By Jim Hagarty
1988
As parties go, the one I threw on a recent Saturday night could be considered a good one. No one got punched out, the insults were kept to a minimum and damage to my house was not extensive. And in time, we’ll all be speaking to each other again.
About the only negative turn to the whole affair came the next day when I wandered out to the kitchen to find the countertops covered in boxes and plates of uneaten desserts that had been brought to the party by the guests. To a man hoping that his body will not take up any more space in this world than it already does, this was akin to a wino waking up in a liquor store. Impulsively, my hands started grabbing butter tarts, chocolate squares and peanut-butter cookies. A week’s weightwatching went down the tubes faster than the crumbs down the front of my shirt.
I was shocked.
To head off further trouble, I packaged up almost everything, walked the two blocks to the home of friends and knocked impatiently on the back door.
“I baked you up some goodies,” I said, as I stepped inside.
“For us?” they exclaimed, in pleased surprise. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I replied. “I know how busy you’ve been so I thought I’d just whip you up a few things.”
Back home, I stared at the one item I didn’t give away – an unopened box of my favourite chocolates – and decided I’d take it with me to the next family get-together. An hour later, almost as in a trance, I tore the wrapping off the box and ate five of the 24 big, creamy chocolates inside.
I put the box back on the bottom shelf of the cupboard and resolved to take the 19 remaining large chocolates to the next family gathering. Two hours later, as I was putting the box back on a higher shelf, I told myself I’d take the 15 remaining giant chocolates, box and all, to our family reunion in June.
After supper, in desperation and alarm, I took the box with its 12 remaining jumbo chocolates, tucked it under my arm, and carried it with me on my nightly, walk around the neighbourhood.
I went back to the house I’d been to earlier in the day and banged with my fist on the back door, determined to give my friends the chocolates I should have given them hours before along with all the other stuff.
There was no answer.
Back on the sidewalk, I decided to give the chocolates to the woman who serves me at the coffee shop every night. I carried them in with me, sat on a stool and set them on the counter. A man came out from a back room and while he served me my coffee, he looked at the box of chocolates, then at me, then at the box, then at me.
“I can’t give him these,” I thought. “He’ll think I’m nuts.” Back outside, I carried the box with its nine remaining small chocolates on my walk up and down the streets around my home as I pondered my dilemma.
“Tomorrow, I’ll take these seven chocolates to work and give them away there,” I said to myself as I put them back on the very top shelf and headed for bed.
First thing Monday morning, it seemed silly to me to offer six little chocolates to the people I work with. They’d think I’m cheap.
So when I got home from work that night, I opened the box with its five dainty chocolates and thought: “There’s not enough to give away and they cost somebody too much to throw out. I wonder what I should do with them.”
As I carried the box and the rest of the garbage out to the street that night for pickup Tuesday morning, I was glad the ordeal was over.
The next day, a friend of the friends I gave the goodies too, asked me to make her up a batch of the great peanut-butter cookies I’d made for them. I said I would, went to the bakery, bought her a dozen for $2.40 and took them to her on Wednesday.
Now I have orders for more from three other people.
See if I throw any more parties.
