Practically Perfect - 2. II. A Cakewalk through the Store

II. Act One – A Familiar Situation

Scene 2: A Cakewalk through the Store

"…It's you who's gonna be lazin' once this stuff is up and running…."

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

After some consideration, Bruce finds himself nodding in agreement, a movement only interrupted by him reaching for his watch chain. Telling time in the olden days was a process, one Teddy Boys like Bruce reenact umpteen times a day. First a caress along the knobby links, up to the bottom of the trouser pocket, followed by a motion to withdraw the watch. Bruce's working man example – no cover, just a sturdy crystal – has a pink gold back guillochéd most attractively in a vernacular pattern of minute scratches; marks engraved one by one by decades of pre-Brucian wear.

"It's five to nine, Naomi. We better drop our bags by the staff door and then – " He stops himself cold.

"Then," the young woman says plainly, "we'll flip the switch and see your vision come to life."

Bruce decides no comment is needed and leads the way. Housekeeping is wrapping up too. The great department store is formed for the season, but like primordial Adam, lacks the animus of life. He doesn't want to think about failure, but it's hard not to.

They head for the green doors.

Naomi thinks diversion is called for again, though she knows it will be temporary at best. "That's a pretty fancy watch, for a Display Department grunt, that is."

"This one – this looker?" He pulls it out again.

"Yeah, that's the 'looker.'" She adds with pure feistiness, "What, your great grand pappy leave that to you in his will?"

"Taking the piss again, eh? No, he did not. As a matter of fact, I picked this up at The Salvation Army."

"At a thrift store price?"

"Yeah. Ten dollars."

"Cool."

The evident contrast of message and tone makes Bruce puzzle at her for a moment.

Naomi for her part has made a funny resolution. Funny that it comes to her so suddenly, and yet a trip to Goodwill to right a small regret also feels like relief.

"What?" Bruce asks.

"Oh, nothing. You don’t have to know all my 'secrets,' do you, Bruce Achitoff?"

He feels his head shake slowly from side to side, a smile plastered helplessly.

Just as they approach the padded double doors to the back-of-house area, the portals swing out majestically and halt the pair.

Mary Poppins sails through them as if freshly returned from a mid-morning tea break.

Her long skirts rustle pleasantly, the regimental blue surtout is buttoned fully, the flat bow tie in vermilion is done up precisely atop the white collar of her white shirtwaist, the hat with its cutout brim above the visage and 'tastefully' arrayed with daisies and massive rosehips at the band is positioned flatteringly, and the trustworthy companions of copious carpetbag and Burberry umbrella are locked in respective fists. She looks, as always, as nearly faultless as any respectable person can hope; neither young nor old, neither tall nor short; not large or small, not plump or thin, just ideal.

"Ah! Young Master Bruce, and charming Miss Tyson, Good Morning."

"Good morning," they clip in near-tandem reply.

"I haven’t missed 'the moment,' have I…?"

"No, we're about to – " starts Bruce.

"Very good, very good," Mary chimes, but her tone turns tutorial as she further inquires, "But what are you doing with those rubbish sacks?"

"We're cleaning up – " starts Naomi.

"Perfect pish posh, I'm sure. No time for dillydallying. Come, let us find Mr. Fink and soldier on with the task at hand." She offers a beguiling expression before sailing past the young people.

A moment of stunned reverie – while they watch her stroll through Famous as if she owned it – is broken by Poppins calling back to them. "Hurry along, and Bruce, do put on your jacket. You must look presentable for your…." Her voice trails off as she glides undauntedly away from them, shoes pointed out.

Bruce and Naomi see the mirth in one another's eyes and indulge in a laugh. Bruce then grabs Naomi's garbage bag and places both behind the staff doors.

They regroup and begin the walk to Bruce's moment of truth. With only the house lights on, the First Floor of the store is eerily quiet. 'Round about pop some flashes of color, but they are mute and in limbo; here and there rustle textures, but they are dull and lackluster. Even the pair of immense chandeliers – those ten-foot round, eight-foot high fixtures with dozens of golden arms rising in recessing tiers – are dark, but dressed and inviting.

The girl and boy head to the foot of the escalators in silence. The airy architectural screen, like a modernist colonnade designed by Eero Saarinen or Edward Durell Stone, uses its twenty-foot height to signal to any wayward shopper where on the vast floor the moving staircase can be found.

They arrive at their destination, where beside the chair hosting Bruce's jacket, a small platform is set up. On it, a stool holds a hand-sized controller box with toggle switch. A long cable trails behind it to the wall behind the escalators, where it disappears into the open panel of a circuit breaker.

As he slips on his long suit coat, Bruce allows his vision to slide down the central aisle of the store. Column after column marches along, presentable for the holidays, but yet devoid of life.

Mary goes up to and easily corners Fink in a box of halfhearted pleasantries.

In the mind of the Department Head, he half wishes the woman were not here, but he still feels partially relieved to see her.

The tone of her opening volley is confident, if a bit on the brash side.

"Ah, Mr. Fink, such splendors. Your crew must make you so proud."

"Why yes, they do as I order, so – "

"Yes, yes. Marvelous implementation of many minds at a creative task; couldn't have phrased it better myself. As I was saying, you must be proud of them."

He swallows involuntary and nods.

"Splendid." Mary's timbre suddenly becomes warm. "You've done well too, Mr. Fink. Please don’t doubt the progress you've made."

Jerahmeel harbors no misconceptions. Poppins is referencing more than merely the store's holiday preparations.

Unfortunately, emotional deflection causes him to alight on the figure of Bruce Achitoff slipping on the last component of his Edwardian attire.

"Yes, anyway," he says slyly to Mary with a chin motion towards his employee. "You're just in time to witness whether or not his yearlong work will come to naught."

Cool as an Antarctic autumn, Mary replies with stiffening spine and elevating eyebrows, "Poppycock and fiddlesticks, I'm sure. Walt would fie-fie your remarks, Mr. Fink. I feel certain he as a great innovator of magic would remind you of one simple truth: All advances require failures to succeed."

For his part, Bruce hears the remarks, but drifts away for a moment on a cloud-pillow of memory. Glancing at Mary, he's back on that hot summer day when 'magic' just strolled into his studio unannounced.

˚˚˚˚˚

Fink had a headache. It was the start of July, so he'd have it the four and a half months till the Christmas install was complete.

His right knee was also a little creaky due to the humidity outside, and left him just plain uncomfortable boarding the escalator in the Basement. He had to do it hands-free, because only minutes ago he's stepped away from the sparkling pastry counter with a tall pink box cradled in his arms.

While the smooth-as-silk steps lifted him higher, his gaze fell over the bustling floor. The warm-weather months were supposed to be slow, but not so for 1964, not in Saint Louis.

He glanced down. A gold sticker, replete with curlicues surrounding the embossed heading of "From the Bakeries of Famous-Barr," sealed the sweet-smelling container. He did not like the all lowercase logo the store had adopted a few years ago, and what was worse, the letters of the venerable old institution of commerce bobbed up and down lines like a jumping bean.

Too simplistic. Too, inviting. Too childlike and friendly!

That was it. It was much too friendly for his taste.[1]

He stepped off at the Basement Mezzanine and strolled to the part going up to One.

Jerahmeel Fink boarded, balancing his box and fighting the nearly immovable urge to tug at his throat. He was stiff and confined in his suit and tie, and his wife had over starched his collar.

On the label, Viola Volla – the Head Cake Decorator – had written "Cake for WD Meeting," and that indeed was where the department manager was headed.

At the First Floor, he had to traverse a bit of open space, and focused so nobody bumped his elbow. He could not afford a spilled centerpiece.

Safely moving up to Two, on the long twenty-foot rise, he again looked out over the crowds.

Guess they can't resist our sale for The Fourth.

The store was hosting a multi-day event on The Arch grounds – the first of its kind, right below the still-rising monument – and the city was guaranteed to have never seen a party like this one. Music stages, water shows on the river, and aircraft flybys were scheduled with the festivities culminating each evening in massive firework displays. Free, of course, as Famous was picking up the tab for everyone, and advertising it all over town.

The company's efforts had surprised and blown its competition out of the water. Stix and Scruggs were celebrating the city's two-hundredth birthday with promotions of their own, but FB's Bicentennial roster would be going on through the fall. It had started with the spring art show – Asian Art, Mr. May's favorite. His personal collection of Micronesian, Polynesian and Mesoamerican works had already become one of the world-class glories of the STL Art Museum, nearly filling three-quarters of an entire floor.[2]

He scoffed to think how Stix thought removing its two corner windows at Washington and Seventh to build a temporary storefront for its Colonial Candy Shop would make a strong impression.[3] But just wait until September arrived – Famous had a fabulous surprise in store.

He circled through the Second Floor, treading the terrazzo flooring with the arrow leading 'UP.'

Suddenly he felt worried about today's meeting. He knew the company's creative team was strong, and they all had more than enough material to impress their V.I.P. guest, but what of Fink? There would be others in the room just as talented, others younger too….

The box wobbled a bit as he boarded to go up to Three, and his heart rate accelerated. He found himself hoping Viola did the store proud with what was in the box. The recent trend for her department involved making ghastly Beatles cakes! Head-sized confections with white icing 'faces,' mounds of moptop hair and sideburns in curly black frosting, and usually sold in pricy sets of four.[4]

People's elevators don’t go all the way to the top floor anymore. They'll throw good money after bad on any old thing that catches their fancy.

Time slipped away, and he found himself rising higher and higher in the building, he felt it was proper analogy to the store – and America for that matter. Greatness was rising, and not the least of which was his confidence that today would be one of the high-water marks of his career, that was, as long as he didn't act too star struck.

Jealousy rose in his heart too. Richardson Orlean – Special Events Manager – was the new golden boy of the organization. He'd worked tirelessly, not only on the Independence Day festivities, but on September's Bicentennial festival as well; the Under 3-Flags celebration. The roster was incredible: a French war ship, official diplomatic envoys from France, Spain, and the U.S., the building to be dressed in three hundred fifty blue, white and red flags – solid colors, one on each level starting on Three and going up to the Fifth Floor. And then daily fashion shows, with all the top couture houses in Paris taking their turn on the catwalks of the Ninth Floor Exhibition Hall. And then poodle shows as well for the children, the Skybridge turned into a Seine marketplace for book and watercolor vendors, Spanish chefs doing cooking shows daily on the Eighth Floor, and regular flamenco performances as well.

It will be a party this city will never forget – at least, it better not! For if we do, what will that say about us…?

And Fink had to acknowledge, much of the planning as well as the pure gumption to get it done had been organized by Richardson. He too threw himself into his work like Jerahmeel Fink, although rumor had it there was another, more sublimated reason for Orlean's job devotion. But that didn't matter; what mattered was the entire creative staff of the store was pulling together to bring these festivities to a head. Everyone on his staff was doing one or more aspects of it – for instance, the designers had come up with the idea of printing huge, life-size photostats of Parisian storefronts to paper the walls of the auditorium. Everyone except Bruce Achitoff, his best man, who was working fulltime on his Christmas concept. But Fink knew full well he'd have to make that work as well. 1964 at FB had to end on a note high enough to match Richardson's successes, and a Christmas triumph would be credited to Fink and his Display Department.

Like a sleepwalker suddenly awakening, Jerahmeel found himself standing in front of the Boardroom doors.

He inhaled sharply, trying to mask his emotions, and entered.

Half a dozen men and women met his glance; they were all pacing and appeared as nervous as Fink felt, none more so than Richardson Orlean.

"Cake's here!" called Barbara Curry, the Special Events Manager's coworker.

Jerahmeel made his way to the end of the table, with folks parting Red-Sea-style at his approach with the box.

Barbara came to his side once he set the cake on the table. She had retrieved a large plate from the credenza, where smaller plates, the cutting knife and drinks awaited.

"Here you go," she said, placing the dish by Fink's side. He was pleasantly surprised to see it was one of their Bicentennial Commemorative plates commissioned by the store from Rosenthal and featuring a tasteful blue-toned image of the Arch and city behind it.[5]

Everyone gathered around the table, and Fink supposed he'd have to do the final nerve-racking task as well.

He broke the seal on the box and lifted the lid. Then he unlinked the cardboard tabs and lowered the sides.

Suppressed cries of delight circled the room, but the transfer was not yet complete. As carefully as he could, he lifted the cake – feeling a ping in his knee – and then working in concert, Richardson extracted the box from underneath, and Barbara slid the plate into position. Fink lowered the centerpiece and everyone sighed in relief.

Viola Volla had outdone herself. A beautifully decorated cake in traditional taste was surmounted by a twelve-inch polychrome sculpture in sugarwork. Mickey Mouse stood in a 3-button gray business suit, raising his hands above his head to grip the legs of the Arch.

Fink stepped back, equating the zenith of the store with this day perhaps being the greatest in his professional life. A quick glance confirmed the others seemed to be in the same excited state – their V.I.P. guest could bring out the kid in anybody.

They heard noise outside the door: talking and merry baritone laughter. The portal swung open and Morton May entered with a broad gesture of his arm. A dignified figure followed in his own 3-button gray suit.

Yes, greatest day in my life.

˚˚˚˚˚

Time was short, so despite fans oscillating and trying to knock a dent of coolness in the July heat of the studio, Bruce Achitoff's mind was firmly locked in Christmas-mode.

He liked the buzz of the place: the sound of open collaboration and joking amongst the fellas he worked with, the occasional nail being driven or power tool coming to life a half block down the space.

The noise helped him concentrate, and now he stood leaning on his elevated drafting board, red pencil cocked in hand, going over electrical diagrams. His jacket was on the chair behind him, and even though his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his dark-green bow tie was firmly in place above the juncture of collar button and throat.

The Display Department's workroom occupied nearly the entire western side of the eighth floor of the Saint Charles Street facility, about one hundred and fifty feet in length. The outside wall formed a continuous mosaic of wire glass panels in steel frames, the center portions were hinged windows, all of which now stood open.

Really a suite of spaces, the southern end housed stacks of plywood and lumber, plus the band saw, drill press, table saws, hand and power tools. Bruce labored at the more peaceful end where drafting boards and sample displays lived.

The distance from quiet area to hammer-and-nail zone was divided into several project 'rooms,' each twenty to thirty feet long and grounded by central standing-height worktables where several guys could assemble their displays and collaborate at the same time.

The assembly quarters were partitioned from each other by tall open racks, upon which waited storage bins, reams of construction paper, and massive bolts of every kind of fabric one could ever need. As the work was diverse – ranging from making napkin rings for Fine China, to Bruce's twenty-foot-tall column covers – stocks and supplies were mostly on hand in the studio.

The staff comprised roughly two-dozen people focused on different assignments Mr. Fink doled out from his office next to the quiet zone.

Bruce spotted an error and marked it decisively. While making his red line, one of his bespectacled coworkers slowed and stopped at the side of his drafting table.

"Hello, Kelsey," Bruce sighed without looking.

"What'cha up to?"

"Same old, same old." He stood erect, and knew some joshing was coming his way. About twenty-eight, Kelsey was known as the studio wise guy, in spite of providing ample rebuttal material; on the short side, he wore thick glasses, and never appeared at work in anything but khakis and un-tucked flannel shirts.

"Say, that's a mighty pretty tie there, Bruce."

"Ya think so?" he asked skeptically.

"I do. Only, you might want to undo it. You'll feel 'cooler' – not so square. Get it?!" Kelsey unleashed a snarky chortle. His pinched face actually turned red, he entertained himself so much.

"You know," Bruce replied methodically. "I've been thinkin' about your glasses."

"Oh, yeah? What about 'em?"

"Just wondering if you had to get them over at NASA."

"What…?"

"You know, leftover space telescope parts." Now Bruce laughed.

"Ha-ha." His snark was gone.

"Come on, Kelsey. I need you," said Morris, an older man, as he strode up to them. "And Bruce needs to focus, I'm sure."

"Okay. Don’t take any wooden nickels, Achitoff."

"Don’t let the funny farm know you escaped."

Morris laughed, and the two men walked away discussing the best way to build a rotating stand for portable television sets.

Bruce watched and thought about the age mix in Display. Mostly young guys – like Bruce – and a couple of women too, were a few years out of high school. They numbered about eighteen. Self-appointed 'overseers,' meaning guys over thirty, ribbed the younger staff and numbered about half a dozen veterans – like Morris.

The older men were always suspicious of change and new ideas it seemed to Bruce, but they mostly came around if the younger guys kept saying it'd work.

As Bruce turned again to his diagram, a cat jumped on his table. She immediately ran herself under the young man's open palms. Her flicking tail rustled assorted images of holiday inspiration Bruce had pinned to board above his workstation.

To a chorus of purrs, Bruce crooned to the gray and white tabby, "Notions, you are such a good girl. You always come to me when I'm stressed."

As his nose made contact, and friendly feline headbutts came up to meet his descent, he heard voices.

He straightened up and realized the sounds were coming from the other side of the studio's entry. Through the glass door, he saw movement just as it opened and let vociferous laughter spill into the room.

Three men entered – Mr. Fink, Richardson Orlean, and a tall dapper man in a gray suit. He sported a pencil-thin moustache, and had a brassy voice and laugh that were unmistakable.

Oh, my God. It's him!

Walt Disney stood there, smiling and clasping his hands together.

"Our studio," Mr. Fink explained.

"Where the magic happens," exclaimed Disney.

By this time several guys from the adjacent 'rooms' had drifted in and stood around with mouths agape.

Richardson closed the door behind them, and Walt stepped forward unabashed.

He spoke with that charming rasp viewers of his movies and TV shows knew so well. "Hello! I'm sorry to interrupt you fine people, but truth is, Mr. Fink here spoke so highly of his team and studio, I just had to come see for myself."

Fink spoke highly of us…?!

The department head started a tour and led the movie mogul towards the far end of the studio.

Once they were out of sight, he shooed Notions to her nearby bed, and fished violently through his desk drawer. He came up with a round shaving mirror, a flat jar of hair wax, and a comb. Bruce went about ensuring his swoop was properly 'scrunched,' while the rest lay smoothly.

Satisfied he was presentable, and shutting those things away, he picked up his graphite holder, feeling he should get back to work.

Who am I kidding?

He let the pencil fall with a clatter and rolled down his sleeves. Bruce could hear the three men in the neighboring space, and they were heading his way.

Scrambling, he yanked the jacket off of his seatback and slipped it on, making sure the shoulder seams were perfectly aligned. He fussed with his green bow tie to make sure the lapels had not squished the 'bows.'

The men reappeared with Mr. Orlean smiling and telling Walt something about all the hard work the Display Department was doing to bring the store's Bicentennial concepts to life; Fink appeared annoyed, for some reason.

Once halfway along the long side of the workbench in Bruce's end of the studio, and the room again filling up with his colleagues, Walt stopped and raised his hands to draw everyone's attention.

"Folks, I just want to say what an incredible job you are all doing here. I know why Famous is the best, and it deserves to be famous for your stellar efforts.

"I met with Mr. May and Mr. Goodman, and every department head in charge of creative endeavors, and I'm pleased as punch to tell you we've signed a contract today! Our new motion picture, Mary Poppins, will be the official theme for the store's 1964 Christmas celebrations.

"Mr. Fink and Mr. Orlean assure me an Edwardian look and feel will tie in nicely with the current holiday designs, but it's up to you fine folks, and your wonderful imaginations to feature the film to full effect."

Spontaneous applause circled the room.

Walt raised his hands again.

"Since the movie won't be out till August, I've left a copy to play in-house; top secret viewing only for the creative staff of Famous-Barr. You need inspiration."

Richardson added details. "We'll set up times for viewing in the Ninth Floor Auditorium. We'll make a schedule and distribute."

Walt Disney chuckled. "Remember, you'll be the first viewers, so mum's the word on what you see."

Head nods and strong affirmations went around the room.

Walt's eye fell on Bruce; a grin lifted one corner of his moustache. He announced globally "Thank you all," and then made a beeline for Achitoff.

"Hello! I'm Walt Disney." He extended his hand.

"Bruce Achitoff. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

They shook on it.

Fink and Orlean caught up.

"Well, young man, it looks like you stepped right off the set of my movie."

Bruce felt a blush come on; he normally didn't take on color due to what he considered his Russian stoicism.

"Mr. Achitoff," explained Fink, "likes to dress formal."

"Well, you stand out. And what are you working on, young man – Bruce?"

"Would you like to see?"

I can't believe my own good luck.

"Yes."

Bruce cleared the wiring diagram. His plans and elevations were taped to the board below.

Walt stepped up, while Fink and Richardson gathered at his side.

"And what are we looking at here?"

"Column covers for the main floor." He pointed. "These and these components will be able to – "

"Oh, yes!" Light came into Walt's eyes. He turned to Jerahmeel. "And you can make this work?"

"We're trusting Mr. Achitoff's work-year won't be wasted, yes."

Walt soured, but it passed – or was suppressed – quickly. He restored his attention to Bruce. "Keep me informed, young man. This is a very impressive concept. Needless to say, it's unique. I've never seen anything like it, and I've seen almost everything."

He laughed, putting Bruce at ease.

"This young man is an asset to your organization, Mr. Fink."

As Jerahmeel only gnashed his teeth a moment, Bruce's attention drifted to Richardson. He suddenly remembered something important.

"Mr. Orlean, congratulations!"

"Thank you, Bruce."

The other two men looked to Richardson.

"My wife had a baby this week."

"Well, that is good news!" said Walt with sparkle. "Boy or girl?"

"Girl. We named her Katie."

"Wonderful. Give my best to your wife."

"Will do."

"In fact, if it's not inappropriate, I'll send a couple of passes so you can be my guests at Disneyland, after your deadlines, of course."

"Why, thank you. That would make Claire so happy."

Bruce glowed inside for Richardson's happiness, but was taken back by Jerahmeel Fink's less-than enthused look.

"It will be my pleasure." Walt's voice settled into a storytelling tone. "I'll let you in on a little secret. When I was a kid, growing up on a farm about a hundred miles north of here near Hannibal, everybody, and I mean everybody talked about the Saint Louis World's Fair. That had so much fun, and so many wonderful innovations and rides were there, it inspired me to recreate it at Disneyland. The Fair was an ideal time in American history and I wanted that Fabulous Summer of ragtime and barbershop quartets, of highly dressed…" he gave a nod of approval for Bruce's 'look' "…and high-steppin' times to never end."

Richardson asked, "Is it true about East Saint Louis?"

"Oh, you've heard about that, huh?"

Orlean nodded, but when the other two still seemed clueless, Disney explained. "Disneyland was originally planned to be right across the river from downtown Saint Louis. I was going to run a fleet of Disney paddle wheelers between here and the park's front gates, and it was the perfect location too – central to everyone in the nation."

"But what happened?" inquired Bruce.

"Seems the town balked at my proposal to pay for relocating their central business district for them. We would have designed and built a new downtown for them – all as part of the deal – but a few dollar signs popped up in the aldermen's eyes and they said 'No' first, and then 'Maybe' once they hired a pack of stone-squeezing lawyers. The prices thrown out got crazy, and I had to walk away. It's a shame really, but your region's loss is Anaheim's gain."

Bruce wondered how much time Mr. Disney could spend with them. He pulled out a sheet of paper, and reached into his suit coat for his pen. "Sir, my mother is a big fan. Would you mind…?"

"Hogwash, Bruce!" cried Fink. "He doesn't have time – "

"Of course." Walt took the pen, but handed it back. He selected one of the young man's colorful markers and executed a quick sketch of Mickey holding the legs the Arch above his head. Under this he filled the rest of the page with a flawless rendition of his famous signature; retiring Walt was not.

"Thank you for saying nice things about my design, but Mr. Fink is the real talent in this department. See, here!" He pointed at a nocturnal photograph of his billboard. It showed a beautiful Christmas tree in lights. Only close inspection revealed it was massive, and attached to the corner of a building. "Mr. Fink came up with our corner display a few years ago."

Walt took down the sheet of paper-sized photo and admired it. "Absolutely stunning."

Fink explained. "In '59, I had word that Stix was planning something special for the holidays, so I racked my brain, and had this vision of a tree above our corner window."

"Stix, Baer & Fuller?" Walt asked. "The department store?"

"Yes. They're one of our biggest rivals."

"I know them well," he chuckled. "We go back a long way. They first did a Disney theme for Christmas 1939 with my Pinocchio; one of the first in the nation. And they did so again in '41 with Dumbo."

"And just last year too," Bruce offered.

Fink's tart scowl let it be known Bruce's oar was not wanted for putting in.

Suddenly, the Famous feline jumped on Bruce's board and rubbed against a delighted Walt Disney.

"That's Notions, our studio mascot."

"Well, how do you do, Notions?"

Walt bent down in a somewhat funny way, his ear cocked to the cat.

A new twinkle came to his eyes as he stood erect, splitting glances betwixt Bruce and Fink.

"Tell ya what I'm gonna do. I will send Mary Poppins to you to spend the holiday season in the store. Together we'll make '64 at Famous-Barr unforgettable.

No one quite knew what he meant.

"Julie Andrews…?" Richardson asked.

"No, no…" Walt winked at Bruce. "Mary Poppins."[6]