the loser ringing the damn bell asking for hand-outs and noted how horrible it must be to spend your day freezing your ass off for some chump change while having to ring that annoying bell. That's dummy-ass I thought. I pondered doing my part, being charitable and all, but then I would have had to take off my gloves and pull out the ice-cold change in my pocket. I opted for staying warm, besides… I figure those fools who always donate some freak-ass collectable coin make up for my share of the donation process. I smiled, then caught the chill of a bitter wind on my face. I rushed to my car and zoomed two stores down to the epicenter of all shopping, Target. I walked through the doors, glancing left and right so as to take in all the glory. I stopped, mesmerized by the beauty before me. Then, BAM, some old hag bumps into me wearing this Grinch hat, I spun around and fell to the ground smack on my back. I rubbed my eyes and sat up slowly, steadying myself with my hands. That's when I saw it, this tremendous display of vinyl purses. I jumped to my feet and charged my way through the pack of women, drooling with delight. There it was before me, a purse of perfection. Bright pink with small rhinestones all over it, simply shimmering in brilliance. I carefully picked it up and inhaled the fragrance of that vinyl. Such a delicious fragrance. That subtle smell, that brief inhalation sent me into a whirlwind of remembrance.
It was Christmas Eve and I was six years old. The only thing I had asked Santa for Christmas was a pink vinyl purse, with small shiny rhinestones, and a beautiful powder-blue tassel on the front. Oh I was excited. I went to bed that night with visions of reaching into that gorgeous piece of art and removing my favorite Strawberry Shortcake lipgloss. Christmas morning I awoke and rummaged through my presents. My parents watched with a queer smirk on their faces. There it was, one last gift. It was a pretty big box, but I still knew in my heart that Santa would not disappoint me. I tore off the wrapping and dug through the fluffy Styrofoam peanuts. I pulled out a Tonka-Truck. I just sat there and cried. My parents got upset and told me I'm a boy and boys don't have purses. I eventually got over it and played with my sister and her gifts. But never again would I believe in Santa Clause. The fat bastard.
I'd never believe in Santa, until today. I glanced at the purse in my hands and noticed a small pale-blue tassel. I gently touched it, I was indeed awake. A small tear rolled down my cheek and wet the corner of my mouth. I knew Santa was real. I bought all those pink purses that day, and filled them with lip-gloss. I handed them out to those annoying people ringing the damn bells. I knew I helped them all that day, solving the chapped-lip crisis of Chicago and helping the fashion misfits fit into my pink-purse world. Life made sense, and I made Christmas more beautiful. And so another Christmas passed with me buying myself the gift I really wanted, and all was well again.