Pick of the Crop

There’s a gift for every grabber!

For ten years, ever since I began volunteering at the Bread of Life food pantry, I’ve hosted our annual post-holiday pot-luck staff party.

The pots haven’t always been lucky. Three years ago, all the guests’ crockpots must have cracked till they croaked — their mournful owners ascended forthwith to junk-food heaven and returned bearing bags and boxes whose contents comprised chips, dips, and desserts.

Nary a nutritious morsel graced the buffet. The vegetable matter comprised half a cup of shredded yellowed iceberg lettuce.

Another dicey party feature is the Yankee Swap. Everyone up for the trading game brings a wrapped gift. The five-dollar “cap” is oft doffed — hat’s off to the re-gifting contingent; the unwanted items they contribute cost upward of 25 dollars.

Participants pick a number — no peeking, please! — from whatever passes for a hat. The lucky number in this game is #1 — because s/he who picks first also picks last.

If you are unfamiliar with the rules of the game, suffice it for now to understand that Yankee Swappers are also “swappees” — often, alas, unwilling ones, as will soon be seen.

First up was Nick, 10-year-old son of the receptionist. Nick headed to the table and took his pick, returned to his seat and tore off the wrapping paper. He opened the box to find a pair of (Yankee!) candles — cinnamon and pine. As instructed, Nick placed them on display at his feet.

Next up was yours truly. I picked a gift and opened it to find a three-piece Old Spice set: bath gel, lotion, and deodorant. My options were: keep it or trade for the candles. Both options were attractive — I liked toiletries in general and those fragrances in particular, ditto the candles.

I decided to “keep” what I had — knowing full well not to get too attached. In this merciless game, “to have” is not necessarily “to hold” — certainly not in the spirit of a wedding vow.

To be second swapper is the unluckiest of all — the “pool” to pick from is but a binary puddle; to its 5th power are the chances of seeing your rubber duckie snatched away thereafter.

I was, nevertheless, optimistic that I would keep my prize. Its $20 retail value was the give-away of why it was on give-away to begin with — its re-gifter didn’t want it and didn’t know anybody who did. In prior years I’ve swapped for soaps and such with more-than-willing traders.

No such luck. Third man up promptly snatched Old Spice and replaced it with his sack of clay.

Next up was Wendy Weiner —aptly pronounced “Whiner.” Wendy picked a bottle of wine — per the spending cap, likely a mere two bucks up from “three-buck Chuck.”

Still, wine it was, and Wendy embraced her homophonic namesake fiercely. I winced at her ferocity — anticipating the furor that would ensue when Wendy’s bottle was taken away.

It didn’t take long. Maria — unlike the four before her in fear of Wendy’s wrath — unceremoniously snatched the wine. The gift Maria traded was a jumbo glass beer stein, filled to the brim — not, alas, with Bud, but with cellophane-clad peppermints.

This gift was the one I’d contributed. Chuck had gotten it as a door-prize last spring and had not wanted it. He had so not wanted it that he “accidentally” left it behind.

Much to Chuck’s chagrin — thanks to the bartender who’d assumed it had been forgotten — the red-and-white stuffed elephant was waiting for its keeper the following week. Chuck drily suggested that I put the creature up for swap. And so I did.

Wendy wasn’t having it. Sulking, she shoved the monstrous mug, setting it skidding across the hardwood floor.

It stood, forlorn, in the center of the room, as the game proceeded. If un-chosen, it would be forced back into its crowded quarters in my pantry.

Last one up, #24, Larry, approached the table. Picked his gift. Unwrapped it. It was a pen. A pink polka-dotted pen. Surely he’d trade.

Larry scanned the room. He had his pick of 23 items. I figured he’d steal the wine from Jack, who’d stolen from Linda, who’d stolen it from Maria after she’d stolen it from Wendy.

Was it my imagination, or did Larry’s eyes linger on the beer-less outcast?

It was my imagination. Larry’s glance in the direction of poor Mr. Mints was as cursory as all his others. As last man up, he felt obliged to sustain the suspense for the sake of the audience — which he managed to do for a full 14 seconds, before firmly announcing: I’m keeping the pen.

Last chance for adoption, come and gone. Game over.

But wait! Remember — Rule #1: He who picks first, also picks last. Nick was the man, and he had his eye on the prize. He’d had it there from the moment it was revealed.

The obvious winner was the only thing on the floor that a 10-year-old boy could possibly want: the 4-by-4 art kit comprising colored pencils, markers, crayons, pastels, and paints — 50 colors of each.

Nick made a beeline for his treasure. Snatching it triumphantly, he said:

This is exactly what I wanted. They had a contest in school — you had to guess the number of candies in the jar. I wanted to win so bad, but I didn’t even come close. Some other kid nailed it and got the prize — but now I’ve got the exact same prize: my very own peppermint jar!

And so it was that I ended up with Nick’s pair of candles (in tie with the Old Spice set) my top pick.

Though the gifts described are confabulated from uncertain memory, the gist of the story is true as regards the boy and the particulars of his prize. Alas, the character I’ve dubbed Wendy Whiner is all too real.