Two weeks ago, my wife, Sofia, told me she would like to celebrate my birthday with a party. She was going to invite old friends, new friends, neighbors, co-workers, and some family members. âWould you like to have a party, Hugh?â she asked. I thought about it for less than ten seconds and I said, âYes, I would.â After all, I thought, Iâve been looking pretty good these days — working out at the gym for hours — not just exercising, but body building as well. Since I havenât seen most of these people lately, it would be cool to show them a 65-year-old guy who doesnât look a day over 50. âOh God, I love myself,â as I kissed my arm. (mwa-mwa.)
Sofia seemed pleased. Although she looked rather deeply into my eyes, a âMona Lisa smileâ structured her lips at the same time. (I always thought Monaâs smile was that of a child being caught doing something naughty.) I know more about art than most people think I do. In fact, it was my intention (as part of the speech I knew my party guests would be clamoring to hear) to discuss my knowledge of the arts.
Sofia decorated the house, ordered the food from the caterer, and created the invitations. I didnât have any time to help her since the hours of working out at the gym were essential to my star-studded appearance. Since we already had black balloons, we added orange ones too, and it was now a party with a Halloween theme. This was suggested by one of our guests, Gertie.
The evening of the party, Sofia set up a long table in the center of the room. As the guests arrived, they placed their gifts on the table, some small, some rather large. I thought to myself that these people really love me…and why not? They probably felt guilty for not keeping in touch with me for so long. The packages were wrapped in black and gray and some in old wrinkled newspaper. I guess they were trying to be unique. The balloons were black and gray and orange as well. Sofiaâs decorating skills were usually color coordinated, so I guessed that was her touch.
After enjoying the food and drinks, everyone rushed to the gift table. When I reached for one of the presents, my arm was grabbed by my neighbor, Herman, who said, âNo, Hugh, not tonight. This party is going to be a little different. Your part is to be the spectator/recipient.â
Herman was the first to bring his gift to me. It was carelessly wrapped with newspaper, which he ripped off angrily, and there stood a lawn mower, tilted to one side and obviously broken. Herman raised his wine glass, looked me straight in the eye, and said:
âHereâs a toast to the man who will never learn
That to borrow from neighbors, you must return
Hereâs to my mower, so shiny and new
When two years ago I lent it to Hugh.â
Walking briskly toward me holding an envelope was my little league assistant coach and cousin, Al. (Ah! An envelope meant birthday cashâthatâs cool, I thought.) He opened the envelope without taking his eyes off me and started to read in a loud and deliberate voice as though he didnât want any person in the room to miss a single word. He then proceeded to read to everyone about my actions during a little league game. He told them that he, as the assistant coach, had to turn me in and have me disqualified for life as a coach.
Alâs letter explained that I offered $2.00 to our ten-year-old pitcher if he would hit the batter with his fast ball since the kid was hitting one home after another. Al then held up the official report stating I was found guilty of corruption of a minor and solicitation to commit assault. Al then handed me the letter and told me it was suitable for framing.
The next person to approach me with gift in hand was my old friend, Gertie. She and I go back to high school days. Her gift was a clumsy package, and it was hard for her to hold on to it. It was just like years ago…once a klutz, always a klutz. She managed to give it to me by slamming it in to my ribs. She said she was here tonight to let me know how my evil ways affected her entire life. She stared at me for a long time before she started talking.
âI hate you, Hugh…didnât alwaysâŚbut from the time you called attention to my skirt being stuck in my pantyhose during a school event, until the countless remarks about my âklutzinessâ…I really, really hate you. There is a name for people like you. Itâs called âSchadenfreudeâ and it means you derive pleasure from watching other people suffer.
âYou sure had an impact on my life, especially during those vulnerable years. It is fortunate today, your birthday, that I have the opportunity to satisfy any revengeful feelings I may have.â She then took that awkward gift from my arms and walked away. Who cares?
It was now time for a break in the gift-giving proceedings. Everyone went off to talk to one another, have some coffee and stuff. Sofia sat down on the sofa next to me and asked me what I thought about the party and how it affected me. I said it was very nice and the only thing that was bothering me was that the tuna casserole tonight was too salty. Sofia could not believe what she just heard.
âHugh Justin Dongettit!â she screamed. You are oblivious to the impact of your behavior!â At that moment, Gertie moved slowly toward the sofa where Sofia and Hugh were sitting… Still holding on to her awkward package, she removed the black wrapping paper to reveal a pillow with a revolver in it and shot me dead.
