Famous Bear and the Ivory Tower of Commerce - 2. Chapter 2: Saturday, December 10th – "Drawn to the Place"

Chapter 2: Saturday,

December 10th – "Drawn to the Place"

I re-shift the weight of my paratrooper bag. The woven strap settles more comfortably on my football jacket while I lean down to pick up a shirt. The tee is a neatly folded jersey-style one with blue yoke, collar and sleeve cutouts. Emblazoned across the front, in unsuitably cheerful letters, is a motto oft repeated in these parts: "The Mets are Pond Scum." A maxim first uttered by legendary Cardinal's first baseman and winner of eleven Golden Gloves in a row, Keith Hernandez, it was done in a brilliant moment of total media clarity. Since then it's become a rallying cry to focus the contrast between the two cities, and the teams' extraordinarily different sets of supporters.

I chuckle as I refold it, prior to setting it down, and think, 'They don't call fans fanatics for no reason.'

I'm on the Third Floor of Dillard's downtown store, perusing their selections in the Men's Sportswear Department. Racks of red jerseys and tees, sweat pants and shirts too – all featuring the bat and double-bird logo of the baseball Cardinal's – litter the open floor space. Children's wear versions sport the friendly image of Fredbird, the team's mascot. He runs out and delights the kids before and during breaks in the hometown games.

I move on to another section. Here, white, royal blue and gold colors announce I've moved into hockey territory. The Saint Louis Blues are rightly renowned, and even had Wayne Gretzky on the team for a while. I remember him being on the radio once, saying local drivers were a menace to his Canadian-driving-school upbringing – so be it, I guess.

I glance up to a grouping of mannequins and see Blues sleeping wear will be a trend this Christmas season. Man, woman and child are arranged in a pre-bed gathering – the 'mom' in a silky two-piece pajama set; the kid in knitwear-slash-sweat clothes tees and pants with blue scrunchy cuffs; and the guy – most surprisingly of all – in a calf-length nightshirt! It has long sleeves, a deacon-style collar open up to the chest, and the team's proud musical note logo below it.

My 'backpack' – which I have to reposition again – is one I like; it's unusual, not too big, but simply large enough to hold a pad of notebook paper and pens. Plus it only cost me a few dollars at the thrift store. The Salvation Army on Forest Park Avenue is also where I picked up my 1940s Remington typewriter for fifteen bucks. The thing works like a charm, and will outlive me, that I know for sure.

For this second December Saturday in a row, I've decided to come to the Centre. However, this time I chose to park at Dillard's garage. There's a boxy skybridge from it to the department store, crossing cattycorner over the intersection of Seventh and Lucas, four stories in the air. It's a bit narrow, but I enjoy the view almost anywhere I go.

'Like this store,' I think as I move on. 'It's no Famous, but still….'

I start heading towards Dillard's entrance into the mall, passing by a display of SLU Bilikins' apparel. This college-level basketball team is a perennial favorite.

'It's a shame big-money interests broke the fans' hearts and moved our NFL team out of town,' I consider as I move on.

The wide opening into Saint Louis Centre beckons with light and high ceilings. I suddenly realize, that although Dillard's is nice and all, they took Stix, Baer & Fuller's grand flagship store, and cut out the natural light and lowered the ceilings. The result is a confined feeling space; a sterile, cookie-cutter mall store that could almost be anywhere. But, as I say, it is nice.

I come out onto the top level of the three-story bridge connecting the department store to the shopping center. I like it up here, for a glass barrel vault lets me see the twelve stories of the store's building in close-up detail. A brick-clad structure, the wide windows are uniformly capped in dark gray masonry. Simple and the same time decorative, square-cut lintels have foliate and circle designs, while a elaborate 'keystone' resembles a Victorian cornflower with leaves and a stem. Eastlake, my father taught; this particular style of late 19th century architecture and design is after the manner of an Englishman named George Eastlake.

I cross the wide boulevard of Washington Avenue, fifty feet above the traffic, and step to a particular spot I love. Between the store and mall, the architects have planned a 'vista point,' and I often stop for long moments to gaze at the view. From here a dozen or more uniform blocks stretch to the west along Washington, entirely comprised of twelve to fifteen story tall warehouse-corporate-headquarters of the olden days, including International Shoe and Sports Illustrated.

I try to take a mental snapshot; I don’t want to ever forget this sight.[1]

Moving into the four-level section that connects to the northern STL Centre plaza entrance, I get on the down escalator. The crowds are lively, bundled up, feeling festive, and I suppose counting down those limited shopping days till Xmas.

On the main level, I start heading south. The large, creamy floor tiles are set at a forty-five-degree angle, and attractive borders in sage and grape hues line the sides.

Up ahead and to my left, twenty-foot-tall sections of glass open up into the lobby of the international headquarters of Edison Brothers. Their twenty-five-story, pink-granite tower was built at the same time as the Centre, and nestles neatly amid the stores. Why? Well, this retailing giant pioneered the concept of shop franchising, so half the names you know – like J. Riggings, Payless Shoes, Jeans West, OakTree, Dave & Buster's Restaurants – are actually Edison Brothers properties. It's befitting their corporate headquarters would be attached to, and blend in seamlessly with, America's largest urban mall.[2]

I take a few steps to my right. One of the amazing, and I'd say unique, features of this shopping center is how integrated into the cityscape it is. Most downtown malls, in a similar way to Dillard's store, look inward; you could quite frankly be anywhere in the country, or in any suburban buying arcade, but not so here. The designers take the wanderer's eyes up and out of the building via the unbroken run of glass vaulting. The entire city rises around them. From where I stand now, I glance up, and there is Edison Brothers' skyscraper – unmistakable – soaring above my head; a glance in the other direction, and the dark and modern steel crisscross of the equally tall Mercantile Bank headquarters rising through the glass roof to my right.

I walk on, still looking up and admiring the multiple sizes of massive origami cardinals in flight. They hang via invisible fishing line from the ceiling and seem to be flying south for the winter.

One of the biggest stores in the mall comes into view on the left. A relatively new name in retail, Laura Ashley, has some odd apparel for women.

Quite frankly, I don’t get the sugar-n-spice, Jane Austen fairyland appeal of the clothes. I wonder: 'When did dressing Amish become hot? What's next – Little House on the Prairie sunbonnets on the disco floor?'[3]

I laugh out loud, readjusting my paratrooper bag, trying not to look too crazy, but still, it's a pretty funny idea. I should write that down later.

At the main atrium space, right in the center of the Centre, I take the curved steps with all their green and fresh-smelling planter boxes up to the third level. Pausing at the handrail to lean on it, I survey the crowds moving and get a fairly close inspection of the mall's white Christmas tree with red bows. An array of presents are in a frozen tumble all around it.

I go up one more level more and head towards the twinkling strains of music.

The white lacquer baby grand has its own specifically designed demi-luna balcony. I lean against the straight handrail on the other side of the circulation aisle and listen. Moms, dads, and kids are to my left and right doing the same thing.

The young woman playing is dressed formally in a black sequin gown, and her hands glide effortlessly over the keyboard. Her melody? It's one I recognize from my dad's LP collection.

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have praised you

For the cryptic beguilement of your eyes…

My sight drifts across the way. To my right is Camelot Music. They have counter-height display racks loaded with bins and bins of cassette tape bargains halfway out their door and halfway into the mall circulation space to lure shoppers inside, where the more expensive tapes, albums and compact discs are waiting. I wonder if I should ask my mom for a Discman this Christmas. Full-priced CD's are $15-to-$17 a pop – when the cheapo tapes, the only kind I buy, are $3.99. But maybe the sound is better on disc, as they say. I guess I'm still a bit undecided; I can't imagine how long CD's will be around either, cuz who knows what the next 'thing' will be.

I'm on the prowl again, going up to the top level. As the steel steps carry me higher, another awesome vista inches into view. The block-long, beautiful ivory and glass monolith of Famous-Barr unfolds majestically through the window glass of the ceiling, and makes me consider the designers' laid out the whole Centre just to feature this world-class department store. At night, when the city lights come on, and the story-high white letters 275 feet above the sidewalk start to glow, the effect is literally breathtaking.

No other mall in America offers this kind of spectacle, and only one was designed to take full advantage of it.

I start to walk towards the store, allowing my nostrils to notice the cart-like perfume kiosk nearby.

'Umm, Giorgio,' I think. I know the scent because all the magazines these days have scented sample strips of this Beverly Hills fragrance pasted into their pages.

Just before the bridge starts that will take me to Famous, another opening forms, and I pause leaning on the handrail here. One blank wall was set aside for a special project, and now a twenty-foot-tall Lindbergh mural resides here. Actually, I read in the papers this is known as 'Lindbergh II,' as the original was a six-story portrait of the aviator's face. To save the artwork from the wrecking ball, the artist took pictures on a scaffold and reassembled his black and white photo mosaic here in the Centre. On the wall next to it is a photo of the original installation, along with the history of the effort to salvage it.

It's a success story in a city not known for many attempts at historical preservation.[4]

I cross over Locust Street, watching the traffic flow west far below my feet, and get caught up by the wide-open and inviting entry to Famous. This side too allows pedestrians a brid's-eye view of the anchor store's structure close up, and I love this spot because it lets me come within inches of the glorious terracotta 'flesh' on the Railway Exchange Building – the home of this company's flagship store – including through the clear arched skylight barrel vault.

Passing between the security wickets, I re-shoulder my bag again and glance around.

The top level of the mall puts a shopper on Famous-Barr's Fourth Floor, or right into the heart of ladies' fashion.

I hear excited laughter and voices.

Smile! Say Cheese!

Down the main aisle, about thirty paces to my right, some kids are posing in the embrace of Famous Bear. They too are sporting the white ears and red stocking caps à la Mickey Mouse Famous gives out the youngsters.

I go up and watch as the next family 'in line' takes up position with the store's goodwill ambassador. The bear seems to spot me – a little tilt of his white head aims in my direction, and what I swear looks like a glint appears in his black costume eyes.

The mom and kids depart, and the bear comes up to me. At first he cops an akimbo pose facing me, and then slumps his shoulders and drops his arms. A moment later, his big white mitten paws come up and air-paints a grin across his features.

When I laugh, one paw lifts up as if to say 'Wait,' while the other one pats his person like he's looking for something. He pauses, scratching a white ear, and then apparently remembers the something important. He reaches to the brim of his knit cap, the one with his name on it, and a small piece of folded paper comes out from between his red stocking headgear and his snowy fur.

He hands it to me, that 'look' back in his eye.

Puzzled, I open it, read and wonder what's going on.

Mr. Bear stands there, waiting for a reply, and I nod.

After he pats my shoulder and walks away, I read the message again: "Meet me, Skybridge Café, 3:30."

˚˚˚˚˚

"Views shuffle and change,

the dealt cards always seem strange

to the one before whom they're laid –

'fore it's our chance to rearrange.

When the dealer's paid,

when the trump-holding bet's made,

and thoughts of loss are tossed like quoits –

who's to say we bluff unafraid?

And thus is my choice

chosen by another voice

who has the genuine control –

and for me will weep or rejoice."

I set down my pen and read it over. The start of this new poem feels okay; nothing special. We'll see if I can make it 'say' what I want it to, or more precisely, if it can ever reveal the things hidden in the concept I might not have known.

In any event, I'm glad I decided to bring my paratrooper bag and notebook. I do it in case the muse attacks, which she often does in public.

I glance at my watch; it's 3:10.

Picking up my mug of hot chocolate, I use my sipping motion as excuse to look around. The concession stand here is like a tribute to an old-time peanut or hotdog wagon; it's loosely tented with a burgundy and white striped awning, plus has two large wheels of gilded spokes at one end, and a golden bar across the other to push it. The attendant, in her uniform clearly designed to match the awning, is loading the freestanding, circus-like popcorn machine noisily with rock-hard kernels. Soon the Skybridge, used by folks moving from the Fourth Floor of Famous to the store's parking garage, will be filled with the tempting sound and aroma of the treat.

I rotate on my marble window seat, enjoying the baseboard heat blowing warmth on my ankles. My coat is draped on one of the two chairs at my table, and my deflated backpack rests on the bench next to me. Several tables line the long side of the enclosure, but currently there's only me and a mother and young son drinking an Icee – a frozen concoction of fruit syrup and minutely crushed ice. 'Burr,' I think and involuntarily shiver.

This place is like a greenhouse; one suspended forty-five feet in the air. Bronze ribs arch overhead and have twinkling lights attached. The curved glass 'walls' are fitted with white latticework, where diamond-shaped windows allow viewing down to the traffic of Olive Street. Now these cutouts are decorated with lighted wreaths of fresh evergreens. I gaze out and enjoy the city view.

I suddenly hear a sound. I turn to see a guy plopping his stuffed gym bag on the same chair as my coat, and then sitting himself down in the other.

He folds his hands over his abdomen and slumps in his seat a little while I brush off the vaguely odd notion that he somehow looks familiar; I've never met him before. The guy is about ten years older than me, average height and build, has brown hair and eyes, and sports a trim-but-full mustache. He's dressed all in denim: a classic Levi's jacket over a darker-blue shirt, and jeans well worn to the point of being shredded at the knees.

"I'm glad you could make it," he tells me.

There's a little careworn sadness to his face, but I sense no danger from him.

I notice my open page of poetry, and shove it and my pen into my paratrooper bag.

When I look back at him, Mr. Bear does not ask about what he's spied – which is a relief – but appears content to have seen it anyway.

He sits upright, draws his chair in a little. "I'm on my afternoon break for an hour."

"It's a cool job. Do you like it?"

"It's okay. Real fun when the little ones pile on at the corner window."

"I bet."

"Have you been to Santaland – I mean, Bearland – yet?"

"No. It's kinda for kids."

"True, but definitely worth checking out this year."

"Yeah?"

His chocolaty eyes are rather expressive; out of the corner of my perception, the smell and sound of toasting popcorn comes to me.

"Yep," he says, grinning slightly. "The head of the Display Department's a creative guy. His name's Achitoff, and him and his lovely wife, Naomi, came up with a forest scene this year."

"Like all the woodland creatures in the display windows?"

"Exactly. And this year Santa has a helper."

"Not a certain polar bear cub, by any chance…?"

"Nope," he chuckles. "I guess because the guy's parents are Russian, he invented a Snow Princess. She walks around Bearland, posing with kids for pictures, helps Santa hand out Santabooks and grab bags – that sort of thing."

"Cool."

"You like this store, don’t you?" He seems to already know the answer.

"Yes. And you like your job, don’t you?"

"Truth? I love it. It may not be cool nowadays to show too much interest in anything, but I do love it."

Motion to my left draws my attention. More people enter through the doors from the parking structure, and I see them immediately inhale with broadening smiles.

I tell the stranger sitting across from me, "Well, I get something out of coming to this place. Like you say, it may not be 'cool' to be enthusiastic about anything not related to sports or making money, but I can't really explain the attraction to others. And this Skybridge is one of my favorite spots here."

The store mascot sits back, knitting fingers behind his head. "Why's that?"

"When I was a boy, this bridge was the store's front door to me. My mom always parked in Famous' garage, and we'd take the elevator to this level. The moment that door opened – wham – I'd smell popcorn from this café. We'd walk over Olive Street, while I'd look at the ribs and the traffic, and my heart rate would accelerate.

"I'm glad you info'ed me that. It explains a lot."

I watch a knowing little look spread across his face, so I ask, "Why'd you pass me that note?"

"I saw you last week, and thought I'd bump into you again."

"Umm…."

"Truth is, you remind me of someone I used to know. A kid I went to high school with."

I shrug. "Okay."

The guy pops to his feet and hefts his bag, easily threading the strap over his neck and raised arm. "This is your favorite spot in the store? Come on; I'll show you mine."

He tosses me my jacket, and I watch him move towards the garage doors.

When he gets there, his forearm pauses on the pull bar and he regards me.

Intrigued, I reluctantly stand to put on my coat. I hope I'm doing the right thing.

˚˚˚˚˚

The elevator door opens on the top level of the concrete parking structure.

"Let me stow my stuff," he calls out and goes up to a car.

It's the only one anywhere up here, as the sky with its blue-gray canopy provides no warmth or protection to shoppers this chill December Saturday.

We take a few paces, me adjusting my backpack strap so it grabs ahold of my football jacket more firmly; I thrust hands in my pockets.

Bear goes up with an extended key and unlocks the door to the back seat. I pause behind the car and notice two things: a Michigan license plate, and a rainbow bumper sticker. I know what the second item means and think it's cool.

"This way, Harry." He slams the door and locks it again.

He walks over to the far corner, leaning a wide stance against the parapet handrail and gazing out to the west. I come next to him and do the same.

"See that?" he asks, pointing to a yellow brick skyscraper cattycorner across Seventh Street. "That's the Union Trust Company Building, designed by Louis Sullivan."

I know the place, but from the sidewalk it looks completely different. Down there, Art Deco ziggurats of black mirrored-glass and chrome frame elegant storefronts. Up here, the tower is a balance of plain brick surfaces and ornate foliate decorations. At the corners, animal masks stick out.

"What are those," I ask, "wolves?"

"I've heard they're supposed to be jaguar or lynx – North American pride; indigenous animals and all that – but I agree with you. They seem more canine."

These 'guardian spirits' of the building are fully formed heads, perhaps half the size of a full-grown man, sticking out at the corners right below an arcade of columns. This colonnade forms the upper two stories of the structure and ends in a truly massive and intricate cornice. The opposite of a Greco-Roman knockoff, Sullivan's cap to the fourteen-floored edifice ungulates with ins and outs of an abstracted natural design. At about ten feet in height itself, it juts out at least half that distance from the building.[5]

I realize the Union Trust Company's neighbor is a perfect match for it in height and width, but otherwise it could not be more different. While Sullivan's structure is a ballet of large sections of plain vertical elements, and bold, deeply protruding ornamental details, the other is red brick, and evenly garnished all over with low relief, classical decorations. "What's that building called?"

"Chemical Bank Building."

"Oh, yeah…?" I suddenly remember where it is at street level. It fronts the intersection of Eight and Olive. "That's where the Norelco shop is!"

He turns to regard me, a little closed-mouth smile flickering below his mustache.

"You know," I tell him, "the shop where you can get the electric shavers. I used to love that commercial as a kid – claymation Santa moving through the deep snow in the head of an electric razor."[6]

"Yeah, it's a shame they don’t play it anymore."

"I know, right!"

"Anyway, did you know the Florsheim in the Union Trust Building, at the corner of Seventh and Olive, is that company's flagship shoe store?"

"No."

"Yeah, they have stores all around the world, but there is only one that's the real one. The leader, at the forefront."

His glance seems to goad me to something a brief moment before lifting over our heads to Famous-Barr. The massive, block-long, block-wide structure soars like a cliff face right across the street from us.

"That's cool, man," I admit. "So, you like this spot, huh?"

"Yep."

"Don’t laugh now…."

He eyes me. "What?"

My attention returns to Famous. "Speaking of flagship stores, this building is so beautiful, I often think of it as the Ivory Tower of Commerce."

I turn fully expecting to catch a smirk, but I don’t. The older guy is looking at me with a wistful expression, one that burst like a soap bubble right away.

'There's something…déjà vu.' This man is oddly familiar, but I can't put my finger on it – he reminds me of someone; there's a certain comfortableness I feel when I'm around him; a particular easy way he holds his head and makes expressions.

"I notice your license plate is outta state. You from Michigan?"

"Nope. I grew up around here, in fact."

"That's cool."

He says nothing.

"So," I ask, "you work – seasonally?"

"I travel around, like to explore and see the country. I don’t stay in one place too long."

"Sounds, kinda lonely."

"It can be, but it's right for me, at least at this stage in my life."

"Living your life on your own terms is good. Me and my buddies discuss that a lot these days, since we'll be graduating high school in a few months. Some of it – the break up of our little crew, the uncertainty – is daunting and scary. Some of it – looking forward to getting out there and making a difference – is exciting. Exciting and scary."

"I know. I remember being your age. At the crossroads."

"You do?"

"Yeah. To conform or not to conform, that is the question."

"A Shakespeare riff. I like it."

"Hey, man," he says, shifting around so he can fold his denim-clad arms and lean his lower back against the parapet. "What are you and your buddies like?"

"Us?" I chuckle. "We goof off a lot, act stupid a lot, but we have good conversations too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Ian is a good guy, self-conscious about his grades, but one of the smartest guys I know; York is handsome, an all-American boy into sports and computers, and his bravado is a bit of a mask; then there's Waldo – well, he's a tad quiet. There's something a little hidden and intriguing about Waldo, but I like him. I like all of my close friends."

"And you?"

"And me, what?"

"You told me what your friends are like, but how would you describe you?"

I pause for a moment, asking with skepticism, "You mean my personality?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

An ironic laugh escapes my throat. "I'm a bit sentimental, which I try to smother in sarcasm. I'm good at observation and know when to keep my mouth shut so I can 'see' stuff properly. I like goofy situations and serious people who know how to laugh – is that enough?"

His head nods slightly; another closed-off grin plays about the corner of his mouth. I have to say, the guy does look pleased.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"You're welcome, I guess." I lean on the low wall next to him, and inspect his profile. His mood has changed. "What is it, man? You look kinda sad."

"Do I? Sorry. I like this gig, but you know – it's temporary. Maybe I'm already thinking about having to move on."

"Still got several weeks till Christmas."

"Yes. Say, you ever think about some decisions you've made in life and wish you could do them over again?"

"Like regrets, you mean?"

"Yeah."

I have to think about that; I'm only seventeen.

"I've got one big one," he admits.

"Oh, yeah. What's that?"

He positions himself to lean one elbow on the wall and look at me squarely. "It was a long time ago now – ten years, in fact."

"What kind of 'bad decision' did you make?"

"A little one, at least it seemed little then. I regret not telling someone how much I liked him."

"Oh. Is it too late now?"

"Yeah. He's a big shot writer out in L.A. I blew it. We were high school buddies, even went to the same college together."

"And he's a writer, you say?"

"Yeah." A grin reappears. "A really talented and ambitious one too."

"I dabble."

"Do you?"

"Yeah…." I swing my bag around. "In fact, I've got a copy of a story I've been wrapping up." I pause. "You wouldn’t want to – "

"Read it?"

"Yes. Give me your impressions?"

He stood tall. "It'd be my pleasure."

I pull up the flap, and as the slightly crumpled 'clean copy' of my story comes out with my hand, I hold it still for a moment. "You know, I don’t even know your name. I'm Harry."

An oddly emotional expression accompanies a quick blink before it vanishes again; he holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Harry. Famous Bear at your service, or Geraldo to my friends."

"It's nice to meet you too." I shake his hand and then place my story in his grasp.

But…I can't shake the impression that Mr. Bear is indeed perplexingly familiar.