The Gift Lyrics

The Gift lyrics

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant that he
had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he
had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long distance
phone calls. When school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to
Locust, Pennsylvania. She had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity, she would
date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain
faithfull.

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping
at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night,
tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in
his eyes. As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the
smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses
of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions
of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon
permeated his thoughts. And the thing was they wouldn't really understand how
she really was. He, Waldo, alone, understood this. He had intuitively grasped
every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile, and she needed him,
and he wasn't there. (ahhh....)

The idea came to him on the Thursday
before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He had just finished mowing
and etching the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to
see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing more than a
circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his
zoning needs. At least they cared enough to write. It was a New York company.
You could go anywhere in the mail.

Then it struck him, he didn't have
enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail
himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post special
delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary
equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized box, just
right for a person of his built. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he
could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, of course, midnight
snacks and it would probably be as good as going tourist.

By Friday
afternoon, Waldo was set. He was packed and the post office had agreed to pick
him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat
curled up inside, resting the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully
included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as
she opened the door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it
to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, then, maybe they
could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands
gripped his package and he felt himself barne up. He landed with a thud in a
truck and then he was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her
hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like
that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said that he
still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and
even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And,
after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Billy could teach Waldo - but that
seemed like years ago.

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend walked
in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen.

"Oh god, it's
absolutely maudlin outside."

"I know what you mean, I feel all icky!"
Marsha tightened her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her
finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her fingers and made
a face.

"I'm supposed to take these salt pills," but she wrinkled her
nose, "They make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under
the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about
that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a
bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak."
And attempted to touch her knees.

"I don't think I'll ever touch a
daiquiri again." She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the table that
supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill will call." she said to Sheila's glance.
Sheila nibbled on a cuticle.

"After last night, I thought maybe you'd be
through with him."

"I know what you mean, my God, he was like an octopus.
Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense.
"The thing is after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and
after all he didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it
to him, you know what I mean." She started to scratch.

Sheila was
giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I feel the same way, and
even after a while," here she bend forward in a whisper, wanted to," and now she
was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameison of the
Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large colored stucco
frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the
package in. He had his yellow and green slips of paper signed and left with a
fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mothers small beige
pocketbook in the den.

"What do you think it is?" Sheila
asked.

Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at
the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room: "I don't
know."

Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened
to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran
down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see
who it is from?"

Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the
vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton
and read the ink-scratched label. "God, it's from Waldo."

"That
schmuck!" said Sheila.

Waldo trembled with expectation.

"You
might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to flip the stable
flap.

"Ah," said Marsha groaning. "He must have nailed it shut." They
tagged at the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing
opened." They pulled again. "You can't get a grip!" They both stood still,
breathing heavily. "Why don't you get the scissors," said Sheila. Marsha ran
into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissors. Then she
remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran
downstairs and when she came back, she had a large metal cutter in her hand.
"This is the best I could find." She was out of breath. "Here, you do it. I'm
gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila
tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard, but
the blade was too big and there was not enough room. "G-damn this thing!" she
said feeling very exaspe- rated. Then, smiling "I got an idea." "What?" said
Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila touching her finger to her
head.

Inside the package, Waldo was transfixed with excitement that he
could hardly breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his
heart beating in his throat. It would be soon.

Sheila stood quite upright
and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her
knees, grasped the cutter by both hands, took a deep breath and plunged the
long blade through the middle of the package, through the middle of the masking
tape, through the card-board through the cushioning and right through the center
of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of
red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.