John Cale The Gift Lyrics:
Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now
Mid-August which meant that 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.
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 faithfull. 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 really 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, and she needed
him, and he wasn't there. (ahhh....) The idea came
to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade
was scheduled to appear. He had 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
more than a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum
Company of America inquiring into his zoning
needs. At least they cared enough to write. It was
a New York company. You could go anywhere in the
mail. 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 box, just right for a person of his built.
He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could
ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some
water, of course, midnight snacks and it would
probably be as good as going tourist. By Friday
afternoon, Waldo was set. He was 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 the foam rubber cushioning he'd
thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the
look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she
opened the door, saw the package, tipped the
deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo
finally there in person. She would kiss him, 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 barne up. He landed
with a thud in a truck and then he 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 that 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 Billy could
teach Waldo - but that seemed like years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend walked in
through the porch screen door and into the
kitchen. "Oh god, it's absolutely maudlin
outside." "I know what you mean, I feel
all icky!" Marsha tightened her cotton robe
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with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger
over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked
her fingers and made a face. "I'm supposed to
take 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 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 table that supported the telephone.
"Maybe Bill will 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 he 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 feel the same
way, and even after a while," here she bend
forward in a whisper, wanted to," and now she
was laughing very loudly. It was at this point
that Mr. Jameison of the Clarence Darrow Post
Office rang the door bell of the large colored
stucco frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the
door, he helped her carry the package in. He had
his yellow and green slips of paper signed and
left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had
gotten out of her mothers 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 don't know." 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 is 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.
"God, it's from Waldo." "That
schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with
expectation. "You might as well open
it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to flip
the stable flap. "Ah," said Marsha
groaning. "He must have nailed it shut."
They tagged at the flap again. "My God, you
need a power drill to get this thing opened."
They pulled again. "You can't get a
grip!" They both stood still, breathing
heavily. "Why don't you get the
scissors," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the
kitchen, but all she could find was a little
sewing scissors. Then she remembered that her
father kept a collection of tools in the basement.
She ran downstairs and when she came back, she had
a large metal cutter in her hand. "This is
the best I could find." She was out of
breath. "Here, you do it. 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, but the blade was too big and there was
not enough room. "G-damn this thing!"
she said feeling very exaspe- rated. Then, smiling
"I got an idea." "What?" said
Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila
touching her finger to her head. Inside the
package, Waldo was transfixed with excitement that
he could hardly 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 hands, took a deep
breath and plunged the long blade through the
middle of the package, through the middle of the
masking tape, through the card-board through the
cushioning and 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.
Lyrics: The Gift, John Cale [end]