"The Gift" by Velvet Underground

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August
which meant 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. True, 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
faithful. 

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 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.
She needed him, and 
he wasn't there (Awww...). 

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers'
Parade was scheduled 
to appear. He'd 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 but a circular from the
Amalgamated Aluminum Company 
of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they
cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the
mails. 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 cardboard box just right for a person of his
build. He judged that 
with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably.
A few airholes, 
some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would
probably be as good as 
going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly 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
on the foam rubber 
cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture
the look of awe and 
happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the
package, tipped the 
deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there
in person. She 
would kiss him, and 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 borne 
up. He landed with a thud in a truck and 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 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 
Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago. 

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through
the porch screen 
door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely
maudlin outside." "Ach, I 
know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened
the belt on her cotton 
robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over
some salt grains on 
the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face.
"I'm supposed to be 
taking 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 then 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 small table
that supported the
telephone. "Maybe Bill'll 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 I 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 felt the same way, and
even after a while," here 
she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now
she was laughing very loudly. 

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow
Post Office rang 
the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When
Marsha Bronson 
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had
his yellow and his 
green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip
that Marsha had 
gotten out of her mother's 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 dunno."

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's 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. "Ah, god, 
it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said
Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. 
"Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila.
Both of them tried to lift the 
staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning,
"he must have nailed it shut." 
They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a
power drill to get this 
thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a
grip." They both stood still, 
breathing heavily. 

"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha
ran into the kitchen, but 
all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she
remembered that her 
father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran
downstairs, and when 
she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter 
in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She
was very out of breath. 
"Here, you do it. I-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 flap, but the blade was too big and
there wasn't enough 
room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very
exasperated. Then smiling,
"I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha.
"Just watch," said Sheila, touching her 
finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement
that he could 
barely 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 handles, took a deep
breath, and plunged the 
long blade through the middle of the package, through the
masking tape, through 
the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) 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.