Practically Perfect - 1. I. It's a Good Day

 

Practically

Perfect ~

Christmas at Famous-Barr 1964

 

 

 

A Novella

By

AC Benus

 

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Contents

 

Act One – A Familiar Situation

 

I. Scene 1: It's a Good Day

II. Scene 2: A Cakewalk through the Store

III. Scene 3: Goodwill; Day-Old Jesus Fish; and Escape via The Salvation Army

 

 

Act Two – Gardening

 

IV. Scene 1: "Perfect pish posh, I'm sure"

V. Scene 2: A Soupçon of Hope

VI. Scene 3: Holiday Magic

 

 

Act 3 – Saint Nicholas Day

 

VII. Scene 1: Highest Possible Vantage

VIII. Scene 2: Seeing Things Clearly

IX. Scene 3: Fink Flies a Kite

 

 

Cover Art: Famous-Barr newspaper ad announcing the holiday theme for the 1964 Christmas season.

 

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I. Act One – A Familiar Situation

Scene 1: It's a Good Day

 

ONE Cannot forever fly in and out of a person's life like a stork hopping from chimney-top to chimney-top, but when the situation demands the services of one such as I, chances are one such as I will cross your threshold with a carpetbag of sundry magic, and an outlook guaranteed to thaw glacial hearts. At least that's what I've been told, for I've Popped in and out of human affairs more times than a respectable lady should care to count.

New yet familiar circumstances presented themselves, and I was off. Somehow it seems the agitation between youthful hope and agèd registration is enough to fill the air beneath my open umbrella, and lead me onwards to the next doorstep where we are most wanted . . . .

P. L. Travers

Mary Poppins Arrives

     

  ˚˚˚˚˚

 

"Did you see what Stix is doing again this year?!" She takes a moment out of her work to adjust the hair band on her 'flip' do. "They're just hauling out Mickey and Company for the millionth time, no biggie. And Scruggs – don’t even get me started. Back to their rich old man in a red velvet suit."

The young woman's demeanor makes Bruce chuckle; she usually does with her 'one of the fellas' banter. He doesn't have many female friends – not many close friends at all – and Naomi Tyson is certainly the only African American girl with whom he feels he can be himself.

"Rich, old The Man, you mean."

She laughs too. "Sounds like you've been hangin' around me too much. What would your boss say?!"

The instant Naomi says it, she regrets it. Her self-appointed task was to distract her friend, the Display Department phenom, from his worries, not highlight them.

For now at quarter to nine in the morning, with the store opening in forty-five minutes, it was do or die time. Sweaty and exhausted from having worked all night, members of three entire departments buzz around the First Floor. Window Dressers put the finishing touches on nearly two-dozen animated tableaux behind the glass covers of the sidewalk spectacles. Housekeeping runs vacuums, buffers for the marble floors, and noiseless feather dusters here and there where they can, out of the way of the third, most harried group. The Display Department is wrapping up its yearly efforts by carrying their fifteen-foot ladders, and rolling their pneumatic lifts, towards the staff doors and freight elevators beyond.

Lurking around the corners of this activity with oily criticism for all is the Display Department boss. Jerahmeel Fink – a wiry man in his fifties with dark-framed glasses, a gray crew cut and withering curl to his upper lip – observes, contemplates out loud and orders adjustments, but Jerahmeel Fink steadfastly refuses to be moved by the holiday spirit his staff has so joyfully unfurled across the thirteen and a half floors of Famous-Barr's flagship store. Not even a million and a quarter square feet of showroom charm could budge Fink's attitude of determined reserve.

Hogwash is often on his mind and he seems not to remember what it's like to be young, how stressful it is, and how magic does not come into being without great efforts. One young man in his employ, for example, has been laboring an entire year for this moment with little encouragement of heart from the older man and mentor. Soon a flip of a switch would prove whether he's facing failure or triumph.

However, a young lady of the store, one who does not need to be here, rolled up her sleeves and worked through the night to show her confidence in Bruce; after all, that's what 'pals' do.

They are in cleanup-mode, moving along from aisle to aisle ahead of Housekeeping's vacuums and floor buffers. Plastic bags rustle in their hands as they pick up stray bits of garland and white branches, plus scraps of colorful construction paper trimmed from the column cover decorations.

Bruce Achitoff shows his fatigued state, for sometimes being a spry twenty-one-year-old takes the most out of a person.

"Sounds like you've been hangin' around me too much. What would your boss say?!"

The whirling drone of a nearby vacuum sounds grows closer for a moment, but then fades.

Bruce smiles. "Nothing good, I'm sure."

Naomi sighs in relief and the two continue on their way. They round a corner and start slowly heading west, towards the end of the store where the Candy Counter and a small specialty restaurant reside. The young man maintains a 'heads-down' approach so he can stay calm. If he perchance glances up, at the labor of his work-year, he'd feel his pulse go thready in anxiety. A failure now would be worse than awful. He suspects his job would go away.

Naomi knows what's on her friend's mind. "Bruce, what you've come up with will pop shoppers' brains. No other store will have anything like it – it's a genius concept."

Bruce straightens up, letting his plastic refuse bag go limp in his grip. "You think so?"

Naomi comes close to him. Conviction rings in her voice. "I know so."

Lost in their moment, neither perceives the Display Department Manager coming up behind them. His voice seems to come out of nowhere, warning them, "All right; enough yammering. Thank you for pitching in, Miss Tyson, but we really do have to finish this cleanup." He adjusts his thick, black-framed glasses at her. "This store has to open in forty minutes, and there's no guarantee Mr. Achitoff's concept wasn't a wild goose chase."

"Sorry, Mr. Fink," Bruce intones hastily, guiding Naomi back to a scrap of garland on the floor. "We'll get it done."

After watching him go, Bruce bends down to help his friend. He suspects she has a quip ready, and prefers it be said to him and not his boss.

"Old Jerry…" she smirks "…sure knows how to get under the skin."

"Yeah." He had hoped to quash further discussion, but even he could hear the complexity of feelings coming through his one-word reply.

"What's his deal anyway?"

"He's all right. I'm used to him, and I admire him."

The girl scoffs.

"It's true." His hand gestures up to the ceiling. "See all these columns, well imagine seeing them as tree trunks. Back for Christmas 1950, that's what he did. Fink looked at these ordinary things and came up with an idea of placing several rows of branches around the top of them – every single 'trunk.' They stuck out ten to fifteen feet, and were graceful and loaded with giant ornaments. I've seen pictures. It must have been pure magic. He recaptured the wonder of being a kid and lying under the tree and looking up, or of being a gnome walking through an enchanted Christmas forest. Don't laugh, but I really do admire his creativity and vision."

She's quiet a moment, drinking in his wonder, but finally cracks a smile. "Well, okay. Now, if we could only get him a personality transplant, we'd be – "

"You're a good friend, Naomi. Thank you."

Satisfied she'd lifted his spirits, she laughs and bobs to her feet. "Whoa – put the brakes on, big fella – I'm just tellin' ya like it is."

Bruce rises to his feet as well, sensing a grin crack his sometimes too-Russian exterior. She's always good for him.

As they begin to pass the candy displays, Naomi's attention drifts left, to the main Cosmetics area.

"Did you hear?" she asks excitedly. "KMOX came this week to film a program about ethnic diversity at Famous. They interviewed Patti Johnson, Head of Cosmetics, right there! Lights, cameras and everything."

"Brilliant. But why are they doing it?"

"It's to celebrate the passing of the Civil Rights Bill. Famous is a role model. In fact, I saw in Store Chat how Barbara Curry from the Special Events Department is giving a series of lectures."

"She is?"

"Yeah, for the Better Business Bureau of Saint Louis. She's gonna be telling others how Famous and The May Company have been so good at it for so long; help others get up to speed." [1]

"Well, I hope I see Patti on TV. She's nice, and a classy lady. I hear her son is a big shot over at Sports Illustrated."

"Talent runs in the family, I guess."

Beyond the edge of the Candy Counter, Naomi's place of work within the store comes into view. Grabbing a loose scrap of yellow cardboard, Bruce uses it to point with a laugh. "Your joint must be quiet as a cricket farm this time of year. You'll be able to catch up on your beauty sleep from now till Christmas – and you need it!"

Naomi sputters in her slow deliberate way: "Boy – you better watch it. You know I can take you down. And even if I can't, remember, I've got plenty of gnarly brothers who'll whoop your Teddy Boy backside."

"Yeah? I'd like to see 'em try. We Teds can be hard when we need to."

"Can be what now…?"

"'Hard' – you know, tough!" He beats his chest Tarzan-style and causes the girl to spill open laughter between them.

Naomi regroups and goes on to defend her professional honor. "Besides, I ain't gonna be sleeping. Christmas time is one the busiest. Tired moms wanna pacify their little ones, and what's better than tiny little spoons?"

"Hmmm, never thought of that."

Naomi simply flashes her attractive eyebrows a couple of times and lets loose with a radiant smile. "It's you who's gonna be lazin' once this stuff is up and running."

"Yeah," he chuckles. "I can only hope."

Bruce pauses in his own thoughts to consider their improbable friendship. Unlike Fink, who won't even encourage him in the slightest way, Naomi seems to buoy him without trying. She also likes to pummel him with friendly ribbing, or 'throwdowns' as she calls them. But how did he come to quickly think of a black girl a couple years his senior as such a good friend and confidant?

He wonders.

When did it all start…? Back when it was warm, I guess. That first meeting…yeah…it all started one hot summer's day….

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

In Fink's mind it was easy to equate the sticky feel of the shirt clinging to his body to the 'mugginess' of the rock-and-roll music blaring over the store's PA system.

The man extracted his limp handkerchief. It had been riding in the breast pocket of his summertime suit coat, but now ascended to wipe sweat from his eyes and brows.

To compound matters, on this humid June afternoon, people were not watching where they were clomping up the wide staircase from Blick's basement. He hated this downtown art supply shop, because the Washington Avenue outlet was enormous, spread over several floors, and always packed to the gills with 'artsy-fartsy' types.

He lowered his handkerchief to step aside. Two women and one man in their early twenties pushed past him with nary an acknowledgement of his gracious stopping to let them pass. He applied pressure to the weight of his glasses as he watched them continue up.

What was worse than their rudeness? The fact that Jerahmeel Fink had to come and do this errand at all; he was the boss.

He proceeded down to the sub-level. The music annoyed him.

More of those guttersnipes – The Beatles hogwash?!

His mood was rapidly souring.

Once there he headed to the center of the floor.

He arrived at the mat-cutting table, which was larger than a king-sized bed, to find two Blick 'kids' wearing aprons in slovenly disarray. The taller one was black and wore glasses, and the smaller one was blond and pimply, but neither seemed interested in having their discussion interrupted by someone as lowly as a customer.

"Nah, man," the taller one said. "This Bay of Tonkin thing is a big deal. Mark my words. Congress already rubber-stamped a war powers act for President Johnson."

The fair-haired boy mused out loud: "I wonder if The Draft will be reinstated."

The other one laughed. "Whoa, don’t get ahead of yourself – "

Fink cleared his throat loudly; he didn't want to be upset, but he was getting there. The boys' conversation reminded him of bad things.

The shorter young man glanced at Jerahmeel for a moment, and then restored his attention to his coworker. "You think it's too early to be sweatin' about it, man? We'll see."

The taller one shook his head slowly, but distracted his own thought. "Look, you got a customer. I'll catch ya later."

The young man with the glasses offered a nod and grin at Fink before walking away.

"Later!" the mat cutter called after him, then kicked his hands far out on the counter. An indolent blue twinkle in his eye shone out from under the kid's moptop haircut for Fink. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"You got an order of mats for Famous-Barr?"

The young man brightened. "Where's Bruce?!"

"He's in a meeting, and I'm his boss. So, if you could shuffle along, I've got more important things to do back at the studio."

The attendant straightened up. To Jerahmeel's eyes it seemed the kid was 'hurt,' but if that were true, then the boy was pretty namby-pamby in the older man's estimation.

"I'll bring them out for you."

Fink, alone, glanced around. He was not happy with the cheery gaggle of art students at a rotating paint display nearby.

The song changed – "She Loves You" – one of The Beatles five number one hits this summer. The 'Yeah, Yeah, Yeah' drone drove Fink to distraction, and made him ponder the quality of Blick's help. They're letting the flunkies put the pinch on the place because that's the only type of boy available nowadays. These delinquents are all the same.

These kids have no sense of duty, and no taste. I'm glad the Elvis fad is over, but he might be better than four slush-mouth Limeys. Awful.

He picked up a gum eraser from a pile by the register and kneaded it vigorously.

And now, that one, has transitioned into a fake Brit, and not even a current one – oh, it's all so much to deal with.

The weight of his damp shirt against his skin suddenly made him feel clammy. He took out his hankie again.

The boy returned, walking to the front of the counter with a stack of mats already wrapped in brown paper; a yellow invoice was taped to the front.

As Fink bent to assure himself it was the correct order, the young man offered assistance.

"You want help with these? I can walk them over to Saint Charles Street if you need."

Fink was incensed.

Does this snot-nose think I can't manage just 'cause I'm fifty?!

"No thanks. I've got 'em."

He bent down to pick them up, his lower back pinging him.

"Well, tell Bruce 'Hay' for me. He's a cool dude."

Jerahmeel righted himself. "I'm sure he'll be by soon enough, to chew the fat, when you both should be working."

The young man was stunned into open-mouthed silence.

"Put this on the Display Department's tab."

Fink would brook no reply, but turned on his heels and headed for the stairs. In the back of his mind he was vaguely aware that the music had changed again, this time to something less objectionable.

How dare that child offer to help me.

He shifted the package of mats from arm to arm midway up the basement steps; they were already growing heavy, and his shoulder ached from an injury he got in the service.

What does he know about The War, or hardships, or The Depression?! Nothing. After all, that milksop was still in diapers, if he was even born yet. Jeez, I have socks older than that brat.

He exited the store.

The bright sunlight hurt his eyes, and the full rays warmed him instantly. He dashed across Washington mid-block, and waved angrily at the honking cars. On the shady side, he continued to walk, shifting the mats once again.

These kids today, they don’t know how good they've got it. This current generation would have blown The Big One. These boys today are not real men – now, John Wayne, there's a real man!

Unexpectedly, these hyperbole sentiments had a cutting edge to them. A vision of his wife's sad face confronted him. Feelings have been distant between them, and he grudgingly acknowledged it's not been easy for her to be married to a man who threw himself completely into his work…after….

Fink stopped himself from thinking about 'him.'

It's those Blick counter boys. This is all their fault.

Jerahmeel resented the younger generation. They have too much choice; he and his peers never had the luxury.

And the fake Brit in my department is among the worst. 'Cool dude,' as his crony in the art supply house called him, should be doing this grunt work, not me.

He shifted the mats again due to pain, turned the corner at Seventh Street, and saw the glowing tower of FB two blocks away. The corner visible was the corner where all the magic happened. Perhaps the thought alone was enough to soften his mood. It was important that Christmas 1964 come off without a hitch.

As he walked, a melody fell into place to lighten his burden.

He realized the tune he was humming was Jo Stafford's hit from a few years back. "It's a Good Day"[2] was the one he heard as he was leaving Blick's, and he guessed they still played some good songs now and then.

Fink relented on his employee a bit.

After all, his big meeting this afternoon is the first for the volunteers of the kids' charity party. I suppose I can't grudge him for helping out, can I?

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

The young woman was late. She had to change out of her uniform before dashing up to the Ninth Floor auditorium, and did so feeling grateful for the store's air conditioning. With all this running around, and with how hot it was outside, she'd be melting without it. As a general rule, she rarely felt chilled, which assisted considerably with her job.

She crashed into the door with her big canvas beach bag. Padded with clothes and her Accounting textbooks, it made a dull thud and she was instantly miffed at herself.

Damn door swings out – not in, girl!

She tried again, pulling this time and entered the cavernous space, but halted.

The room was dim; a spotlight already aimed a circle of brightness on the speaker at a podium. He was in mid-sentence, so the young woman crouched low and began looking for an open seat. Eventually she found one on the aisle. A strangely dressed boy was slouched with his knees raised and locked on the empty seatback in front of him. She plopped her bag on the vacant chair between them and sat.

She listened to the organizer speaking.

"…Twenty-fifth anniversary party, so we want to mark the occasion with something spectacular…."

She settled in and started to relax. She fanned herself with a hand. Definitely grateful for the AC.

"…Expect this auditorium to be filled with several rounds of raucous kids – about 2,000 each show. December the 6th may be six months out, but it takes a lot of coordination to make it go smoothly. That's where these meetings and your time comes into play…"

The girl nonchalantly stretched to adjust the hair band above her bangs, casually glancing at her neighbor. He too seemed relaxed.

"…There will be folks to serve as ushers, folks to assist Santa and the entertainers…."

Her hands descended and she appraised the young man candidly.

He was an un-tanned white boy with a pouty, full lower lip. A serious expression washed his face as he listened, but he was approachable and open too.

"…Folks to man the table where Santa will meet each child and hand out gifts, stockings full of candy, and coloring books and crayons for the younger ones…."

The guy had large brown eyes under full-but-not-bushy brows. His light brunette hair was cropped in back and above the ears, but left long to form a flop-top at the front, which the boy swept to the right of his face and scrunched to stand up a bit over his forehead. She thought he must use some sort of hair wax to do this as it did not look like the cheap thing 'greasers' used; the overall effect was crisp and clean.

She scoffed to herself silently on what her brothers would say to this guy about his hair – they were all 'Keep it Short' dudes themselves.

"…Santa will also greet the kids as they enter the auditorium. FB ushers will then assist the various organizations find out where to sit based on seating charts everyone will have…."

For all the uniqueness of his personal grooming, it was his attire that really singled him out. His long suit coat was partially open and revealed a fully-buttoned vest underneath. He had on a narrow, pointed tie in a light color, and pinstripe pants from which a long chain nearly touched the floor. Gold in tone, one end clipped to a belt loop in front, while the other disappeared into the recesses of a pocket. She imagined a gold watch lived at that end.

"…In addition to our flagship store downtown, the four branch locations will also be hosting parties at the same time. They will organize their own volunteers, and altogether, about 10,000 underprivileged children will be guests of Famous-Barr on Saint Nicholas Day…."

As his shoes were off the floor, she could see they were black and had thick rubber soles with crinkles around the exposed sides – creepers, she thought there were called.

All in all it looked like he was in some sort of costume, but he didn't seem anything but relaxed in it.

"…It's a tradition of good will we can and should be proud of. Forms will now be passed around. Fill them out and select the activity you would like to assist with…."

He caught her inspection, and added a nod and smile for her while righting himself on his seat.

She glanced away, pretending her hair band needed attention again.

The forms arrived. She took one and passed the stack to the young man to her left. He immediately pulled one from the top of the pile, passed the rest along, and withdrew a gold-plated mechanical pencil from his breast pocket. She watched as he again drew up his knees and started to fill out the paperwork.

She snapped to, scrunching the form a bit while jostling her bag. The young woman smacked the boy's arm with the strap as she rooted deeply for a pen. "Sorry." She shoved her work clothes and books from side to side several times, knowing there was one in there somewhere. She sighed, gave up and ceased her rovings by plopping elbows on the deflating bag.

"Um, hate to trouble you, but do you think I can borrow that when you're done?" She pointed sheepishly to the young man's pencil.

Being bent as he was in his work, he gave her a sidelong glance. Cool as a Siberian summer, his little intrigued look reappeared while he straightened up and reached inside his jacket. He extracted a second gold writing implement and handed it to Naomi.

She examined it, but didn't know how to operate it.

He said "Here," and reached over. His warm dry hand covered Naomi's and used her fingers to twist the top. Lead appeared at the tip, and he let go.

"Thank you. You're a lifesaver. Naomi Tyson."

"Bruce Achitoff."

"What section do you work in, Bruce?"

"The Display Department."

A light bulb went off in her head.

Artistic. That makes sense.

He stared at her blankly.

"What?" she asked.

"And where do you work in Famous?"

"OH!" She felt dense, but grinned and reached into her bag, pulling out the tip of a uniform dress with strawberry, chocolate and vanilla stripes.

Bruce pursed his lips and shook his head.

"I work on the First Floor…" Naomi drew out suggestively, as if providing a clue in a game.

Bruce simply smiled and raised his eyebrows with a silent head twist.

"You don’t recognize the colors?!"

"Well, now that you mention it – "

"Baskin-Robbins."

"Oh, you work at the in-store ice cream parlor!" Now Bruce got it.

"Yeah, Sherlock." She checked and was relieved to see the young man laughed too. Naomi sometimes forgot she shouldn't kid around with strangers the way she did with her brothers.

She started to fill out her form, pausing at the list of half-a-dozen different activities to volunteer for. She peeked over at his paper – which was not easy. She gave up trying to be 'subtle,' moved her bag and plopped down right next to him.

"Which one are you puttin' down?"

"I want to do ushering again this year."

"So, you've done his before, huh?"

"Last couple years, yeah."

"Cool. You mind if I do 'ushering' with you? I'm new to this, and…."

"The more the merrier. I like seeing the kids close up and personal. It's nice to be around people having a good time and acting appreciative."

"Yeah…" she checked the correct box. "That does sound cool. Guess people actin' appreciative is why I like slinging ice cream all day long."

He chuckled.

She saw her opportunity, and dove in. "No offense, but what's the deal with the getup?"

"I'm a Ted."

"A what?"

"Or, Teddy Boy. It's a British thing. A way of living mixing rock-n-roll with Edwardian clothes and a tough-boy attitude." A smile slipped out. "But we're really nice."

Naomi was floored.

Definitely the artsy type.

"Ain't never heard nothing like it." A note of suspicion crept into her voice, adding, "So, you're not a Beatles fan, are you?"

He vibrated his lower lip and shook his noggin with vigor. "Bloody hell, NO! Chuck Berry's more my speed – you know, real music."

"That's good…" she nodded slowly. "Now we have at least two things in common."