Famous Bear and the Ivory Tower of Commerce - 1. Chapter 1: Saturday, December 3rd – Buddy Day at STL Centre

 

 

Famous Bear

and the

Ivory Tower

of

Commerce

Christmas at Famous-Barr 1988

 

 

 

 

A Novella

By

AC Benus

 

---

 

 

 

 

Has any botanist set down

what the seed of love is?

Has it anywhere been set down

in how many ways

this seed may be sown?

In what various vessels of gossamer

it can float across wide spaces?

Or upon what different soils it can fall,

and live unknown,

and bide its time for blooming?

Owen Wister

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Contents

 

 

Chapter 1:

Saturday, December 3rd – Buddy Day at STL Centre

 

Chapter 2:

Saturday, December 10th – "Drawn to the Place"

 

Chapter 3:

Saturday, December 17th – One on One at Union Station

 

Chapter 4:

Saturday, December 24th – Buddy Day at STL Centre, Round 2

 

 

Cover Art: America's largest urban mall, Saint Louis Centre with Famous-Barr seen in the background through the glass roof, 1988.

 

---

 

Chapter 1: Saturday,

December 3rd – Buddy Day at STL Centre

 

"You're a dipstick, son. Can't cheat Fate – you were born one, and that's the way you'll die." York gives me a wink, then un-clicks the passenger shoulder strap. He rotates fully on the seat and apes a grin for the 'dipstick' in question.

"Oh, yeah?" Ian retorts from the backseat. "At least I ain't a keyboard-kissing, code-hackin' computer nerd with no hopes of a girlfriend before I'm fifty."

Waldo, sitting next to Ian, bursts out with an "OH, NO!"

Up front with me, the blond soccer jock uses his powerful legs and feet to spring into action. He rains play-punches down on the laughing guys in the back.

Waldo and Ian say in concert "Quit it," and York settles forward again with another wink for yours truly.

My only reply is: "Seatbelt, son."

As he relaxes and draws the gray harness across his blue and red letterman jacket, Ian chirps, "Yeah. Safety first, young man. You heard Harry; click it or tick-it!"

York grumbles but complies, although he really doesn't have to. For the last several minutes – tedious minutes for a group of four seventeen-year-old guys cooped together in a car – I've been going up and up, 'round and 'round, inching along and following the trail of flashing red brake lights while the throng of holiday shoppers sort themselves into parking slots.

"I've never been here before," Waldo says softly right behind my ear.

I find his image in the rearview mirror. "Really? You'll love it."

"Not so sure I 'love' the sale-sucking crowds," mumbles Ian.

"Cranky," I say, shifting my attention. "We'll have milk and cookies at three. Be good until then, okay?"

His middle finger comes up to delicately brush away a phantom eyelash.

I chuckle. My three rowdy cohorts for the day – good buddies from high school – are excited despite their cool demeanors, and because of their excitement, the car feels more claustrophobic by the minute.

I round another corner, and see some parking spots open up.

'Yeah,' I think. 'We're a little bit punk, and little bit conformity. Maybe one day I'll write about them, and about this day downtown.'

Finally parked, we clamber out of the vehicle and head down slope – towards the light coming from the opening along Sixth Street and the elevators down to the curb.

"Green," Ian tells me.

"What?"

"You're parked on the green level. Remember that for later."

"Oh, yeah. Good thinking."

"Well, one of us has to do it."

York intrudes with one of his patent-pending, faux body-slams – a wrestling move where he first does a ditty hop in the air before crashing down with a loud escape of air. He lands a bent elbow over Ian's shoulder. He says to me, "Don't let Ian be thinkin' he's the brains of the group. We're doomed if you do!"

As the blond jock's hands come out to grip Ian's chest in a friendly way, the victim smiles, but I know my shyer buddy well enough to see his feelings are hurt.

York jogs ahead to give the same Wrestling-at-the-Chase 'punishment' to Waldo. It gives me a chance to reassure Ian. "He's an idiot, and he's joking."

"I know."

"Okay. Just don’t forget it."

We walk on and I feel there's something about the nearness of the chunky beams and concrete ceiling that continues the confined atmosphere from the car. I don’t know, maybe anticipation's building in me as well.

As we near the front, and the milling crowd thickens, I notice a man with two little girls, who are perhaps ten and twelve. I try to perceive how differently they are experiencing this holiday Saturday than me and my buddies.

My claustrophobia continues in the elevator going down. Ian and York are jammed in one corner goofing off, while me and Waldo stand in another looking around. The father and his children are near the door. 'They'll remember this too, I'm sure.'

Suddenly, my blond crony's explosive laughter rings out. It's distinctive, makes me smile, but causes the little girls to glance his way. In this tin-can of a conveyance, they watch him with stifled concern.

Ding!

The falling momentum comes to a stop, raising a little feeling of weightlessness through our feet and legs, and the doors slowly draw apart.

The sense of confinement lessens a bit as the crowd slowly piles out and cold air swirls about me.

With synchronized timing, the crosswalk signs turn green, and just as we pass under the last low lintel of the parking structure, real freshness greets us.

Across the street is a plaza. It's lit up and festive. Lampposts like the sticks of rock candy my mom used to buy me as a kid stand here and there with clear bubbles of illumination. The main entrance to a building rises two stories and is capped with a beautiful barrel vault of glass. Within the arch facing us, high above the doors, twinkle intermittent bulbs of pink and green within a looping design of four post horns. Arching above and around this logo, glowing white letters on a hunter-green background proudly proclaim: Saint Louis Centre.[1]

I glance one way, and the corner of Famous soars twenty-one stories to my left. I know Dillard's is two blocks to my right, and both department stores are connected by four levels of Crystal Palace style shopping arcade.

We let the throng surge past us and haul up in the middle of the plaza, right on top of the built-in post horn mark that lives there too. It feels good here. Jazzy seasonal music plays from hidden outdoor speakers, and evergreen wreaths twinkle one after the other from the second level of the mall. Lights and animation from Famous' enormous Christmas windows are also clearly visible.

"Where to first?" Ian asks.

"Where else?!" York cries, raising his arm to point. "The Sharper Image!"

The corner of the building juts out to our right, and the trendy electronics store has its own entrance from the public square.

"Come on." York takes off, and we follow.

Inside, lots of teen boys, like us, browse the black wall shelves where the latest gadgets are displayed. These guys stand around and test them out.

Considering how packed the store is, it's remarkably quiet, like everyone is concentrating on his own individual, near-religious, relationship with the future. I wander towards the sound of soft music, and find a display on one of the tables out in the open. Here, stacks of blocks about the size of large Rubik's Cubes are piled up, and a Discman sits with its little window showing spinning from within. Music comes out of the cubes, and each one is marked Bose.

I change the track, and the clarity of the mighty, little amplifiers is impressive. I've never seen speakers this small and this good anywhere but in this store.

On another table, TV-radio combos in a portable box – red, yellow or blue plastic containers a little smaller than a lunchtime cooler – come with shoulder straps and require God-only-knows how many batteries. But, assuming you have them, you can take your entertainment to picnics, the beach, or other outdoor locals.

I wander over to where a large television is showing a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers movie. Text is flashing across the bottom of the screen, and I realize the machine playing the film is larger and flatter than any VCR. It's one of those new laser players, but with sixteen-inches discs, the 'tapes' these LaserDiscs need are as big as record albums. I've read that besides the digital qualities, the advantages of this format include room for extras, like interviews and running commentary – like the kind playing now. However, with players costing $1,600 a pop, I doubt Betamax and VHS are going the way of the Dodo anytime soon.

I glance over. Ian and York have sidled themselves up to a video game console and are flicking joysticks left 'n' right in boisterous, mortal combat. Waldo, I don’t see.

Having gotten my fill of what's new in the world of high-priced gadgetry, I leave my buddies for a moment and go out via the store's mall entrance.

Here, near the doors to the plaza, escalators rise four levels and fountains rush and reel. I sit on the cinnamon-brown granite ledge of the one closest to Sharper Image and stare into the water. Pennies and nickels pepper the bottom; lots of wishes made and hoped for.[2]

"Hey."

I glance up and grin. "There you are."

Waldo sits across from me and looks into the water too. "There's so much to see in the mall, and they're distracted by a few flashing lights and beeps."

"Yeah…" I have to agree with my friend. "Might as well go to the arcade at the bowling alley in town if that's all they want."

Waldo gathers the corners of his leather jacket into his lap as he reaches down and interrupts the smooth jet of water; maybe he's making a wish too. Whatever thought he's having, either it or the sound of the splashing noise seems to make him happy.

People with burgundy Famous-Barr shopping bags – the big ones with a hundred or more diamonds in silver on them – pass by us getting on or off the escalators. Moms shuffle little ones from hand to hand before climbing on board too.

"I can see why, Harry."

"See why what?"

"Why you want to come here, on one of the busiest shopping days of the year."

"Yeah, I feed off of the energy."

He removes his finger from the water, holding my gaze. "I guess as a budding young writer, you would."

I'm silent, but I like my friend thinking of me as a 'writer.' Only time will tell what I actually become. I change the subject. "Did you know this is the largest urban mall in America?"

"Nope."

"Yes. Over a million square feet, and that's without the department stores – three million plus with them. New York, L.A., Chicago, they've got nothing like it."

"Cool, man."

"Know what's the second largest urban mall?"

"Umm…."

"Union Station."

"Our Union Station?"

"That's right. Two biggest downtown shopping centers, both right here."

Waldo shakes his head, a little smile erupting as he thrusts hands in his coat pockets.

"What?" I ask roughly.

"Nothing. I'm just impressed."

"Yeah, pretty amazing stats."

"That's not what I'm impressed about."

A tiny wave of heat spreads under the boy's freckles and reddens the sides of his neck.

Me and Waldo are similar and yet different physically. At about 5'-11", we're matched pretty closely for height and weight, although somehow his 165lbs. is more farm-boy lean and toned than mine. Another contrast is our hair and eyes. His are brown – hair kept short – and eyes I would say are doe-ee and expressive; my dad would probably warn Waldo that he wouldn't make a good poker player. My eyes are blue, and my longer-length hair is dark blond. One thing we don't share are freckles, for he has little constellations of sun-kissed spots riding the high cheek bones on either side of his straight nose. This boy's smile is often shy, and like the defining beauty mark on the chin of distinguished ladies of old, one slightly discolored incisor heightens the perceptions of the viewer's 'perfection' via a single, flattering flaw.

All in all, Waldo is kind of an average seventeen-year-old, and yet his quiet, inward glance is pretty unique.

I puzzle a moment. 'Not what he's impressed about…?'

Suddenly, York's volatile laughter explodes from within the electronics store.

"Guess he's won the game," I chuckle.

"Suppose so."

"Oh, hey – I know you wouldn't, but don’t mention 'you know' to Ian."

"His school?"

"Yeah. Me and you, and York, we all know where we're going to college after graduation, but Ian – "

"Yeah, I heard his first choice turned him down."

"Dude, it's his first two choices who turned him down."

"Oh."

"So, just – he's feeling a little bit helpless right now, but he expects to hear from Edwardsville any day."

"Okay. Cool. Thanks for the heads up. I'll try to pull York aside and tell him the same."

"Yeah. Good."

Our little group of friends is pretty close. We've gone to high school together for all four years – well, except for Waldo who joined mid-tem sophomore year – and we look out for one another.

Out of all of us, York is the most confident, and why not. Tall, athletic, the blond track star and left wing-back on the school's soccer team has emerald eyes, upon which a permanently-fixed mischievously glint lives in comfortable repose. Good looking, I'd say he does a fair impersonation of a Polish Adonis, with strong physique, flawless ear-length hair, a winning personality and brains to beat the band. The only drag on his popularity among the jock-set has been his fidelity to us 'low lifes,' his true friends, and the fact that the kid is also a wiz at computing. His teammates don't get that and hold him in reserve because of it, but York writes his own programs, wires up his own circuitry for greater 'power,' as he calls it, and in addition, he's the only person I know who's invested the money to get a color monitor just for his computer. It seems extravagant, but he says he needs it.

Ian's a bit shyer than the rest of us, although he'd deny it vociferously. He's also steadfast; the kind of stand-up guy who'd literally give you the shirt off his back, without a second thought, if he thought you needed it. His father's involved with our town's volunteer fire department, so he's already studied how to fight fires, apply first aid, do CPR – all of the paramedics' stuff. When we were little kids, shows like Emergency! made all the boys I knew want to grow and do like the guys we saw on TV, but Ian's the only one of us who's actually committed to living it in real life. As I say, a stand-up guy.

He has kind, darker-brown eyes. His hair is also dark brown, which he keeps regimental-short, and is pretty vain about. He parts it to the right – flawlessly, I might add – and mousses it flat to not-a-strand outta-place perfection. Many's the time I've had to lean in the doorway of my buddy's bathroom and wait while he gets his 'look' in order before we go out. But I don’t mind; it's a good chance to catch up.

I notice Waldo watching me; I guess he figures I'm splashing around in my own little pool of thought.

Our two video game boys come out, joking roughly with each other, and me and Waldo stand up.

"Come on," I say, stepping to the escalator. "Plenty more to see."

As we ascend higher into the mall, strains from the Centre's professional piano player greet us.

We get off and head in the direction of Dillard's, still two long blocks to the north.[3]

Slender white columns rise forty-five feet to the bottom of a clear barrel vault. Ribs and curved glass form a continuous skylight from one end of the mall to the other. Up ahead of us looms the shopping center's Christmas tree – a compact white example, at least thirty feet tall, decorated with clear lights, silver balls, and red bows stuck to the tips of many branches. Around it cascades curtains of lights, and a frozen shower of giant tumbling presents. These boxes are all wrapped in white, and trimmed with wide, red ribbons.[4]

"Hey, let's go up one level," I tell my crew.

We climb the curved central steps, and it puts us right in front of the shop I wanted to see.

It's set at an angle, and we pause to read the long and unfamiliar title over the door.

"Abercrombie and Fitch?" Waldo asks.

"Yeah," I say.

"Never heard of 'em."

York and Ian agree.

We go in. Under heel, the store is shod in very dark green carpet, while tall mirrored cabinets – like Victorian bookcases – line the walls. A great central chandelier in brass is made up of about thirty-six curved horns, each one ending straight up in a candle light and silk shade.

"What kind of store is this?" Ian asks me, leaning in and talking low.

"Supposed to be high-end sporting goods. I saw on TV that this is the first 'mall store' they've ever had. Their flagship store is in New York."

We wander around. The back corner to the right is full of fishing rods. They are arranged by length, longest to shortest, and there must be three or four dozen examples. The open floor space is peopled with tables and a few clothing racks of tweed jackets and rubber waders, which dangle from uncomfortably high hangers.

The shop is conspicuously absent of customers; we feel like partial intruders on the retailer's peace and quiet.

"Oh wow, Harry," York whispers.

We look where he's pointing and see the entire left rear of the store is outfitted with hand-built canoes and kayaks. They line the walls like stacked dinner knives.

"I don’t know about this place," I whisper. "I don’t think this Abercrombie and Fitch will ever catch on."

My pronouncement is met with affirming head nods as we decidedly, but casually, wend our way to the exit.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Four jackets of teenage-boy description hang on hooks outside our booth. These fancy French-curves of ornament and function are made of brass and attached to the wooden entrance. More of this same shiny metal appears nearby in the form of a curtain rod and knobs for ties to latch onto. Beyond the open drapes of pistachio-pudding-green velvet, me and my buddies use the uncouth of our denim to slump against the remarkably high and stiff seatbacks as much as allowed. This is more than slightly hindered by the sheer plushness of the claret-colored velour upholstery itself. Inside our little cave, it's quite cozy, but good smells and the heady enjoyment of the place nevertheless drifts by our long, old-style booth.

"Ha!" exclaims York through a fit of laughter. "They put us in the girls' section." He motions to a huge Victorian-flavored sign. It's shaped like a pointing finger, hangs from the ceiling by a pair of chains and indicates our line of booths with red letters on a white background: "TABLES for LADIES."

After our morning of looking in and out of shops in the Centre, I told my friends this eatery on the Second Floor of Famous was the place to come for lunch.

My buddies go back to studying their menus, and give me a chance to glance around; I know what I want to order.

This restaurant is a series of rooms. Outside, a seating area offers Corbusian chrome chairs, while a striped metal awning in gold and copper tones proclaims the name of the bistro in slick letters. Just beyond the stained-glass doors however, it's as if a diner has stepped back in time. This waiting room has a tall ceiling in a salmon-mousse color, and is lit via an ornate brass gasolier. More antique fixtures mount themselves atop the Victorian sage and cream stripe wallpaper, and most every inch is covered with framed pictures of olden days – the 1904 Olympics on Francis Field, right here in Saint Louis, or of The Fair, or of sports clubs, like the famous 1888 clubhouse portrait of The Browns.[5] Narrow shelves host late 19th century sportsman trophies – loving cups; ribbons – plus taxidermy fish in curved-glass dioramas, where they 'swim' admid tufts of sedge grass and pussy willow.

The room we are in is long and relatively wide; a specimen antique bar with brass foot-rail fronts the other long wall, opposite the booths, and now the great mirrors of the back bar support a triad of three-foot holly wreaths. Sparkling lights twinkle from among the dark leaves.

I like to sit in the other dining room as well, for one end has a stained glass canopy over the pickup window to the kitchen, while two of the other walls are all windows. The view out to the street is subtly and artistically masked by huge glass panels. Frosted and acid-etched, I'm sure these are old elements repurposed from the original store building, for they feature large FB shields in a wreath. This crowing garland is surmounted by an eagle proudly and protectively spreading his wings over the company's trademark of years past.

I pick up my linen serviette. There's a tan-colored napkin ring on it with the same slick letters spelling out the name of the restaurant as out front. I slip it off and casually place the strip of heavy paper in my lap. It's coming home with me to be a memento of this day.[6]

"What's good here, Harry?" Ian asks, barely glancing at me on his left.

"Well – the Reuben, the Patty-Melt, the Blanked Snapper, the Crab Louis – but we ALL have to have the Famous French Onion Soup." By the time I complete my little Julia Child moment, I find all the guys staring at me over the top of their menus.

I shrug, like the little stinker I am. "And the store's Famous Cheesecake for dessert."

"Here we go, fellas," our waitress says, balancing her cork-bottomed tray with our four big glasses of ice and Coca-Cola. She starts distributing them with a warm smile. "Have you decided what to get?"

They all look to me.

"Well," I say, "four French Onion Soups to start, then we'll split a pair of Crab Louis salads, and for a main, I'll have the Reuben Sandwich with fries."

"Very good."

I glance at Ian.

"I'll have the Patty-Melt."

"Me too!" chimes York.

"Both with fries?"

They nod.

"And for you?"

Waldo gives a little shy grin, gesturing to me with his chin. "I'll have what our resident Famous expert is having."

"Okay. Four Famous French Soups, two Crab Louis salads, two Patty-Melts and two Reubens. Your starters will be out shortly." She collects the menus.

After she departs, York puts elbows on table and a feline leer slips across his chops. "This is a pretty cool place, Harry. I like the old-timey vibe."

Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I see Ian pick up his straw and begin to rip off just the end of the paper cover; I know what's coming.

"Yeah," I say pointing to the ceiling in the main area. "See these fans?" There are two examples mounted on the fancy tin panels, and these resemble those elaborate cast-brass Victorian hall trees – three 'legs' with a central shaft. The fan blades are now rotating slowly, apparently moving the air up, as I do not feel a breeze.

"What about them, Harry?" Waldo inquires.

"Take a look, they're all belt-driven by a single motor hidden somewhere." And that's the case. A little porthole, high up on one of the narrow walls, rumbles as the black strap of a drive belt circulates in and out. It twists once, and goes to a cog hidden high in the mechanism of the first fan, and then a second belt left a lower cog to travel to the second fan. The belt from that one made a ninety-degree turn, passing through another porthole into the adjacent dining room, and another pair of fans.

I conclude with cunning pride, "A display of steampunk ingenuity at its best."

As I turn back to York, a paper missile flies from my right and smacks straight against his cheek.

Ian bursts out laughing; he'd blown the straw casing like I knew he would.

York shakes his head. "Juvenile, son. Pure kids' stuff."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Pure…." York begins to tear the end off his own straw. "Pure – Tom Fool Er-ree – emphasis on 'fool,' and that's you, young man."

"Well, pardon me, Mister 'I have no joy in my heart anymore' old timer."

"Still young at heart, even though I've got a full-grown man's body, unlike you." He aims his straw missile, and then at the last minute, turns left and blows it at Waldo.

That boy bumps his knee on the underside of the table, hands flying up to shield his upper body, and giggles erupting.

'Ah, my friends,' I think. 'A little bit grownup, a little bit kids at play.'

"So, what's the name of this place?" Ian asks of me.

"Papa FaBarre's."

"So, is that like the name of the founder of Famous-Barr or something?"

"No…." I give Waldo a slight smile; I think he'll get the 'insider' joke. "I read in the paper that about ten years ago, the head of the Display Department got involved with this new restaurant on the Second Floor and made up a fictional character – Papa. He's like a Disneyland version of the company's founding father, and out in the lobby are all sorts of 'his' memorabilia, like sports trophies and fishing gear."

York looks blank, saying, "But his painting is there…."

I chuckle. "The paper talked about that too. One of the Display guys did it. It's supposed to be a blend of the department boss and the artist himself, in full beard, of course."

Waldo muses, "That's cool, but they're playing a practical joke on everyone."

"Yeah," I agree. "But it’s like the look of the restaurant, they did it so it seems like it's always been here."

"Well, they did a good job with that," Ian says right before sipping some soda.

A group of teenage girls pass our curtains, and York trails them with his eyes. "Haven't been to the downtown store much. We usually go to the mall Famous-Barr's at Fairview Heights or South County." He leans out of the booth to see where the girls have been seated.

I tell the other three, "My mom used to bring me here when I was little, so this location will always be the true Famous to me."

An incredible aroma – rich and warm – immediately precedes our server as she arrives with a tray and a little folding stand, which she kicks out and puts her salver on.

"Here you go, boys!"

She puts the salads in two spots along the center of the table, and then uses a thick towel to pick up the molten-golden bowls of soup. As she sets the first one before Waldo, she warns: "Careful – it's hot!"

By the time the final one gets placed before me, a halo of rich toastiness encircles our table.

"Enjoy!" And then she goes, trailing a smile and good smells in her wake.

"It is hot," I second. "Let's start with the salad." I pick up the one closest to me and deftly scoot half onto my plate. I pass the Crab Louis to Ian.

I can see lettuce, iceberg and ruffley bib, under a mound of delicate crabmeat. Freshly cracked, and fringed with pink, my mouth starts to water. The waitress has also considerately put dressing in four little ramekins.

The other guys have served themselves, and we dig in.

'Mmm, so creamy and perfect.' And I have to say, with each bite, my inspection of the soup before me becomes more tempting, more urgent.

The bowl is heavy-duty glazed earthenware, and the entire top – rim and all – is coated in melted cheese, cheese which was still bubbling when placed before me.

I eat a portion of my salad, and then can wait no more. My spoon comes up and makes a dent in the gratin along the rim. Down it sinks to turn up the thick slice of toasted baguette under the cheese. Like a blossom opening to the splendors of the moon, the heady fragrance of the soup is allowed to bloom. Burgundy wine, warm spices like a suspicion of cloves, and the buttery sea of browned onions causes me to dare my first taste. I blow on the spoon and place it in my mouth.

'Just as I remember.' Some flavors never leave you, and I know this will be one sticking with me forever.

My buddies do the same, and within moments, a chorus of amazed looks circle our little group.

"They don’t call this soup Famous because of the store," I tell them. "It's because of the flavor!"

Nodding heads and generous slurps tell me we're all in consensus. I have a wistful thought, and voice it. "Eat up, boys. We won't have many more chances like this before we graduate in spring."

York nods, slurps and asks Ian, "Did you hear back from Edwardsville yet?"

Ian shakes his head; I know my buddy well enough to sense he's nervous about getting into college.

Waldo diverts attention. "And where are you going, York?"

"I'm going to Carbondale, and I'm gonna room with Kevin."

Hearing that other boy's name causes a slight ping in my heart.

Ian says, "You're going to Champaign-Urbana, right Waldo?"

He nods.

"Same as Harry. You guys consider rooming together?"

I look blankly at Waldo; he does the same at me.

I confess the truth, "We've never discussed it."

Without me knowing why, Waldo glances at his empty soup bowl and a rosy wash spreads under his freckles.

Two servers approach, both with trays and stands. The one goes to work clearing our plates and putting them on his empty receptacle, while the other returns with more hedonistic scents. Big oval plates with Patty-Melts and Reubens, and mounds of golden fries spilling off the rim get placed before us one by one.

I thought my hunger had been slaked by the soup and salad, but I was wrong, for sight and aroma combine right this moment to make my mouth water, again.

"We okay with drinks?"

"I could use another Coke," Ian says.

As the waitress turns, York chimes in, "And two more straws, if you please."

She puzzles, but nods before leaving.

The Reuben in front of me is cut from a huge loaf of marble rye. Caraway seeds cling to the toasted crust, and from the diagonal slice down the center, thin shavings – like panes of meat stained glass – peek out beneath strands of pepper-studded sauerkraut. Dribbles of rosy-red Russian dressing drool out from the sides.

My companions glob mounds of ketchup on their plates and start in on the fries. I pick up my sandwich.

At first bite, I suddenly remember how tucked out of sight is a perfectly broiled slice of Swiss cheese, unctuously adhering to the underside of the grilled rye.

Crunchy, meaty, smoothed by the dressing and brought to sour, picant perfection by the kraut, this is another mouthful I'll soon not forget.

After a minute or two of enjoyment, I inquire, "How's the Patty-Melt?"

York and Ian smile with closed, full mouths of food. Their eyes twinkle 'Delicious' and chins nod confirmation.

It's my mom's favorite, so I know Famous' Patty-Melt is a luscious chopped steak, hand-formed, grilled to medium-rare perfection and topped with sharp cheddar and red onions cooked in red wine and spices. Placed between toasted slices of country bread, it too is grilled and served sliced in half.

My unsettled mood from a few minutes ago comes back to me. "Are you guys looking forwards to graduation…?"

Ian dabs with a napkin, holding his Patty-Melt slice in mid-air. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, a big change – a huge one, really – is about to happen to us. We're dispersing, maybe gonna lose touch, and for sure, no matter what else, things won't be the same."

York asks, "But aren’t you looking forward to getting out in the world, to getting going with life?"

I shrug.

"I know what he means," Waldo says. "Harry's thinking about change, and I wonder what's gonna happen to us too."

"Not me," contradicts York. "I'm optimistic about the future and can't wait to get done with college; to get out there and change the world."

Ian asks, "What are you studying again?"

"Pre-Law."

Me, Waldo and Ian glance at each other, daring one another to laugh. We do. We can't help it.

York eats a fry, showing us the pink masticated mush as he says with pride, "Gonna change the world, not just conform to it." After loudly sucking up the dregs of the soda clinging to his melting ice cubes, he concludes, "I don’t want no regrets."

His sincere green eyes and perfect blond hair defy us to laugh again. And we don't.

Ian stammers: "Come on, York – you tellin' me you don’t have regrets now…?"

My intelligent friend has just hit on the meat of the matter.

York, confident, All-American, soccer-jock York, wavers a microsecond in sadness.

"Well," Ian sighs. "I have one, and I know it's foolish, cuz there's really nothing more I could have done, but I regret not saving Jon Ashton."

We're all silent. Jon was a classmate killed in a freak accident when we were freshmen, and Ian was by his side at the end, thanks to his EMT duties.

"You're a hero, man," Waldo says.

"Yeah, Ian," I tell him.

"Dude – you're a total hero, to us and to everybody in our class." York's bravado is totally absent.

Drinks arrive and two new straws.

After a few minutes of silent eating, another paper missile hits York's cheek. He chuckles, but it's not from mirth. "I have a regret too, but it's a small one."

"What is it?" I ask.

The athlete grins. "I always liked Christina Brickman. But I've never had the guts to tell her."

I look to Ian. "Um, isn't she like your sister's best friend?"

"Yeah. Christina's at my house all the time."

York's quiet, just polishing off the last of his fries.

Ian's a bit confused. He leans into the table a little and lowers his voice. "I mean why not ask her out, man? You're good looking, a jock plus a computer braniac, and you're confident."

The plainness of our buddy's statement affects York. He turns to each of us one by one. "I guess – I guess she's just the last person I want to hear say: 'Sorry, I don’t like you like that.'"

As I'm digesting the information, I notice a wayward glance from Waldo lingering on me.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Lunch is over. We're standing underneath the striped metal awning to Papa FaBarre's, near the Corbu chairs and open stained-glass doors. My buddies are slipping on their letterman jackets and leather coats, and I say, "I wanna go down and look at the store's holiday windows."

York cries out, "Boring! Me and Waldo wanna head to Dillard's and check out the team-wear."

"I'll see the windows with you, Harry," says Ian.

"Okay," I decide. "Let's meet up at the mall food court by 4:30."

York smirks. "Like spies. Okay, guys. Begin the synchronizing of watches." He pulls back his sleeve and plays with his black digital Casio. "On my mark…." He pauses. "It will be…exactly…2:16! GO!" The Polish Adonis slaps Waldo's chest, and the two take off running.

After me and Ian finish laughing, we head towards the 'Down' escalator.

"Kids," I say. "They're still just goofy kids."[7]

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Outside, the air is crisp. A few gray clouds have rolled in overhead, but mysteriously, that only seems to heighten the holiday lights downtown, especially those coming from the inside of Famous-Barr's windows.

Ian and I are walking along, hands thrust deep in coat pockets, but the chill still wraps the top of my denim-clad thighs like an ice blanket.

The displays have been framed out this year. A couple of white setbacks – like a shadowbox picture frame – draw the eye in and lend intimacy. The top part of these reveals are strung with thick swags; green garland of pine boughs slowly twinkle with clear lights from between where they are pinned with red and green plaid ribbon and bows.

We stop before one window. A round table is set with dinnerware atop a floor-length cloth, in fact two. The lower one is red calico with pale yellow designs, and a skirt, which comes down about halfway, is green with white stripes – both covers are ringed along the bottom edges with a crinkly, chunky lace.

Chairs are pulled out from the table, and an animated bear family is just sitting down to a Christmas breakfast of porridge and honey.

I glance at Ian's reflection in the glass; I don’t think he's fully present.

"Hey man," I tell him. "I'm sure you'll get into Edwardsville. If not there, then don’t worry; there are plenty of other schools."

He turns to face me. "Yeah. I try not to think about it. But hey, seriously, you and Waldo should think about rooming together. I like the kid."

"Me too. When he joined our class, mid-year like that, I don’t know – there was something sad and lost about him."

"He used to go to seminary school, right?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder what happened."

"I never really pressed him. He doesn't want to talk about it, except to call himself a 'priest-school escapee.'"

"Yeah, he jokes about it, but still – "

"I like him though. He's a nice guy, and he's a good guy too."

We move on to the next window. Creatures in motion abounded. A great swath of snow spills over the bottom edge of the white shadowbox, while close to the edge, snowbirds and robins cavort with a polka dot, life-size fawn. His little nose twitches, and head rotates side to side.

More animals, including the same family of bears, inhabit the background. A calico 'blanket' in mustard-yellow is spread, and the Ursus sit at a snowy picnic. [8]

Holiday music and the sound of kids' laughter pull us along to the next window – the corner window at Seventh and Locust.

Opened up inside so it's not just one window, but four, a miniature world lays itself out. Behind the same stepbacks and lit garland at top, an elaborate toy train setup features rivers and lakes, mountains and tunnels, farms and towns. Half a dozen trains of all types and descriptions slowly snake across multiple levels; crossing lights come on at their approach and lower arms to halt cars waiting at intersections; passenger trains pull into stations and pause to board and disembark riders; sightseeing cars with glass roofs and little seated figures glide through snow-topped Alpine peaks; and whole towns twinkle with holiday lights, Christmas trees in town squares and a beautifully lit department store of ivory terracotta.

Me and Ian slide in among the many kids standing spellbound, mittened hands – along with rapt attentions – glued to the action.

I tell Ian, "A group of hobbyists, I think they call themselves the American Flyer S Gaugers, or something like that, have set this up every year for the store since '85. It's a tribute to people remembering and loving Famous' train displays from the 1950s."

"It's cool, and judging by the kids here, more memories are being made." [9]

"So true."

"Speaking of memories, I miss Stix, Baer & Fuller. Now Dillard's is all right, but it's not the same."

"Yeah, Stix was awesome, and the Little Rock department store chain doesn’t have Gnomes at Christmas."

"I know, right! They were such cute little buggers. My mom still has some Gnomes shopping bags from Stix at home – the front showing Mr. Gnome's front, the back, showing his back with hands clutching a Stix bag with a gnome on the back of it."

"Yeah, what do they call it – a tunnel effect – each image shows its own image getting smaller and smaller."

"I know what you mean," I confess. "I'll never forget being a little kid and discovering the Gnomes display at the Crestwood Plaza Stix. I was pissed my mom wouldn't get the book for me, but it was under the tree Christmas morning."[10]

"Really?" Ian asks softly.

"Yeah. By the time I saw it, my mom had already bought one, secretly. That's 'adults' for ya, huh?"

"Yep."

"Breaks our little child hearts so they can 'surprise' us later on."

Motion catches our eye. At the corner, right below the pair of bronze Famous-Barr signs, the store's holiday mascot is posing for pictures with two children. Famous Bear is a polar cub – all white – and wears a long red knitted scarf and similar stocking cap. The headgear has his name woven into the front band, cutouts for his fluffy white ears to stick through, and a creamy pompom on top. His black eyes and nose are expressive, and so is his teddy-bear mouth.[11]

Several of the kids wear mini Famous Bear hats à la a certain Midwestern mouse now residing in Hollywood; the store gives them away for free.

The bear, or at least the guy in the costume, crouches down, and his mitten-like paws embrace the little girl and boy as their mom giggles and snaps next year's family Christmas card cover.

The kids leave his side, and although it sounds odd, I swear the department store mascot seems to perk up as he rises and spots me.

"I don’t know…."

There's misery in Ian's voice and I immediately forget about the guy in the costume.

"Jon Ashton's death was horrible, Harry. He was an experienced rock climber, but one – I don’t know – slip, sweaty fingers or something, and he went crashing to the bottom of the old quarry outside of town."

My friend's eyes turn to me. "He was mangled, Harry. Bloody and broken. And I took his hand and cradled his head in my lap, and he opened his eyes and said 'Ian?'"

"Ah, man."

His general anxiety boils over. "He said my name, squeezed my hand and asked if it was bad. I nodded, and then he said 'I'm glad it's you; a friendly face – ' and then he died. Right then and there, he died."

"Ian – "

"Why couldn't I help him, Harry? Why?"

"Buddy," I sigh, hoping he'd see my point. "You did help him. You were there for him. He didn't die alone or confused or among strangers."

"I mean, why couldn't I get there five minutes earlier; why not do something?!"

"It's not a question you or I can answer. It's not even one that's fair to ask."

That doesn't seem to help him.

He continues, nearly pleading, a tear forming, "I'm not as athletic as York, I'm not as smart and knowledgeable as you, and I'm probably not as 'good and nice' as Waldo. What am I, Harry? That's a fair question to ask."

"Perhaps it is; maybe we all ask it. But you can't let it get you down. There's this poem called Desiderata. One of the lines says something like: 'You are a child of the universe, and as much as the trees and stars you have a right to be here.'"[12]

I put my hand on his lower arm, but he walks away. He rounds the corner, past the mascot, and looks in the other side of the corner window. I wish he'd let me help him more, assuming I could.

Suddenly I notice the polar cub's coal-black eyes trained on me. In another moment, he cocks his head like an inquisitive, sympathetic puppy dog. It's almost as if the silent mascot wants to say something to me, but what it could be, I have no idea.