on how heâd hit the perfect internal temperature. I dragged the back of my hand along my forehead.
For the past handful of years, when dealing with family gifts, Jimmy and I would receive separately, but we gave as a single entity. We were a gift-giving tandem, a beautiful hybridity of ingenuity and prudence. Perhaps what we produced was predictable and underwhelming, but we had each other.
Often we made things. Twice we sat for self-portraits. Dressing up for the portraits made them decidedly giftier. I would choose and create our costumes. Jimmy would construct frames from pieces of scrap wood found at our parentsâ farm. We would position ourselves about five feet from the digital camera weâd set up on a bookshelf. Two years ago we dressed as the main characters from Brideshead Revisited . I grew Charles Ryderâs beard. Jimmy carried Sebastianâs teddy bear, Aloysius.
This year Jimmy severed our network. He selfishly decided it was time to expand his gift basket into his own private, improved basket. It was at the Manx that he broke the news. I (metaphorically) cupped the back of his neck, pulling him toward me, and (literally) urged him to reconsider. But heâd already bought his gifts. I felt ridiculous. What was I going to do with two (very) authentic Nicholas Nickleby outfits?
Swirling the foamy beer around in his glass, Jimmy continued his onslaught, describing his already procured gifts. It was like listening to a graphic summation of your exâs new, better-looking, richer, non-perspiring lover, minutes after sheâs dumped you. Ultimately, I had to agree; most of the gifts were complete and thorough improvements over our shitty portraits. And besides, a solo portrait wouldnât be the end of the world.
Jimmy wondered who would build the frame. Fine, it didnât have to be a portrait. There were lots of things I could get her for her birthday.
âWhat about a scented candle?â I asked. âI feel like she loves candles. AND different scents.â
âI guess that would be all right,â shrugged Jimmy. âYou look irritated. Are you hot? Why donât you take that sweater off? You look like a Maritime cod fisherman.â
âIâm fine.â I was teetering toward combustion.
Jimmy had starting texting. Or someone was texting him. The point is, he was focused on his phone. So I tried to picture her face when she unwrapped a heavily scented, waxy, pumpkin-spiced candle.
A minute later I slapped the table with both hands. âOr what about if I just made something, like some sort of â biscuit â or a loaf! Seriously, man, I feel like sheâs totally into loaves, right?â
Jimmy used one eye to look up from his phone for an eighth of a second. âLoavesofwhat?â
âI donât know, like a lemon loaf or a banana bread.â
Then he looked directly at me. âDo you own a loaf pan?â
âI could buy one.â
âBut are you actually going to?â
âYou know what,â I said, tapping my temple with my index finger, âI saw this crazy tablecloth at the mall last week. It was brilliant, totally eye-catching. It was just remarkably zany, all covered in grapes and fruit and fucking pine cones. All kinds of different, unique, and very, very interesting shit. A real smorgasbord. I think there were vines and maybe some ivy. And it was plastic, right, which would be soooooo easy for her to keep clean.â
Jimmy looked at me like Iâd asked him to pull my finger.
I pushed my glass away. This worrying about gifts was a new, uninvited feeling. Iâd been feeling it for about ten minutes but was already unimpressed and resentful. Iâd never understood the requisite stress others felt about giving gifts. Iâd always just waited until a day or two before, and inevitably the magic would happen.
And if it wasnât for Grandmaâs birthday, I wouldnât have been concerned this