SAYWHAT?
A Christmas Miracle
Or, how a marriage was saved in 31 words and a Johnny Cash lyric When it comes to Christmas, there’s crunch time and then there’s Crunch Time, and it doesn’t get much more Crunch Time than when your wife calls you on your way into work reminding you that you promised to get a photo developed for her… a week ago. Crunch Time becomes a full-fledged crisis when she calls back a mile later, saying she needs it within the hour. A single man might question how something as seemingly minor as failing to deliver on a promise to develop a photo could rise to the level of a crisis, but a married man knows better. Fail to do anything you’ve been told and it’s pretty much a capital offense. Fail to do it during Christmas and she’ll be going all Marley’s Ghost on your eternal soul. The photo was for the woman who gave us our cat, Perot (pear-oh). Perot, who has a fondness for sitting on your shoulder, was named Perot under the mistaken assumption that the name was French for parrot. It’s actually closer to the Spanish word for dog. Anyway, the woman was leaving to visit her grandchildren in less than 40 minutes and would not be back until after the holidays. “Where’s the quickest place to get a photo developed?” I asked Jenn, the publisher’s assistant, as I busted through the waiting room on my way to download the photo from my computer. I didn’t wait for a response and immediately began scrolling through the hundred or so photos of Perot I’d taken for the occasion. Only two of the hundred were in focus — one where she’s drinking from the toilet and one where she’s looking down from an embarrassingly cluttered kitchen table. I downloaded the kitchen table photo onto a thumb drive, though, to be honest, the composition of the toilet photo was much better and the action was more representative of the cat we’d been given. Thumb drive in hand, I flew out of the office, listening for Jenn’s recommendation on my way out the door. “Try a drugstore,” she said. In 10 minutes I was cruising to the back of my drugstore of choice, only to observe signs on top of both photo-processing workstations. The only words I could make out as I approached were SORRY and CANNOT PRINT. With time of the essence, I spun around and headed for the door and the next nearest drug store. While I’d like to think it was an illustration of the speed of my walking, it’s more likely an example of the slowness of my cognitive abilities that I was nearly out the door when it dawned on me that nowhere between SORRY and CANNOT PRINT had I read anything about photos. There was mention of calendars and personalized Christmas cards, but nothing specifically about photos. I spun back around. “Can you print just photos?” I asked the guy working in photo processing from about 30 feet away. He answered in the affirmative, and V. 22 | NO. 70
while it may have been a thumb drive in my pocket, I can not deny that I was happy to see him. Though I had created a special folder for my photo, the workstation chose to load all 636 photos on the drive anyway. I checked my watch. “How long to print a photo?” I asked, not looking up from the screen. Thankfully, all 636 photos loaded quickly, but that left me trying to figure out just how they had loaded — chronological, reverse chronological, alphabetical. I explained my predicament — the wife, the week, the deadline — and he nodded his head. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got this.” Guys are often accused of being uncommunicative and aloof, but this is a perfect example of how inaccurate that perception really is. Through the solidarity of our maleness, we established a bond that was absolute and instantly
understood, and because nothing more was required, I wasted no time expressing my gratitude. Our understanding had freed me to move on. “Frames?” I barked, closing out the screen and cyber-shooting my order to my newfound friend. “Up front,” he replied, springing into action. I quickly chose my frame, then returned toward the center of the store, passing a female employee who was bucking the season by humming the lyrics to a Johnny Cash classic rather than Frosty or Rudolph or “The Little Drummer Boy.” “I fell into a burning ring of fire,” she hummed. “I went down, down, down and the flames went higher,” I responded. “Now, where are the gift bags?” She pointed, and I grabbed a bag and some tissue paper, then headed back to photo processing, where the guy held out
my order like a baton. “Good luck,” was all he said. I took the photo and gave him a determined nod. Anything more would have cheapened the moment. After paying, I unloaded everything into the back of my hatchback and began assembling. Unfortunately, the pre-matted frame I’d chosen required me to tape the photo in place. Damn. Back inside, “Ring of Fire” Lady was still humming when I blew by her like a doctor headed to the ER. “Scotch tape?” “Aisle Seven,” she said. “Got it.” And I did. I had it. It may have been a photo of a cat called dog who was supposed to be named parrot, but thanks to the folks at the drug store, I had what I needed, and my Christmas, my marriage and my eternal soul was saved. METRO SPIRIT 12.29.11
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