U is for Underwhelmed
By Jelsemium
Disclaimer: No ownership, no profit
Description: Another attempt at angst, but I'm never sure if I'm being angsty or depressing. Anyway, I came up with this plot on one of my long commutes, when I began to wonder why Alan bought soap for Donna the Caterer's birthday.
Author's Note: This is set during the second season episode, The O.G., before Charlie and Amita became an item.
Alan mulled Charlie's advice. On one hand, his younger son was brilliant, plus Charlie had proven, many times over, that math had applications in the most unlikely places.
On the other hand, Charlie's track record with the opposite sex wasn't inspiring.
On the other hand… Wait, that's three hands, even Alan could count the number of hands a human should have. Going back to the first hand, then. Alan didn't have any better ideas. Especially since nothing Charlie had said actually went against his gut feeling. To woo a woman, buy her something nice.
So why was it so hard? He didn't remember having this kind of problem when he was courting Margaret. He cast his mind back. Maybe it had been difficult and his memory was playing tricks on him?
He sighed and muttered to himself. "Something expensive?" he mused. Well, jewelry was usually a winner. He wandered into the closest mall and into Macy's Department Store.
There was a young lady at the jewelry counter whose pale skin did not go with the tar black hair that she'd affected. Alan shook his head, not understanding why the girl would want to have such an inappropriate shade. Her own coloring would have looked so much better.
"May I help you, sir?" the clerk asked politely.
Alan restrained his fatherly impulse to tell her to wash the dye out of her hair and said, "I'm looking for a present for my girlfriend," he said.
"Ah," the clerk said. If she was surprised that a man Alan's age had a girlfriend, she didn't show it. Of course, in this age of divorces and second/third/fourth/fifth marriages, a man of any age having a "girlfriend" was hardly earth shaking.
"Is this a special occasion?" the clerk asked.
"Um," Alan nodded, feeling a trifle abashed. "Yes, actually, it's her birthday."
"Ahh," the clerk drew the syllable out this time. She kissed her fingertips and said in a surprisingly good Parisian accent, "L'amour. Let me show you some nice rings."
They must have changed the definition of "nice" since the last time Alan had shopped for jewelry. The trays that the clerk had showed him were loaded with exquisitely designed bejeweled treasures. Every last one of which was fancier than the engagement ring that he'd given Margaret.
Of course, when he had proposed to Margaret, he was just starting out in his career. He didn't have nearly as much disposable income as he did now. He wished, however, that he had given her a fancy ring for the holidays, or their twenty-fifth anniversary, or her birthday… her last birthday…
Stop thinking about that, he told himself sternly.
"Um, maybe something… We've only been dating a few months…," he said, feeling lame and stingy.
"Ah," that seemed to be the clerk's favorite word. "I understand. Rings are a little too personal for this stage. Perhaps a nice bracelet?" She returned the tray of rings to its slot and moved down a couple of cases. Alan followed and arrived as she was pulling out a tray of bracelets embedded with semi-precious stones.
"Freshwater pearls, perhaps?" the clerk asked.
"Um," Alan said. He looked at the bracelet and a wave of sadness washed over him. Margaret had admired a necklace and earring set with freshwater pearls. She liked them because her name meant "pearl" in Greek. He had thought that the odd shaped pearls were ugly.
Alan shook his head. Why had he made such a fuss over some stupid jewelry? Why hadn't he bought the set for her?
"No?" the clerk said, misinterpreting the headshake. "A necklace? Perhaps some earrings?"
"Um," Alan was tired of hearing himself say that. "I think maybe jewelry is not the way to go."
"Oh," the clerk looked disappointed. Then she brightened and she leaned over the counter conspiratorially. "Maybe some perfume? Nothing quite like the heady aroma of Woodhue or Chanel No. 5 to sweeten the evening."
"Ah," Alan said. (Now he was doing it, at least 'ah' was better than 'um.') "That sounds like an excellent idea. Which way is the perfume counter?"
The clerk pointed out the perfume section and Alan strolled over to look over his options. Brittany Spears? Paris Hilton? Jennifer Lopez? He shook his head, not understanding why women would want to buy perfume from such trashy women. Margaret had always loved Heaven Scent, he remembered.
He stopped, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He didn't notice the conflicting array of scents in the department, so overwhelmed was he by the memory of the scent and feel of his late wife. He opened his eyes and looked at the embarrassment of riches that cluttered the perfume department and left.
No point in buying perfume if he didn't know what Donna liked, right?
Flowers, then. Donnie hadn't been impressed with the idea. Maybe that was why Donnie was still single. Alan snorted at himself. Don't think of your kids like that.
He was driving home when he saw a likely looking florist shop. He pulled into the parking lot and did a quick check of his wallet. Most places took credit cards these days, but Alan would have felt very odd buying flowers on credit.
Alan strolled into the florist shop and relaxed a little. This place wasn't nearly as intimidating as the jewelry counter. He took a deep breath of the floral scents and sighed.
He looked around, but the clerk here wasn't paying attention to him. He looked at the pitchers of roses. However, when he checked the prices, he winced a little. Well, Charlie had said something extravagant.
He examined the shelves of bouquets – red roses and baby's breath in a cut crystal vase, dendrobium orchids in a silver jug, an array of pastel carnations and miniature roses arranged to look like a birthday cake. It was almost too much. No, it was too much.
He remembered the bouquets that he'd given Margaret over the years. There had been more pressing expenses when they were young – student loans, house payments, Charlie's tutors, Don's baseball equipment – That had left little cash for frivolities. Bouquets had come from their yard… azaleas, marigolds, zinnias…
A flash of white and yellow caught his eye and Alan found himself smiling at a butter yellow vase filled with daisies. Margaret had loved daisies because the Spanish word for Daisy was "Margarita." It was a truly well traveled name.
Alan closed his eyes and swayed slightly. A wave of loneliness swept over him and he left the shop without even speaking to the clerk.
Eighteen hours later, he still didn't have a gift.
Normally, he would have picked her up from her home, but she'd been catering a wedding at a swank hotel. They'd arranged to meet at the restaurant, as it was easier to meet her there and drive her home afterwards.
The plaza outside the hotel looked like a street fair, with push carts loaded with junk food and trinkets. Alan looked around, hoping for inspiration.
His quest ended when his nose led him to a candle lit cart laden with scented candles, fragrant oils, bath salts and delicate little soaps modeled into cute shapes. Margaret had loved soaking in the bath, Alan remembered.
He ordered himself to stop thinking about Margaret, but it wasn't easy. Everything he looked at reminded him. So, he picked up a gift basket at random and refused to look at it. The nice little old lady who was operating the cart wrapped it for him.
When Donna unwrapped it, she raised her eyebrows. After a brief pause, she said. "Oh, how pretty."
Alan winced. "I hope you like them," he said, a bit lamely.
"Oh, yes," she said politely. "Nothing nicer than a long soak after a long day."
Alan had been married enough to translate her expression. Donna was underwhelmed.
He drove her home after dessert and received a polite kiss on the cheek for his efforts.
He expected his sons to laugh when he told them, but they merely expressed bewilderment at his choice and sympathy for the outcome.
Alan couldn't explain his choice to them. He wished he'd picked a better gift, but what could he choose that wouldn't remind him of something he should have bought for their mother?
He did pay heed to Charlie's next suggestion of theater tickets. He'd taken Margaret to plays, musicals, movies and even the opera, so he had no guilt attached to these memories.
The true beauty of this gift, though, is that every production was different. All he had to do was avoid the shows that he remembered that Margaret liked and there wouldn't be this conflict to deal with.