"I love you. I love you. I love you. Don't care what nobody says 'cause baby I love you-- ugh! This is so stupid,” I said aloud to myself, balling up a sheet of paper with many horrible attempts of song lyrics on it. I'm no artist and if I sing this to Hillary, she will break up with me for sure. I'm done. I am SO done. I don't know nor have any idea what to get her for her birthday. I guess I just have to tell her that and if she breaks up with me, then she breaks up with me. It's supposed to be the thought that counts anyway, right? At least I remembered. No! She's going to hate me! Well, it was nice while it lasted and I was never really any good at this relationship stuff, so I should have seen this coming. I'm going to call her; I have to call her. I just have to say, “Hillary! Look, I'm not getting you a present for your birthday and if you want to end things, I understand. But at least have the decency to break up with me in person. I deserve even that after a year and a half of being with you. But try to understand that I am a man and men do NOT pick out birthday gifts for their girlfriends. And that is that!” Oh god, no. That will never-- “hello?” I said hesitantly answering the phone seeing that it was Hillary.
“Hi, honey,” she said excitedly. “You don't have any plans for dinner tonight do you?” “No. Hey, Hillary.” “Because I was thinking we could try that new burger joint off of Lincoln,” she continued, cutting me off. “Yea, that's fine.”
“What's wrong, Stee?” she asked concernedly. “You know how your birthday is coming up soon? Well, in two days?” “Yes, what about it? You're not throwing me a party are you Stephen!? I told you NO party!”
“See that's the thing,” I began. “I'm not. In fact, I haven't even got you a gift yet. I don't know what to get you. I looked for weeks; I even tried to write you a song, but nothing seems right for you. I'm sorry, Hillary. I don't know if I will be able to get you something in time. Can you just tell me what you want?”
She was silent. “Hello? Hillary?” “Sssh! I'm thinking,” she snapped back at me. “Alright, well Stacy; you know Stacy. Henry, that's her boyfriend, got her this really nice purple, pearl necklace from this guy under a pier in Santa Cruz. I want one too! And matching earrings.” “A purple, pearl necklace with matching earrings from a random guy under a bridge in Santa Cruz?”
“A pier, but yes. That darn Stacy thinks she's better than everyone with her “rich” boyfriend, but if he's so rich why is he buying pearls from a guy under a pier in Santa Cruz!? Anyway, I figured since my man has three jobs, if anybody should have purple pearls from this random guy under this pier in Santa Cruz, it should be me! You know?”
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I said, breaking down her statement in my head. “You want me to travel eight hours from my comfortable, Wi-Fi connected home in San Diego, all the way to Santa Cruz to find some guy, who sells purple pearls under a pier, even though I could just order some here?”
“Yup, that's about it,” she said enthusiastically. “Hillary, do you even know where this pier is? Who this guy is? How much the pearls are?”
“Well, no, but you can call Henry and find out. But you know, if this is too much to ask then I guess you don't have to get me anything for my birthday. It's fine; we can just go to dinner. No biggie. No one cares about Stacy and her stupid pearls, anyway, or me without the stupid pearls. They have plastic ones in Cracker Jack boxes, right?”
The thing about Hillary is that she has always been able to guilt me into doing anything she wants. Now I feel bad and I guess I have no choice but to go to Santa Cruz and find this guy, under this pier, selling these pearls. “Alright, fine,” I said. “I will get you your pearls.” “Oh! Yay!” she shrieked in excitement. “You're the best boyfriend ever! I love you SO much!” “Yea, yea. I love you more-- obviously. I'll talk to you later. I have to figure out how to find this guy.” “Alright, babe. Don't forget! The guy under the pier in Santa Cruz.” “Yea, right. The guy under the bridge in Santa Domingo.” “Pier in Santa Cruz!!!” she yelled. “Bye, Hillary.” I said hanging up the phone. She's right; I am the best boyfriend ever.
After hours of calling a ton of people in Santa Cruz that Henry directed me to, I finally found where the pier is. Unfortunately, you have to pay a hundred dollars just to be able to talk to the guy. Word under the pier-- get it? The pier? Well, it is said that he breeds special, purple, pearl producing clams in a saltwater lake he built in his backyard, and that's why these pearls cost a fortune. It is about three hundred dollars per pearl. This girl is going to spend all of my money in the next year, I swear. Oh well, I'm knee deep in this thing now.
A whole 8 and a half hour drive, another 8 hours of waiting to meet the guy, and a hundred dollars down the drain later, I hear the heavy footsteps of a large, black man, dressed in, well, black, emerging out of the fog that is swallowing the pier and everyone and everything on it, coming to tell me that “Mr. Smitty” cannot see me today.
“He can't see me today?” I repeated, confused and a little pissed. “What do you mean he can't see me today!? He better see me today. I have been waiting for hours under this humid pier, so yea, somebody better come out and sell me some pearls real quick before I start snapping necks!”
Two other black men came out and began escorting me out from under the pier. All I wanted was to buy some pearls. Who in their right mind turns away business? Hillary is going to kill me if I come back without her pearls. I have to come up with some quick.
I started driving back towards home when I got a great but risky idea. If Hillary wants purple pearls, I will get her purple pearls. I will just go and buy regular pearls and paint them purple. I was the best in my art class in college; she will never know the difference. On my way back, I stopped at a Zale’s jewelry store. I picked out the best pearl necklace with the best matching earrings-- close to best at least. I stopped at a Hobby Lobby and I bought some paint and thin brushes and some spray paint just in case the hand painting doesn't work.
When I got back to the house, I went to work. I parked the car outside and set up a bootleg art studio in the garage. I started painting the pearls carefully, mixing colors and painting with smooth strokes. When I finished, I stood back and looked at my masterpieces. They were awful! I went to my closet inside the house and dug through a bunch of stuff looking for paint remover. When I found it, I ran to the garage and tried to reverse this mess the best I could. All of the paint was off. I stood up and grabbed the spray paint. This is going to take hours to get right, luckily, I have another day. So, I work all night, putting my blood, sweat, and tears into getting the pearls to look just like, almost like, similar to Stacy's pearls. There's no more for me to do. I hung up the necklace and earrings, so they could dry and I went to bed.
A day later, it was Hillary's birthday and it was time to go to dinner. I went to her house to get her and give her the gift that looks quite beautiful, if I may say so myself. “Happy birthday, Hillary,” I said giving her a hug and a kiss. “Here's your gift.” “Aw, thank you, you shouldn't have,” she said, knowing that I had no choice. She opened the box and when she saw her purple pearls, she screamed with excitement. She ran to the mirror in the hall and tried them on. I was pleased to see how happy they made her and how well my art skills really were. She ran and hugged me again and drug me out the door so she could go and show off her pearls.
When we got to the restaurant, I saw that Hillary's neck was getting a thin, light purple ring around it. I prayed to God, hoping that wasn't what I thought it was. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was the lighting, and looked up again. Nope, it was really there and when she turned her head you could see the purple rubbing off of her earrings and onto her cheeks. “As long as she doesn't touch the pearls, she won't know,” I thought to myself. We just have to make it through dinner, or tonight, and I will break the news to her later. She reached up to touch her earrings. “Hillary, stop!” I said startling her. “What!? What is it?” she asked. “Do not move.” “Why? What is it? Is it a bug? What, Stephen!?” “It's not a bug. You just looked beautiful at that instant and I just wanted more time to gaze at your beauty.” She looked at me with an annoyed look. “You just about scared the crap out of me Stephen! My God.” “Sorry,” I said looking down and grabbing another dinner roll.
“Well. Well. Well,” said an annoying voice, I knew I did not want to hear at the moment. “If it isn't the birthday girl.” “Hello, Stacy,” said Hillary, ready to how off her birthday gift. “Oh, I see you've come across some new jewelry. It's very pretty, but uh, is that paint I see rubbing off on your neck?” Oh no. I knew I was in trouble now. “What?” Hillary said, grabbing her hand mirror out of her purse. Her eyes widened and she screamed. “Oops,” said Stacy, giggling and walking off. “Stephen, you idiot,” Hillary began yelling at me. “How could you be so stupid? You lied to me! You knew how important these pearls were to me and you ruined it! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!!” she continued yelling, hurrying out of the restaurant, ripping off her necklace. “You idiot!” I guess I should have bought perspiration resistant paint. “Stephen, you idiot,” I said aloud to myself, rushing after my livid girlfriend. Told you I was no good at this relationship thing. It's a mighty good thing that she loves me “SO much!”