Page 46 of Playworld
Left to my own devices, I made a beeline to the television department on the fifth floor; common sense dictated it would have Atari systems set up for demonstration, and, lo and behold, it also had Intellivision. I playedSea Battlefor a while and someNFL Footballuntil my neck was sweating. I checked the time. I had plenty to burn before Dad and I reunited, so I decided to wander. Woodward & Lothrop seemed somehow grander than Bloomingdale’s. This was due, I thought, to the dark wood of its display cases, which gave them an antique weightiness, their glass as thick as the frozen Potomac, the colors of their enclosed wares tropically varied, their categories less obviously discernible: shelves of Teuscher and Godiva chocolates giving on to tins of British teas and fancy infusers, stainless steel lighters and tabletop cigar cutters giving on to cedar boxes, whose burned-on, cocoa-colored labels I could taste at the back of my throat. A store, I thought, to set me dreaming—my very own costume department!—what with the arrayed driving gloves in their fancy rectangular boxes, these fanned beneath the Barbour wax caps on tree stands, and I pictured myself in a convertible in just such headgear, the Jaguar’s top down, my suede jacket Italian, my cuff links glinting, my ascot paisley, my Paul Stuart collar popped, and my cashmere scarf sticking out straight behind me like a meteor’s contrail. The girl at my side would be as pretty as the mothers walking these same aisles with their daughters, the latter who paid me no mind, and I cursed Dad for the lack of warning, for at least a heads-up that I too should have dressed nicely for this outing, and I wondered what gifts I would be receiving tomorrow. I no longer desired toys, in spite of how wondrous the Lionel model train passing above me was, its tracks visible throughthe Plexiglas beneath a replica Alpine village, its whistle echoing through the tunnel into which it disappeared. I hoped for some nattier haberdashery, since in a terrific failure of imagination, instead of asking for something specific this year besides the video game, I’d managed to only request clothes.
By chance, I found Dad in menswear, trying on suits. I had never seen my father shop for himself. At the school year’s start, he’d drag me to Brooks Brothers (Oren didn’t have a dress code at Ferren, although he was jealous of the spree) to buy two pairs of khakis, two button-down shirts, a new blue blazer, and penny loafers. I dressed each year as a slightly larger version of last year’s blank-faced mannequins, the pair that warned me from the section of the store like sentinels. I was embarrassed and miffed at this arrangement. Was it because of the hours it took away from what remained of my paltry summer? Was it because summer for Dad couldn’t end soon enough, as hot as it was in the city and business so slow, especially in the run-up to Labor Day? For the fact that I had no choice in the clothes Dad picked? That he inflicted upon me pleats? From somewhere far off, in the cold and evacuated quiet of young menswear, there appeared a salesman, pocket square matching his fatly knotted tie, who moved sleekly and quietly between the circular racks toward my father and me. I braced myself, because Dad was furious about spending money and the salesman’s job was to relieve him of it. And it was at this moment that I did the closest thing I knew to praying: I hoped my father might be blessed with my career, or at least the one he’d seemed to have been chasing, with all the calm and magnanimity it promised and the recognition to boot, ever since the fire.
I spotted Dad toward the back of Paul Stuart with a tailor, standing on the three-way mirror’s riser. He did not see me, at least not at first. He considered the blazer he was trying on, pulling at his lapels and then spreading them to pose with both hands in his pockets or with one arm crossed and his chin in hand. The tailor stared at him, slouched and dew-eyed as a tortoise—he had the same broadly beaked countenance as Kepplemen—the measuring tape draped around his thin neck.
“It’s a wonderful fit,” my father said. “Although I’m torn between this one and the camel hair.”
The tailor, impassive, laid his palms on both my father’s shouldersand then brushed outward, pinching the sleeves where they joined the coat. “You could always get both,” he said hopelessly.
Dad did another side to side. “How long can you hold them for?”
The tailor did the calculation as if he were taking stock of the long line of men waiting to purchase these very items. “Until Friday. Then there’s a sale.”
My father made a great show of contemplating this before removing the jacket. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
He departed. Next, an amazing thing happened. He walked straight toward me; I waited for him to recognize me; and then he kept walking past as if I were invisible. I hustled after him and tapped his shoulder.
“There you are,” he said. His mood had darkened. He carried no bags.
“Do you have more shopping?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes in disgust. “I’ve bought plenty,” he said.
“They have a restaurant upstairs. Could we get a hot chocolate?”
“Enough already.”
And then someone called out his name.
It was Abe Fountain, the great lyricist and librettist, in whose show my father had previously performed. He looked noticeably older sinceThe Fisher King. His wiry hair was distinctly grayer. His dark suit and thin tie made his face look gaunt. His Swifty Lazar frames had thicker lenses than I recalled, and they magnified his eyes—the left was larger and set slightly lower than the right—which gave him a wizardly appearance. On his arm was a woman so heavily made up she appeared as if she’d just walked offstage. Curly red hair. Red lips to match. She wore a silver fur coat, so thick it gave her a dandelion shape. Her long legs were sheathed in fishnet tights, and her tall black heels made her almost comically taller than Fountain. Her name—could it have been more perfect?—was Roxy.
After introductions and pleasantries, Fountain said to Dad, “It’s kismet that I ran into you. You’ve been on my mind.”
“You don’t say.”
It was one of the vertiginous aspects of my father’s character that his bad mood in our presence could be immediately eradicated by the appearance of someone he worked with. Whether his mood sank again upon their departure was always a possibility.
“Let’s have a drink at the bar around the corner. What’s the name of that place, hon?”
“The Blind Beggar,” Roxy said.
“We’re celebrating,” Fountain said. “I’m writing a part for you in my next musical. A major role. Griffin can come too.” He turned his attention toward me. “You like eggnog? They have the real thing. With some amaretto. You like amaretto, kid?”
“I’m more of a whiskey guy,” I said.
Fountain chuckled, then mussed my hair. “What do you say?”
At this, Dad, beaming, thrilled at Fountain’s news, turned to me and, producing from his wallet tenmoredollars, gave me the slightest nod of the head, which I knew meant scram.
“Go get yourself that hot chocolate,” Dad said. “I’ll find you at the restaurant upstairs.”
I did not do as I was told because I knew I’d have some extra time to kill. Instead, I wandered the store some more. I even walked outside to check out the display windows. In my favorite was a city couple sitting on a bench in an arctic snowscape, each holding fishing rods, their lines sunk in a hole in the ice, the woman wearing a mink like Fountain’s girlfriend, the man wearing a Members Only jacket among other fineries. In the adjacent window, the glacial motif continued with four live penguins. They swam in and out of a pool you could see into through the glass, just like at the Central Park Zoo. The best part was when their keeper appeared from the diorama wall and fed them a bucket of squid.
Later, when Dad found me at the restaurant’s counter, he was as full of good spirits as I of hot chocolate and a pair of cheese Danishes. Were he not carrying several bags in each hand—they reminded me of a balloon’s ballast—his happiness was such that I was sure he might float away.
“Your mother,” he said, and I was not sure if he meant the bowed gifts he held up or the news, “is going to bethrilled.”
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