Joe Sent Me

Guess what, I gave my wife a fireplace poker for Christmas.

She loves it, because she rents a small studio next door that’s heated by the sun and a little Jøtul wood stove. When it’s four below zero like it is right now (3:00 a.m.), the stove is all-important. That’s why I just came back from rebuilding the fire, one of the last things I do before pretending to go to bed. She has a piano in there, and we can’t let the place get too cold overnight. For that matter, there’s a studio cat to take pity on.

Anyway, I think you get the picture. My wife the classical pianist has to make a fire several times a day and has been doing so for more than two years. What kind of oaf would let his ferocious petite-sized sweetie go that long without the right tools? (I certainly have a hefty metal poker and use it maybe 20 times a day.) She even said she wanted one, a long time ago. I remember it well. There she was, down on her hands and knees with her head inside the door, scrabbling around inside with a scrap of aspen:

“Damn, if I ONLY had a POKER!!!”

I wonder where I thought pokers came from. Obviously my wife didn’t know. It only took me two years to think of looking in a hardware store, and the inspiration coincided with the season, so there you go. On the last Saturday morning before Christmas, I drove to my usual hardware store. It’s big, it’s on the right end of town, and they have a nice wood stove department, way in the back. Happily, they carried fireplace pokers, but of course they were out.

There was one other hardware store farther up the road that had wood stove parts. I crawled through heavy traffic until I reached the spot and eased into the snow-packed parking lot, pulling up close by the entrance. But something was odd: while there were a few vehicles parked nearby, there weren’t as many as I’d have expected, and the inside of the store looked dark. How could that be, on a Saturday morning? But sure enough, there was even a “CLOSED” sign by the door that I hadn’t seen at first. Muttering under my breath, I backed up and exited the lot, or tried to. There was no hope of turning left against stacked-up cars, so I circled back in front of the hardware store, planning to go around the block and catch a helpful traffic light. But what about my Christmas present? Damn. It just didn’t make sense that the place would be shut on Saturday morning, even if it was Dec. 22nd. Pulling into the parking lot again, I decided I at least needed to get out and check the hours posted on the door.

Everything looked normal, except for the “CLOSED” sign, and the place was dark, all right — but now I saw that there were people inside! I tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. What on earth? I knocked on the door, rap-rap-rap, heard a click, and suddenly it opened about six inches: “What do you want?” asked a big fellow standing behind the opening.

“Uh…um…” I managed, totally flummoxed. What DID I want, anyway? And then I decided to try the secret password:

“A fireplace poker?”

“Okay, come in,” he said, opening the door to let me in and shutting it behind me. Inside, there were half a dozen customers waiting to pay for things. The overhead lights were off. A few other people were hunting for this or that, and most of the salespeople were gone. Ah, a secret “locals only” hurry-up-and-close-early retail rebellion! I felt honored and privileged and knew that luck was with me. A moment later I scored the perfect fireplace poker, paid for it, and they let me go.

The newness still lingers. It’s not often that going to the store makes you feel like you got away with something.

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