To Helen, a gift was not something you gave to person number one, but something you didn't give to person number two. This was how we wound up with a Singer sewing machine, the kind built into a table. A woman on the third floor made her own clothes and, in her own quiet way, had asked if she could have it. 'So you want my sewing machine, do you?' Helen said. 'Let me think about it.' Then she picked up the phone and gave Hugh and me a call. 'I got something for you,' she told us. 'The only deal is that you can't give it to nobody else, especially nobody who lives in this building on the third floor.' 'But we don't need a sewing machine,' I said. 'What, are you saying you already have one?' 'Well, no - ' 'All right then, so shut up. Everybody needs a sewing machine, especially this one - top of the line. I can't tell you all the outfits I made over the years.' 'Yes, but - ' 'But nothing. It's a present from me to you.' As Hugh manhandled it through our door, I tried to block him. 'But there's hardly enough room for us,' I said. 'Where are we supposed to put a full-sized sewing machine? I mean, really, why not just give us a tugboat? It would take up the same amount of space.' Hugh, though, you really have to hand it to him. He sat on the horrid little bench that came with the machine, and five minutes later he was teaching himself to sew. That's the kind of person he is - capable of anything. 'Can you make a body bag?' I asked.
That's Amore, by David Sedaris. Read it.
