514: Thought That Counts

Ira Glass

Last year, Kevin got his mom gloves for Christmas and a hat. And his twin sister, Karyn, what did she get their mom?

Ira Glass

Now, to be clear, he still gave her the gloves. So basically, he gave their mom the same present that Karyn gave her mom plus a hat, which might sound like he totally trumped Karyn's gift for the mom, except--

Ira Glass

He had to add a hat to rise to the level of her leather gloves. The French essayist Roland Barthes once wrote that when people say I love you, it usually doesn't mean the thought, I love you. And I think what he was saying was that more often when we say I love you, what we mean by it is, I need to get off the phone right now, mom. Or let's stop fighting. Or I'm not loving you right this very second, but I definitely do feel love in a more general and bigger way that I want to acknowledge with these words.

And giving a Christmas present, I think, is a lot like that. Sometimes it means I love you, right? I want you to have this. I love you. But a hat that you get from your teenage son, it can mean all kinds of things.

I bought the LEGO Star Wars Defender Class Cruiser for a little kid this year. And what I meant by it was I love you. I definitely meant I love you. But I also meant I know that your mom and dad just split up, and I feel like I should be flying out to California more often to see you. And I feel guilty about not doing that more. And I know that that is a lot of feelings to be putting on to 927 little plastic bricks. Or, you know, take the gift that Kevin got his dad last year.

Ira Glass

I don't have to take his word for this. We're at the Arundel Mills Mall outside Baltimore, and Kevin's dad, JD, is standing right there. They're doing Christmas shopping.

Ira Glass

Not that JD is ungrateful. JD likes the hammers. JD has five kids. He loves all the presents that his kids get him, all the presents. Karyn remembers a present that she made for her dad back when she was eight or nine.

Ira Glass

OK. This sounds like it can't possibly be true. But both kids insist that, yes, he is not being sarcastic. He saves everything, has big display cases with old presents and toys in them. But, you know, if your parents are fine with any crappy gift, that poses another problem.

Ira Glass

Gage and William Ross are at the mall on this particular Sunday before Christmas. They're brothers, and their parents went to the casino that's part of the mall-- yes, there's a casino-- and threw them out here, Gage says, with $60 and instructions to buy them Christmas presents.

Ira Glass

Like the twins, like a dozen other teenagers that I interviewed at the mall, they said that it is just really hard buying for your parents.

Ira Glass

I could not reach his mom to get her side of the story. But I think, come on, any parent tearing off the wrapping paper and seeing that gift, like, I just think that they just think, like, huh? In this season of gift giving, if it is the thought that counts, OK, what exactly are the thoughts behind most presents?

Well, they're complicated. Sometimes they're really, really complicated. And today on our radio show, we have stories of people giving gifts, and we have stories especially of people receiving gifts, some of these quite spectacular, and trying to divine the motives of the people who gave them. From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life, distributed by Public Radio International, a special holiday show. Stay with us.

Ira Glass

Act One, Replacement Clause. So we begin today's show about giving gifts with the gift givingest person that there is. Of course, Santa Claus is that person, a man who wants for nothing, that is, until some things change for him. Jonathan Goldstein explains.

Jonathan Goldstein

Each life was a lonely tumble down a cold, dark chimney, falling, falling, then blackness. These were Santa's thoughts as he prepared snickerdoodles in the kitchen. In the other room, the elves performed Christmas tunes and do-si-doed.

Carefully, he carried the tray of sweets into the living room. His wife, Martha, had been dead five years now, and he was alone, alone in a house full of elves. Jesus had dignity, apostles. All he had was high blood pressure and a communal toilet the size of a cereal bowl.

He sat down on the couch and watched the elves dance to "Feliz Navidad." Jingles broke from the group of dancing elves and approached him. "You're killing yourself with the doodles," Jingle said, slamming down his Gin Rickey. And lately, he'd been on Santa's case to stop overeating, to get out of the house, and to get himself a girlfriend.

Glenda, the good witch of the north, lived only a few miles away and had just been left by her boyfriend, a walrus hunter who looked somewhat like a walrus himself. "Glenda's into the Wilford Brimley type," said Jingles, "so you've totally got a chance." "Glenda," said Santa, "but she's so sparkly. I miss Martha," Santa said quietly.

He knew this was true, though not the entire truth. There was missing, of course, but there was also fear. "Look, I miss Martha too," said Jingles. "But it's time to move on."

"She was the only gal for me," said Santa. Jingles put his tiny hand on Santa's knee. "To be frank," Jingles said, "I always thought your relationship a little narcissistic. Mrs. Claus was like your twin but with bosoms. Did you plan your outfits together?"

"We just had the same taste," Santa sobbed. "Jingle Bell Rock" started up on the squeeze box, and Santa took that as his cue to head to bed. He never could stand rock and roll Christmas songs.

He liked Christmas songs, and he liked rock and roll. He just didn't like them together. Martha had felt the exact same way. On their first year anniversary, Martha presented him with a pen, the fancy kind that came in a box.

"Oh, for the love of Saint Nicholas," Santa had said, "what good is a pen? I'll just end up losing it. Save your money and buy yourself something nice, or let me buy for you. That would make me most happy of all."

For a man famous for his giving, Santa was terrible at receiving. Martha took the pen back and apologized. And that was the end of the gifts.

After she had died and Santa was cleaning out her stuff, in a jewelry box filled with the old love letters he'd sent during their courtship, he found the pen. He clutched it on the edge of the bed and wept. Jingles took it upon himself to just go ahead and arrange a date for Santa unbidden.

"Glenda's expecting you at eight," said Jingles, sidling up to him in the reindeer stable one morning. "And do me a favor. Trim your whiskers and put on your spanx." As instructed, Santa appeared at Glenda's doorstep that evening, a paper bag of roasted chestnuts in his hand.

"Come on in, Mr. Claus," said Glenda with a sweep of her arm. She was dressed all in white, and the house smelled of fresh gingerbread. Santa observed with a smile that there were several magic wands, gold and sparkly, in the umbrella rack.

For most of the evening they sat by the hearth and made clumsy conversation about the loneliness of living at the North Pole, mostly. "Unless I absolutely have to, I don't even bother going outside," said Glenda. "And when the cable goes out, it is out," said Santa.

After a beat of silence, Glenda looked at him, a smile across her face. "Is this a good conversation?" she asked. Santa laughed and assured her it was.

They played cribbage, drank eggnog, and watched the snow outside the window fall. And in the vestibule, before leaving, Glenda placed her hand on Santa's shoulder and kissed him right beneath his eye. As she did, Santa felt as though his chest were a chimney, and inside a sleeping dove was stirring awake.

They made a date for the following weekend. And just before he left, Glenda gave him a container of cranberry mini muffins she'd baked. Santa told her he could not accept such a gift, at which point she thrust it into this chest with surprising force. "Take it," she said. On the sleigh ride home, Santa realized with mixed feelings that he'd hardly thought of Martha the whole night.

When he showed up the following Saturday, Glenda was all apologies. "Change of plans," she said, stopping him in the vestibule. "Sheila's here, flew in this afternoon from Tampa."

"Sheila?" asked Santa. "AKA, the wicked witch of the east," she said quickly, "My old college roommate." "College?" asked Santa. "For witches?"

"She's always showing up like this," Glenda went on. "Every time there's trouble in Tampa, I get a knock at the door." In the den, Sheila was lying on the couch in a kittenish tangle, all in black and smoking what smelled like European cigarettes.

She studied Santa while playing with her hair. "Hey, chubs," she said. "I told you to smoke outside," said Glenda with exasperation. She went into the kitchen to get some fruitcake as Santa made his way over to the couch.

Sheila didn't move. So he squeezed into the corner, her black stocking toes touching his thigh. "So what do you do, fatso?" Santa began to stammer. "Oh, I--"

"Relax, [BLEEP]. I know you are. You're famous," she said, taking the last cookie from the serving tray. "So how do you know Glenda?"

"Oh, we're neighbors," said Santa. "And you buy this good witch [BLEEP]?" she asked in a whisper. "A downward turn in the black arts, and all of a sudden she's moved to the North Pole and rebranded herself a good witch. Whoever heard of a good witch, am I right? It's an oxymoron, like baby grand or jolly fat man. Everyone knows fat men are sad. Look at you, totally depressed. Am I right?"

"I mean, maybe a little," Santa said. "My wife recently died." "And what's with this Glenda [BLEEP]?" interrupted Sheila. "Her name's Linda."

Often, when Santa didn't know what else to say, he'd break into a jolly sounding chuckle. He tried it just then, but the chuckle got caught in his throat and came out sounding sweaty and choked. Sheila stared at him.

"You have this weird crap in your beard," she said. She reached in to pull it out, and as she did, she brought her face in close enough for Santa to smell her. Whereas Glenda smelled like baby powder and cinnamon, Sheila smelled of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Cigarettes, of course, but something else, too. It set the chimney in his chest ablaze, ashy black doves trying to flap out their flaming wings.

As Sheila rummaged through his beard, the look on her face was all little girl concentration. "You have nice bone structure," she said. "You should try wearing black. It would have a slimming effect."

Withdrawing a tiny shriveled raisin from Santa's beard, Sheila crinkled up her face and flicked it on the carpet. "Eww, gross," she said. Glenda walked back into the room with drinks. And when Santa reached for one, he realized his hand was shaking.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, where he thought he might hum a few carols to calm himself down. Everything inside the bathroom was glittery and white, white glittery soaps, shampoos, curtains. But there, hanging from the white shower curtain rod, was something black.

Strung there for all the world to see were a pair of silky black stockings, Sheila's black stockings. For years, Santa had dealt intimately with stockings, stuffing them with coal or presents, and never thought about it twice. But just then, seeing those black stockings of hers, being alone with them, something came over him. And suddenly, he was on his toes biting the tips like a playful pup, like a fat old playful pup.

Returning to the living room, Santa sat back down on the couch and listened, enraptured, as Sheila encouraged him to revise his policy on naughtiness. Santa nodded his head as though giving her suggestion some thought. In bed that night, Santa replayed each of Sheila's words and gestures.

Sheila said whatever she felt like, touching and smelling everything like an animal. She was not afraid to take, avail herself of the world, drinks, cigarettes, hospitality. Without so much as asking, she'd even plunged her hand into Santa's Shirley Temple, plucking the maraschino cherry right out and using his hat to wipe her hands.

For Santa, one so in love with giving, he could not help but see before him a kind of black hole, a sexy and sublime black hole into which he could deliver forth his greatest gift. In Sheila, he saw an insatiable hunger for life. With such a woman to give to, to give himself to, it would feel as though every day was Christmas.

When they had made plans for the following weekend, Glenda had asked if Santa could bring along a friend for Sheila. And so he showed up with Jingles. Anything to help a brother out, Jingles had said. Strolling into Glenda's living room, Jingles did that thing where he jumped onto the couch while crossing his legs in midair. He landed right beside Sheila.

"You are just too cute for words," exclaimed Sheila. "Try anyway," said Jingles, snipping the tip of his cigar. It was the length of his forearm.

"I'd prefer to keep the house smoke free," said Glenda. "More like fun free," said Sheila. "Say, what do you call people who live around here anyway? North Pollack's?"

"We call ourselves Cold Poles," said Jingles. "Ever put your tongue on a cold pole, honey? Tends to get stuck there." Sheila slapped him on the head. "Dork," she said, laughing.

Sheila and Jingles had a million things to talk about. All the while, Glenda and Santa just sort of sat there smiling awkwardly and watching the snowfall. "It's an uninhabitable wasteland," Santa heard Sheila say. "Tampa sounds awesome," said Jingles. "If only I could convince El Jefe over there to move the operation south."

Jingles looked over at Santa, and seeing his bro struggling with his date decided to kick things into gear. "Come on y'all," said the elf, addressing the group. "Gather around for a little spin o' the bottle."

"I've got just the one," said Sheila, downing the last of the red wine straight from the bottle. "Spin the what?" asked Glenda. Sheila rolled her eyes, placed the bottle down on the carpet, and spun.

Santa watched the bottle spin with an anxiety that bordered on mania. What if the bottle dictated that he was to kiss Sheila? He would almost certainly die.

But he did not have to ponder such a kiss for very long, for soon the bottle slowed to a halt, pointing directly at Jingles. And when Sheila licked her lips and leaned her face downward, Jingles grabbed her head in his small hands and planted his tiny mouth on hers. Santa felt the chimney fire in his chest snuff out.

He and Glenda watched them kiss. Then after a while they watched the snowfall. Then they went back to watching them kiss. Eventually Jingles led Sheila into the vestibule where he said he wanted to show her the secret to getting the tips of his shoes so curly.

Left alone, and at somewhat of a loss, Glenda got up and fished around in a cabinet drawer beside the couch. Santa thought she might be looking for a game of some sort. But then she said," "I have something for you."

She held out a glistening package. "No way, Jose," Santa said. "I'm the gift giver around here. And it's not even Christmas yet."

Santa was about to really kick up a fuss. But then, as a downright witchy look fell across Glenda' face, he trailed off. "It's nothing that big," she insisted, thrusting the present at his chest. "Besides, it was fun trying to find the perfect something for you. And then to actually find it, there's no greater feeling in the world. But look who I'm telling this to."

Hearing her words and seeing the look of excitement on her face, Santa had a puzzling thought. Perhaps he'd somehow misjudged things. Perhaps he'd somehow gotten it wrong.

By refusing the gifts people wished to bestow on him, he'd consistently failed to give the experience of giving. He'd hogged that particular pleasure all to himself. And so he took the package. It was flat and square.

Tearing the wrapping paper open, he saw it was a record, Rocking Christmas Party Songs, Volume One. He absolutely hated it. Not just because the thought of listening to it made him feel like one of those old white haired hippies who had to make everything, from getting their prostate checked to celebrating Christmas, not just a good time but a rocking good time. But it was also one of those gifts that said something about the recipient, something that was hard to swallow, like the gift of a back scratcher that says you're alone in this world and must fend for yourself or the gift of a warm house coat that says your days of party dresses are over.

The gift of a perfectly awful Christmas album being handed to you by a woman who liked you said loud and clear, you must learn to compromise. For after all his years of giving, Santa knew better than anyone that we don't always receive what we want nor even what we deserve. We receive what life brings us. And when it comes to life, we haven't a choice but to open our arms.

"I love it," said Santa with a half smile. Unpeeling the plastic, they placed the album on the record player. Santa held out his arms, and Glenda entered his embrace. And together, they danced about the room as Chuck Berry belted out "Run Rudolph Run." And it was almost enough to drown out the sounds in the vestibule.

[MUSIC - CHUCK BERRY, "RUN, RUDOLPH, RUN"]

Ira Glass

This is Larry Daniels, 19 years old, goes to community college, doesn't have a job. He got his mom Cowboys memorabilia last year.

Ira Glass

Coming up, over 600 boxes, gifts from decades ago opened one by one. That's in a minute, from Chicago Public Radio and Public Radio International, when our program continues.

It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Each week on our program, of course, we choose a theme.

Today's show, "The Thought That Counts." For this holiday season, we have stories of gifts and what people intend when they send them, which can be very, very complicated. We have arrived at Act Two of our program.

Ira Glass

Act Two, Your Junk in a Box. So people, of course, are opening up packages full of treasures all year round, not just at Christmas. And, you know, when it's not members of your family or your friends or anybody who you've ever met who packed the boxes, it can be confusing. Starlee Kine has this story.

Starlee Kine

When I was in fifth grade, my class buried a time capsule in the grass that jutted against the school parking lot. We didn't feel like being generous with our gift giving towards future generations. Why should they get our best toys?

So we only tossed in the Garbage Pail Kid cards that we had doubles of, or jelly bracelets, a 10-year-old's most disposable possession. I can picture the people who will one day stumble upon our capsule. They'll turn our junk over in their hands. It'll be easy to figure out it was buried by children in a spot where there once was a school. But why we chose this crap, what we could have possibly meant by it, that will be the stumper.

In a museum in Pittsburgh, there's a group of people who spend their days opening time capsules and trying to piece together the original thinking behind each one. These time capsules were all left by one person, Andy Warhol. There are 621 of them.

He didn't bury them, and they weren't capsule shaped. There were just cardboard boxes filled with his stuff. And what makes them so different than the regular archives left behind by famous artists when they die-- because he also has those-- were that these time capsules, and he did call them time capsules, were deemed one big piece of art.

All 621 go together as a set. The contents have to stay together, too. Warhol started the project in 1974. He'd fill boxes up with various objects. Each one is packed to the brim, and they take longer to open and go through than you may think.

The first capsule was opened in 1991. And two decades later, there are still ones that haven't been gotten to yet. The day I visit, the museum has three full-time cataloguers whose jobs are just to open and sort through the boxes, five days a week, eight hours a day, Elaina, Erin, and Marie.

All three look like they stepped out of a '40s screwball comedy, pencil skirts, black glasses, soft curls. When I arrive, they just opened a new capsule. There's this long conference room table completely covered with the items they found inside.

Starlee Kine

There's a Christmas card from John Waters with a dollar bill in it. There's a note from Bianca Jagger signed with a lipstick kiss. It's so close to what I would imagine Andy Warhol's house being filled with that it feels set up.

It's as though his friends just walked from room to room drawing on or pressing their lips against anything that was the least bit ordinary. There's also two small drawings by Basquiat just lying there on the table with everything else. One is a portrait he did of Andy while he slept.

The girls say that this just happened sometimes. All of a sudden they'll stumble upon some priceless art that has never been seen or pieces of Warhol's that were believed to have been lost forever. And then there are the wild cards. This is the museum's director, Eric Shiner.

Starlee Kine

I can't put into words how badly I wanted that Rob Lowe photo. The degree of willpower it took to not slowly, over the course of the afternoon, slide it more and more off the table until it fell to the ground, where I would then stand on it until I was able to drop something else, something less valuable-- my scarf, the microphone-- so as to then be able to stoop down and transfer the photo from the floor to my bag. It wasn't because it seemed worth a lot of money.

I wanted it for, like, my house, to hang on my fridge. I couldn't understand how we weren't calling the number. When you come across a wallet-size photo of a naked Rob Lowe wrapped in a giant toy snake, which you can tell was done in complete sincerity because of the look on his face, a look that no one but me and the other people in this room would ever see, you do as the photo says and call the number.

I had questions that needed answering, such as, did he take the photo himself with a timer, or did he have a friend do it? But like everything else, the photo was just put down on the table. And once it was catalogued, back into the box it would go.

Andy Warhol was a major hoarder, known for it. For every original Keith Haring or Basquiat or Rob Lowe, the girls will find piles and piles of junk mail. There was a box full of Eddie Bauer catalogs. And they found actual garbage, like finger nail clippings and rotten sandwiches.

Starlee Kine

All of this makes more sense because of how the boxes started. The story goes that in 1974 Warhol was moving his studio from one building in New York to another. The problem was he was notoriously tight with his money, loved buying stuff, hated paying people. And so he didn't hire a moving company.

Warhol told his assistant don't worry about it. He'd just pack everything up himself. But the assistant, fearing that he and the other members of the staff would end up having to do it all themselves, came up with an idea.

He suggested to Andy that rather than viewing the boring old cardboard packing boxes as just ways to transport his stuff from one place to the next, he should think of them as time capsules. It was exactly the kind of trick you resort to when your kids won't eat their vegetables by making a chore into a game. And it worked. Big time.

Even after the move, Andy kept making the capsules. He kept open cardboard boxes on his desk, in his studio, in his house, filling some up right away, taking years to fill others. He was hooked. He'd found the perfect outlet for his hoarding impulses. Instead of having to throw anything away ever again, he could just stick that thing into a box and call it art.

Starlee Kine

Every piece of every object is part of the art and has to be officially catalogued. So glitter gets scooped up and put into a container like a film's party scene being rewound. Plastic bags go into other plastic bags. Cassette tapes go unplayed so as not to damage the physical audiotape.

A sealed deck of cards from Penn and Teller with the secret to a magic trick concealed inside isn't opened so as to preserve the plastic wrapping. The museum's chief archivist, Matt Wrbican, says normally archivists will throw out staples and paper clips. Not here.

Starlee Kine

In this room that's so antiseptic, where the procedures are so set and paperclips become museum objects, we're still dealing with a man's stuff. It's very personal. The girls know that Andy's dry cleaner's name was Danielle and that she was always sending him bills, which he ignored. He did the same with the surgeon who saved his life after he was shot, who they found a note from that read "pay up, you blow hard."

But they also know that along with unpaid bills, he would send art donations to charities. They know there were letters from fans asking him to sign an enclosed photo, and the photo will never be there, which means he sent it back to them signed. They know what he looked like without his wig on, that he had a comb over.

They know that there's a whole box he made devoted to his mom and how that one felt extra personal because some of her clothing was inside, and that can connect you to a person more than anything else. They found Andy's clothing in the capsules too. They know there are certain things you can't learn about a person just through reading, like the actual size of their waist.

None of the girls say they knew much about Warhol before this job. They're young. One of them says, "um, I knew his name." And so watching them feels like watching three really nice people tenderly unpack a stranger's house.

Starlee Kine

Under the gift wrap, the girls discover some photos of Andy taken outside.

Starlee Kine

The pictures are just casual snapshots. The girls lean in closer, touching shoulders.

Starlee Kine

Those are actual dreamy sighs you're hearing. It's nice. After all the stuff they've gone through, the exciting stuff, the gross stuff, it's still Andy himself that gets the strongest, most affectionate reaction.

Starlee Kine

Whatever Warhol intended when he packed these boxes, I think it would have been hard for him to imagine this, that strangers would open them and go through his stuff and be the last people on earth to get to know him this intimately and end up liking him even more than when they started.

Ira Glass

Starlee Kine in New York.

[MUSIC - BRAINPOOL, "JUNK"]

Ira Glass

Act Three, Christmas or Bust. Now this story of a Christmas present and a teenager at Christmas trying to do right by his parents. It's a work of short fiction from Russell Banks.

Russell Banks

I didn't go to jail for it or anything. But I think of the time I got caught shoplifting at the lingerie store up at the Champlain Mall in Plattsburgh as the beginning of my life of crime. It was supposed to be the first Christmas after my mother and stepfather kicked me out of the house when I was still 14 and crashing at my friend Russell's place with the bikers down on Water Street in Au Sable Forks.

They were letting me sleep on this ratty couch they had, because I was dealing weed then and kept them supplied on credit. But mostly when I hung out there, I stayed in Russell's room. The bikers were older than us and were heavier into drugs. I saw one of those guys once rub a line of coke straight into his eye, which kind of grossed me out. Plus they drank a lot.

Russell was 16 and worked days part time at The Video Den. At nights we used to ride up to the mall in his Camaro so I could deal a little weed to the other kids. And we would hang out until the stores closed and hit on the girls. But mostly nothing was happening, so we'd sit around on the benches and watch all these cheesy couples doing their Christmas shopping, which was pretty depressing.

At Christmas the malls are filled with people who feel rotten because they don't have enough money, so they fight a lot. The carols and blinking lights and the guys in Santa suits are supposed to make you forget your troubles. But it's the opposite. At least for me it was, which was one of the reasons I liked to get high before we went there.

This one night, about 10 days before Christmas, I didn't have any weed. And I was thinking about my mother and stepfather, how it would be the first time they would be alone. And I wondered what they'd do on Christmas Eve.

What they usually did was get smashed on this eggnog and bourbon mixture my mother said was her mother's secret recipe and watch TV specials. Around 11:00 when the news came on, we'd open the presents we got for each other, hug, and say thanks. And then they'd go into their room and pass out. And I'd smoke a joint in the bathroom and watch MTV with Willy, the cat, until I fell asleep.

It was OK but not exactly ideal. But we had a tree and lights in the windows and all. And last year was cool because I got this excellent suede shearling jacket from my mom. And my stepfather gave me a Timex watch so I could start coming home on time, he said.

I got her one of those long silk Indian scarves that she seemed to like a lot. And for him I got a pair of lined driving gloves. Everybody was happy in spite of the eggnog.

But a lot happened since then. For one thing, the main thing, I guess, I got kicked out of the house for stealing and pawning my mother's coin collection that she had inherited from her mother and that she was someday going to pass on to me. But it also had to do with my getting a mohawk and my ears pierced and screwing up in school.

And even though they never caught me at it, they knew I was heavy into weed, which was why I had stolen the coins in the first place. When I left, it was sort of by mutual agreement, I guess. They would have let me come back if I wanted but only if I could be a different person than I was, which was not only impossible but unfair because I didn't know how to keep myself from getting into trouble anymore.

I must have crossed the line back when I was a little kid, like five or six, after my real father took off and my stepfather moved in and married my mom. My stepfather was OK. But I know he didn't mind at all when he and mom found out I stole the coins and they got to boot me out of the house. I knew my mother wanted me to come home. But no way I was going back as long as it didn't make the both of them happy to see me.

So I started imagining this scene. I get Russell to drop me off at my mom's and stepfather's house, which is really only a mobile home except it's got a foundation under it and a deck in back like a regular house. All my stuff, including my trademark dirt bike, is in Russell's car. And we unload and set it on the sidewalk.

But also, I've got this huge bag of presents for my mom and my stepfather, truly excellent items like a toaster oven and a Crock-Pot and maybe some jewels and a fancy nightgown for mom. And for my stepfather, a Polaroid camera and a portable sander and a Polo ski sweater. Then Russell takes off and I'm alone.

The house is dark except for the string of lights around the front door and the electric candles in the windows. And I could see the Christmas tree lights blinking through the curtain in the living room where I know they're watching The Cosby Show or something. It's Christmas Eve. It's snowing a little.

They're really sad because I'm not with them, and they don't know how to let me come home without acting like what I did to them doesn't matter, stealing the coin collection, smoking grass, getting a mohawk and all, and living with Russell and the bikers, and not going to school anymore, which they probably know about by now, and dealing weed for Hector, the Hispanic guy at the Limbo, which they don't know about. Although, I wonder what they think I've been living on all these months, charity? Also, they don't know that so far I haven't gotten a tattoo, even though Russell has two very cool tattoos on his arms and is always after me to get one.

Anyhow, in this scene, I go up to the door and knock. And when my mom comes out, I say Merry Christmas, mom, just sort of flat and normal like that, and hold out the bag with all the presents wrapped in this incredible shiny paper with bows and everything. She starts to cry, and my stepfather comes to the door to see what's the matter. I say the same to him. Merry Christmas, Ron, which is what I call him, Ron. And I show him the bag of presents, too.

My mom opens the door and takes the bag from me and passes it to Ron and gives me a big hug. Ron shakes my hand and says, come on in, son. We go into the living room, and I distribute the presents to them. And all is forgiven.

They don't have any presents for me, which embarrasses them, naturally, and they apologize. But I don't care. All I care is that they really like what I got them. And they do.

Later, we're drinking eggnog and watching TV. And Ron looks out the window and sees my bike and all my clothes and things out on the sidewalk with the snow coming down. And he says to me, son, why don't you bring your stuff inside?

When I got busted for shoplifting, it was in this fancy lingerie store called Victoria's Secret. And I was already out of the store with a green silky nightgown stashed in my jacket pocket. A black security guard, a dude I actually knew and had once sold some grass to, put the arm on me and turned me around and took me into an office in the back where the manager of the store and the head security guy were.

And after they hassled me for a while, I told them my mom's name and telephone number. The black guy who busted me had to go back on patrol. And when he left the office, I looked real hard at him. But he didn't care. He knew I couldn't pin him for anything without pinning myself worse.

And then, of course, a half hour later, here they come, my mother and my stepfather, her looking frightened and upset and him just burned, but neither of them talking to me, only to the store manager and the head of security. While they talked, they made me sit by myself in a storeroom next to the office where I stared at the no smoking sign and kept wishing I could get high. And a few minutes later, my mother came out wringing her hands with her face all red from crying.

They want to arrest you, she said. And Ron agrees with them. He thinks it would be good for you, she said. But I'm trying to explain that we've all had a lot of troubles on the home front this year, and you're just reacting to that. I'm trying to get you off, do you understand? Do you? I said, yeah, I understand.

Then she said, if you'll go in there and say you're sorry and say that you'll come home with us and stay away from the mall, I think they'll forget about the shoplifting. And Ron will go along. This could be your last chance, she said. Come on.

And she took me by the arm and led me back into the office where my stepfather was joking with the store manager who was a bald, middle aged guy, and the head security guy who had a gun strapped to his waist. The three of them were buddies now, and they looked at me and my mom like we were insects. Go ahead, my mom said to me, and she pushed me forward a step. Tell them what you told me.

I hadn't told her anything. But I knew what she wanted me to say. I felt weird, like I was in a movie and could say anything I wanted and it wouldn't make any difference in the real world.

They were all staring at me, waiting. So I looked down at my feet and said, My friend was going to lend me $50, but he didn't get paid in time. See, there you go, my stepfather said. The kid doesn't know right from wrong.

What the hell did you want with a woman's nightgown? he laughed, holding up the gown with his thumb and one finger like it was porno or something, like he thought I was going to wear it myself. No way I was going to answer him. So I just stood there.

And after a minute or two with no one saying anything, my mother took my arm and led me back out to the storeroom. Listen, mister, she said, really upset. I'm going back in there one more time. And, remember, I'm the one putting myself on the line for you. If I get them to let you go, you have to promise me that you'll come home with us and that things will be different. Do I have your word on that?

Yeah, I said. And she left and went into the office. I could hear them arguing through the wall, my mother's voice high pitched and pleading, my stepfather's voice low and grumbling, and once in a while some comments from the store manager or the security cop.

It seemed like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes before my mother came back out all sad smiles now. And she gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheeks. She held both my hands in hers and looked up at me and said, It's all right. They're going to let you go.

Ron finally came over to my side on this. He's going to meet us out front by the Sears entrance with the car. My goodness, she said, smiling. You're getting so tall, honey. It was true. I was taller than she was now.

When we walked out into the mall, I saw Russell sitting on a bench over by the fountain goofing with a kid I didn't know and a couple of girls from Plattsburgh High who were smoking cigarettes and pretending that the guys weren't there. Listen mom, I said. All my stuff's over at Russell's place. I'll go by there with him and bring it over. You and Ron go ahead without me.

She seemed a little confused. What? Why can't we just stop off there with you and get it now?

No, no, I said. The place is locked. I got to get it with Russell. I don't have a key. Besides, I owe him $20 for the rent. I can't get my stuff until I pay him. Can you give me $20, mom?

I was already thinking about getting high with him and the girls he was talking to and riding around Plattsburgh in his Camaro. No, she said. No, of course I can't give you any money.

I don't understand. Don't you know what just happened in there? Don't you know what I just went through?

Listen, mom. Just give me the money. I need the money.

What are you saying?

Give me the money.

She looked at me in a strange way, like she didn't recognize me but almost did. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a $20 and passed it over.

Thanks, I said. And I gave her a kiss on the cheek. I'll be back later after I get my stuff from Russell's.

She seemed shocked and put her hand to her mouth and took a few short steps away from me, then turned and disappeared into the crowd of shoppers. And as I crossed over towards Russell and the other kids, I remember saying to myself, now I'm a criminal. Now I'm a real criminal.

Ira Glass

This 16-year-old was going to pay for the necklace for her mom with the money that she was earning at the Orange Julius Dairy Queen at the mall, which is where I talked to her at Arundel Mills in Maryland. She started there just three and a half weeks before Christmas. And she said that she'd pretty much be spending nearly everything she earned, about $100 a week after taxes, plus her birthday money, to afford this gift for her mom, who works at a nail salon.

Ira Glass

Well, our program was produced today by our senior producers, Julie Snyder and Ben Calhoun, with Alex Blumberg, Sarah Koenig, Miki Meek, Jonathan Menjivar, Brian Reed, Robyn Semien, and Alissa Shipp, and Nancy Updike. Jonathan Goldstein, who you heard in the first act, is the host of the radio show Wiretap, which is heard on the CBC in Canada and on many public radio stations in this country. It is also a free and great podcast.

Russell Banks, whose story was Act Three, is the author of several books. His most recent is a short story collection, A Permanent Member of The Family. Production help today from Dana Chivvis.

Seth Lind is our operations director. Emily Condon is our production manager. Elise Bergerson's our administrative assistant. Adrianne Mathiowetz runs our website.

Research help today from Michelle Harrison. Music help from Damien Graef, from Rob Geddis.

[ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS]

Our website, thisamericanlife.org. This American Life is distributed by Public Radio International. Thanks, as always, to our show's co-founder Torey Malatia. Over Thanksgiving-- maybe you heard this-- he was arrested in Las Vegas. It was some incident in a casino. I finally got him to explain.

Ira Glass

I'm Ira Glass. Back next week with more stories of This American Life.

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