Famous Bear and the Ivory Tower of Commerce - 3. Chapter 3: Saturday, December 17th – One on One at Union Station

Chapter 3: Saturday,

December 17th – One on One at Union Station

 

"Built in the age of steel and coal smoke," I say, glancing up. About a hundred feet over our heads, a web of girders seems to float with ethereal ease. Even though we are under the great, gently curving arc of the train shed, we're still mostly outdoors.

Waldo, walking by my side with hands thrust deeply in his jeans' pockets, nods.

Having parked a few minutes ago, we now stroll alongside one of the mall's landscape elements, an ameba-shaped pond covering several acres. Across it to our left, paddleboats are penned up, while from behind the bobbing vessels, cheery ambiance spills out. The waterside restaurant is aglow with couples dining by candlelight within.

The great jet, which so freely cavorts in three seasons, is still and silent. Currently another feature steals the show, and enlivens the face of the waters.

To our right, and erected in the plaza before the glass curtain wall of the mall proper, rises our city's great indicator of charitable spirit.

Thousands of colorful points twinkle red, blue and yellow, both in the chill of the air and the water's mirror from the five-story-tall Tree of Lights. Each dot of illumination comes on with a donation of money for the needy, and the dark star on top will only be lit once the drive has met its goal, on Christmas Eve.

We come up to a generous-sized placard mounted on a stretch of handrail, and stop. A photograph shows Union Station's Trainshed in full operation – a confabulation of fifty or more half-mile-long passenger platforms; great locomotives exiting and arriving with masses of traveling folks from all corners of the continent.[1]

I read the information out loud: "Saint Louis Union Station is the largest passenger rail depot ever constructed. The Trainshed alone houses an open area of 12 acres under one roof, and contains more steel than most world navies of 1894, the year it was completed. Painstakingly restored in 1985, the enclosure now wears its original cream and red color scheme, which was determined by micro-analysis of paint chips."

I glance to my companion for the day.

"Awesome," says Waldo, his 'cool boy' detachment slipping into a slight smile.

We continue walking. He asks me, "Know why they put the lake in here?"

I purse lips and shake my head.

"Apparently when the city was first founded, the land was owned by Auguste Chouteau."

"Oh, really? The guy who was a fourteen-year-old boy when Pierre Laclede settled the place and named it?"

"Yep. The same one – the country's first true millionaire, which he got from monopolizing the fur trade, but because he sent his money to French banks, he didn't get the credit like his fellow Frenchman and arms dealer, Alfred DuPont."

"And the lake tie-in?"

"There was one here – right on this spot – known as Chouteau's Pond, so they thought they'd recreate it."

"It's cool." Behind it, many of the hotel rooms added in the 1985 revamp have water views; it was a heck of a good idea.[2]

We come to the glass doors where the enclosed mall starts. Waldo holds one open for me with the words, "After you, son."

I go through, muttering fake resentment. "Thanks, Pa."

Immediately, good smells meet my nose. Noise as well, as there are lots of holiday shoppers milling about on this second-to-last Saturday before Christmas.

It's 11 o'clock, and my tummy rumbles.

This place is pretty much the opposite of STL Centre. There, its Crystal Palace openness and see-through vaulting tout a clean, classical aesthetic, while Union Station is an exposed nuts-n-bolts kind of place. The shallow arch of the Trainshed roof may glide high above all, but it proudly shows off an intricacy of web joists, threaded rods, and timber decking. The original gaps and clerestory openings for light and ventilation are still there, but now glazed in, for in addition to the structure's complexities, new ones have been added in the form of HVAC ducts, wiring conduit, etc. – all exposed, naturally.[3]

As Waldo and I stroll along the main level, my eyes drift up the angled crossovers and handrails of the second story.

"What shops are good here?" my companion inquires.

"They've got one called Discovery. We'll see it later. They sell maps and globes, and all kind of books and videos about world exploration. Hell, they even offer safari gear."

"Wow. Cool."

Eventually, after we linger here and there for a while, we approach what's known as the Midway, or the front yard of the mall.

Waldo drifts to another information placard, and I follow. He reads while I scan his features in profile. "Union Station is where the famous picture of President Harry Truman holding up the Chicago newspaper projecting Dewey the winner of the 1948 election race was taken. Truman showed the crowds the erroneous paper in triumph, as he rolled into Saint Louis the morning after having won the election."

To the left of the info appears the picture in question; the President standing on the back platform of a railcar; a huge smile on his face, his arms spreading open the front page of the Chicago Daily Tribune proclaiming: "Dewey Defeats Truman."[4]

We continue on.

The Midway opens up. Fifty feet wide and running the entire length of the station, the yellow brick arches and piers of the terminal building strike a material contrast to the steel and rivets of the rest of the place. Fully open to the roof above, a plaza forms. Down near us, marble floors raise up in steps, and trough-like fountains of running water provide visual and auditory interest.[5]

"Look at that!" Waldo strikes my arm. I find where he's gesturing with his head.

At the top of a small rise, and tucked behind the back of steps going up to the mall's second level, a gold and glass cage of sorts glows. Dim-watt, bare light bulbs crown the intricate cornice, and movement from within catches my eye.

Waldo runs up there and I follow.

"The Great Zoltar" is painted across the glass of this antique carnival attraction. "Fortunes Read—Curses Removed—Outcomes Assured."

Waldo strides up to it, mesmerized.

Inside the glass cube, a great mustachioed man – seen only from the waist up – moves his hands while he lays tarot cards before him, and his red satin sleeves jangle with tiny brass bells.

As if sensing our presence, a mechanical jerk of his head brings his coal-black eyes to ours, his yellow turban sweeping back its tassels in surprise.

Waldo chuckles, half-nervously, half-wonderstruck. "Should we get our fortunes?"

"Why not?"

He instantly digs in his right pocket and produces a pair of quarters. "Here, you first."

He places the coins in my hand and steps aside. I pop them in, and Zoltar slowly raises his arms; lights inside the enclosure dim a moment.

A bell dings, and small slip of paper appears near the money slot.

"What's it say; what's it say?" my antsy buddy cries.

I lift it and read: "You need not worry about your future."

We pause and regard one another silently for a moment.

I flip it over to see if there's more on the backside. There isn't.

Then, we both crack up – big time.

Finally, Waldo manages to say through his gasps for air, "I…thought…I thought they're supposed to be vague. More 'maybe this,' 'maybe that' kinda mumbo jumbo."

We laugh again as I pocket the paper and find my own pair of coins. "Here. Now it's your turn."

He steps up, and I swear, the motions Zoltar makes this time look different. Maybe it's my altered position as I watch, but the mechanical medium seems to really look at Waldo, and to really do some mystical hand motions.

Ding!

Waldo takes the slip and reads it silently.

After a moment, I ask, "Well…?"

"You read it."

He hands it to me. It says: "Remember this day, and a future endeavor may pay off if the other party's eyes are opened."

When I look up again, for some unknown reason, Waldo has flushed.

I lift the flap of his jacket and slip the paper oracle in his shirt pocket. Patting it, I tell him, "There's your mumbo jumbo for ya."

"Yeah, I guess. Ask and I shall receive."

I'm close enough to perceive the flicker of a nervous grin, and an intriguing glimpse of his 'beauty-mark' incisor.

Raising my own smile, I roughly jostle his shoulder. "Come on. I'm getting hungry." Then I cop a fine British accent. "Say, Waldo Old Boy, do you brunch?"

"Do I…what?"

"Follow me. Onwards, my good chap. Cheerio!"

I point to a large restaurant positioned cattycorner to the Midway. There are numerous 'outdoor' tables, chairs and people, and the sign above the open doors is in the shape of a derby hat.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

We're sitting inside.

"What's good here?"

"Champagne brunch," I say with enthusiasm. "You order an entrée, go for extras at the buffet, then get juice and bubbly."

"Wow. You know you're a seventeen-year-old kid, don’t ya, son?"

"Who me? No. I'm a thirty-year-old trapped in a gangly youth's body."

"Oh. Pardone-eh moi."

"You're forgiven."

"So what are you getting?"

"Um. Either the Eggs Benedict or Eggs Florentine."

"What's the difference?"

"Florentine has spinach too – both have a splash of champagne in the Hollandaise sauce."

Waldo raises eyebrows and licks his lips.

Our waitress arrives. "Morning fellas. What can I get you?"

"Two Champagne Brunches," I order nonchalantly.

There's a perceptible narrowing of the server's eyes, but she lets it go. "And your entrée, sir?"

"Eggs Benedict."

"Very good…" scrawling on her pad, she turns to Waldo. "And you?"

"Eggs Florentine."

"Very nice, boys – I mean, gentlemen. What kind of juice?"

"Orange."

"Me too."

"All right. I'll be back shortly."

She goes.

I lean sideways on my seat, rooting around for my Zoltar fortune. "Come on, get yours out too."

We lay them side by side, one atop the other.

Waldo says, "This reminds me of a Twilight Zone episode I was watching last night."

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"About alternate realities. How choices we make take us on one route and lead us to be who we are, but sometimes a conscious – I don’t know – 'awakening' can bring us back to reconsider a decision and the alternate path."

I chuckle, a little uncomfortable. "Whoa. Sounds deep."

He shrugs. "It was a good one. I liked it."

As I glance at the fortunes, I wade through a little pool of thought. I see Famous Bear's out-of-costume expression, feel that guy's sense of being adrift.

I use the sound of my voice to distract my notions. "I hear there's a new Twilight Zone movie out."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot."

"I'd like to see it sometime."

"Me too."

"Might even be playing here."

"That's right; they built a cineplex at Union Station, didn't they?"

"Yep. Ten screens."

"Cool."

As I pick up and hand him his fortune, I again get an unexplainable déjà vu tingle; but I don’t know why. It does affect my mood though. "You know, the day we went to the Centre, Ian and I went to look at Famous' windows and he had a bit or a breakdown."

"Ah, man. Over school?"

"That's part of it, I'm sure. But he was talking about that kid who got killed freshman year."

"Jon Ashton?"

"Yeah. He wonders 'why,' and torments himself with speculation about if he'd gotten there a few minutes earlier."

"Poor Ian. That line of thought ain't fair."

"I know, and I told him so. But…."

"But what?"

"But nothing." In my mind I know I shouldn't go there. My personal feelings about the dead kid are hardly relevant.

The waitress returns with a tray. She sets two flutes of orange juice before us, then wraps a bottle of champagne – Mumm – with a crisp, white linen towel.

She peels the foil, then untwists the wire guard. The towel goes over the cork, she applies pressure with her thumbs, and POP!

Others at surrounding tables look with approving smiles.

Soon our glasses are filled. She warmly tells us, "Help yourself to the buffet. Your entrées will be out shortly."

The waitress departs, sadly still holding the bottle.

I lift my glass. "Here's to…."

"Here's to, friendships that last – "

"And grow!"

"Cheers."

We clink and sip.

I have a bit of a laugh, as Waldo wrinkles his freckles after the first swallow. "Don’t like it?"

"It's – different. Didn't know it'd be so sour – "

"Dry, but yes, it's an acquired taste." I chuckle and then make a gallant hand gesture. "Shall we, Milord?"

At the buffet, our salad plates get loaded with home fries, sliced fruit, small Danish, sweet rolls and butter.

We sit and dig in, me going for a bite of Danish first. "This place is from Kansas City."

"Really?"

"Yeah! Who knew Cow Town could do brunch, right?"

Waldo nods. "Didn't even know about brunch before today."

"Fair enough, son."

"It's nice to see the Tree of Lights in its new home. It's cool to combine holiday spirit with the looks of the season."

"I know what you mean." I try my home fries. "You ever notice those foil angles people have on their trees?"

"The red ones with the silver inside?"

"Yep. Those are sold by Famous. The company gives the materials to kids, they make the ornaments, then the store sells them at every register with one hundred percent of the proceeds going to children's organizations."

"That's great. I'll have to pick up a few this year. They make good 'bows' on presents, don’t they?"

"Yeah. Or stocking stuffers."

"True."

"I'll be getting some too."

We both nosh and sip for a bit. And with each lifting of the glass, Waldo seems to object less and less to the unfamiliar taste of this champagne.

"We can have more," I mention casually. "We just have to ask for a top off."

"I'm glad you info'ed me."

I take a tipple myself, and turn reflective for a moment. "I don’t know, Waldo. The Tree of Lights is pretty and all, but I'm not sure how we fit in anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"The whole season. It's supposed to be a time of year for childhood wonder, or adult romance, or parents experiencing joy as they bring it to their families."

"We're in-between, huh?" The sparkle in his doe-like gaze dims.

"Yeah, that's it. Since we don’t fit into any of those categories, does that mean Christmas is not for us?"

"I don’t know, man. I do get sick of people being down on the holidays and loud about it; they're like drunk uncles trying to depress everyone else in earshot. I mean, I get loneliness, and not having anyone to share it with, but why let it fester inside your skull till you start projecting a negative image on the whole season? Seems downright unhealthy to me."

I chuckle. "Those yucksters organizing fruitcake-chucking contests and thinking they're clever?"

"Exactly!"

We both laugh.

Waldo imbibes a healthy draught of bubbly. His face rises from behind the rim of his glass with a new, lip-smacking twinkle. "Wanna hear something funny?"

"You know I do."

"Those Negative Nancies gripe, bark and belly-itch about the 'fake' elements of the season – how parents lie to kids about Santa Claus, or how Big Business makes a profit on little one's dreams, but I don’t believe it. Imagination is good for the soul. To dream is to spread your wings."

'Plato,' I think, not knowing if he realizes he'd just quoted the great philosopher. "Yeah. What you say is so true. I remember being five years old and asking my mom what the word 'commercialism' meant."

"Why?"

"Why'd I ask? Because Charlie Brown on the TV Christmas show says the season is over-commercialized. Like how you said, Big Bizz profits off of dreams."

"You were a pretty amazing kid."

"You think so? I just wanted to know what Charlie Brown was talking about, and my mom told me. I imagine millions of us youngsters learned the same lesson, in the same way."

"You know, that's cool. Maybe it was Charles Schultz's plan all along – he knows kids will ask, so year after year, the cartoonist makes parents explain to their children about some of the so-called fake stuff."

"I know, man," I tell him. "Speaking of commercialism makes me think of films like Wall Street and Easy Money. We working class Americans pity the rich. And why not? We have a good life, Democrats in Congress make sure Easy Streeters pay their fair share of taxes, so we think things are good and equal."

"I know what you mean about pity. We look at them and see the burden of wealth on their behavior, lament the power of corruption upon the soul. Thank God in our society money-grubbing is not acceptable behavior; being charitable and serving the community is."

I nod my head in agreement. "Lord help this nation if that ever changes."

"I'll drink to that!"

We raise our glasses.

"May we always stay clear-headed – "

"And wide-eyed with wonder."

Clink.

"Top off, boys?" Our waitress appears just in time to replenish our drinks.

A moment later, our main courses arrive.

Large plates, with golden domes of eggy Hollandaise sauce, get placed before us. The smell is mouth-watering. Luscious and framed just slightly with a hint of piquant edge from champagne in the coating.

Waldo's looks similar to mine, but a dark green layer of cooked spinach gets between his muffin and poached egg.

We pick up knives and forks and dig in.

A few bites later, we admire the happy glow on one another's face.

I suddenly remember something. "Speaking of funny, a funny thing happened to me at Famous last Saturday."

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"You know the store mascot, Famous Bear? Well, the guy in the costume slipped me a note, and we met and talked for a while."

"In his getup?"

"Nah. He'd changed; gone on break for an hour."

"Oh. Cool."

"Yeah, he's a pretty interesting dude. A nice guy, maybe ten years older than us, but a little sad."

"What do you mean by sad?"

"A little on the serious side, that's all. I don’t think I saw him really smile once."

"Well, it sounds like a cool thing to happen. Wow. A real Christmas adventure."

"Now don’t laugh with what I'm about to tell you, but, I don't know – he was okay – it felt like I kinda knew him already."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He took me to the roof of the store's garage to see the view. It was awesome."

"Oh. Never been up there."

"I'll take you. He talked about having a writer friend out in L.A. So, since I had a copy with me, I gave him one of my stories to read."

"Which one?"

"Miracle at the Angel Tree. I don’t think you've seen it. It's about a boxer in New York who's at the end of his rope. He goes to stand before a giant Christmas tree and kill himself."

"Whoa."

"Yeah, well, it's a holiday story, so a miracle happens."

Waldo chuckles, which I make unanimous by joining in.

"What?" I ask. "You don’t believe in Twilight-Zone-types of things?"

"Oh, I do. I do. I'm just always blown away by your imagination. Have been since you befriended me sophomore year. Do you remember you let me read a Christmas poem you'd written then?"

I nod, pretty amazed he remembers; the poem he means is about one of the very first serious ones I'd ever written.

He continues, shifting his tone down to the more sonorous. "You were one of the few people in our class to be nice to me then. Don’t know if I even properly thanked you."

"Well, it must have been rough. You transferred in the middle of the first semester – say, how come you had to leave your old school so suddenly?"

Waldo glances at his plate and shrugs.

I get the message. Whatever made my friend become a seminary school dropout, Waldo's not ready to talk about it.

"Anyway, buddy, no need to thank me. You're a cool guy. Others are missing out, but if they choose not to talk to you, then you don’t need them in your life anyway."

"Well, I'd like to read your Angel Tree story too."

"Sure thing. I'll have to polish it up a bit. The Famous Bear guy – he called me a couple nights ago and gave me some good comments on the story. I'll clean it up."

"Good, cuz I want to read it; you're a great writer. You'll go far."

This simple affirmation, so friendly and so plainly spoken, raises an oddly proud feeling in me. For some reason, a scrap from a book I'm reading enters my mind. It's from The Virginian.

 

"Thus did the cow-puncher deliver himself,

not knowing at all that the seed had floated across wide spaces,

and was biding its time in his heart."

 

I go back to finish the last of the food on my plate. "Speaking of phone calls, I also talked to Ian. He mentioned some mysterious plan – says he wants a day at Saint Louis Centre, round two, next Saturday."

"Christmas Eve?!"

"Yeah. I hope you can come."

"I think I can."

"Good. Don’t know what Ian has planned, but I like him."

"Me too. Our little group is packed with good guys."

"Yeah. Friendship's tricky sometimes. Like with York, we used to be real close freshman year. We're still close, but not like before."

"What happened?"

I laugh. "Kevin happened, that's what."

"The computer guy? The one he's gonna room with in college?"

"The very same. Kevin was going to a different school, but started sophomore year with us. Those two hit it off, and it made me feel jealous; made me feel like he 'took' York away from me."

"I'm not really close with anybody. So I was surprised you called and said you'd pick me up so we could come spend a day in Union Station, one on one."

"Was it a good surprise?"

"Yep."

"I just thought – well, seems two weeks ago you got more out of our adventure than the others, so I thought we'd 'sneak' away to the second downtown mall."

"Yeah. Good plan." Waldo offers up a shy grin.

"Plus, we'll be at Champaign-Urbana together. At least we'll know one other person."

"True."

"Hey, by the way, don’t tell the guys about the mascot."

"Okay, but how come?"

"They won't get it. I don’t get it either, really: me talking to a strange bear; feeling okay about it. I can't explain it, somehow I feel you get me."

Inexplicably, I see a rosy blush roll beneath Waldo's boyish freckles.

He reassures me, "Yeah. I won't tell 'em. It's between you and me – and the Bear."

We both laugh.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Brunch is over. We walk across the Midway to the other side, past the sign saying: "To Hotel Ballroom."

A placard is mounted by the edge of a fountain, the source feeding the trough waterways, and providing a vista point to look down the main aisle of the mall.

The picture to the left shows this very arrival hall chock-a-block with people, and also billboard-sized mechanical signs listing trains, platform numbers, arrival and departure times.

Waldo reads: "During World War II, Saint Louis Union Station was the busiest transportation hub in the world, accommodating 100,000 travelers a day from every part of the nation. Even the busiest modern international airports rarely service 50,000 people a day."[6]

"Wow. Cool info."

We take the steps down the few feet to the main shopping level, and a wild store just to the right catches my attention.

An Army Jeep, with one dim headlight on, and one still-turning front wheel, looks like it just came crashing out of the window. The pile of stones that it had 'run over' lifts the right side of the vehicle in the air. From this same mass of boulders gurgles a rivulet into a collecting pond below, edged and curtailed by good-sized rocks. Out of this same 'island' rises a pair of slender palm trees. They cross trunks on the way up, and mysteriously pierce a slightly rusty corrugated roof.

The eaves runs from one side of the storefront to the other, and above a smaller sign saying "Surplus Clothes & Safari Supplies Co.," a larger one proclaims in bold red letters: "Banana Republic."

Waldo chuckles and pokes me in a friendly way. "Ever heard of them? My dad gets the catalog."

"No, but it looks wild."

"Let's check it out. I heard this is one of their first branch stores anywhere. All military surplus clothes and gear."

"Cool – then the name makes sense."

We go in. If the outside seems elaborate, the inside is like a movie set. First we pass under a pair of presumably-fake elephant tusks set arch-style with tips touching above our heads, then to the left strides a full-size African pachyderm – ears erect, trunk raised aggressively – charging halfway out of the wall. Stuffed and fake, it nevertheless looks painstakingly real.

Leafless trees, as if plucked from the parched Kalahari, spread their branches high above our heads here and there throughout the space.

On the other side of the store, more rocks pile up the side of a wall, and bighorn sheep stand attentively keeping their eyes on shoppers.

As for the merchandise itself, much of it is artistically strewn around or on top of props, like camp furniture. Bamboo shelves hold neat stacks of folded shirts and trousers, while messenger bags are slung over projecting knobs at the posts.

Rickety-looking poles bend under the weight of coats on hangers, and everywhere little display vignettes are edged with boulders on which sit pairs of boots, and stands with shirts, vests, and Indiana-Jones-style hats on top. These stones also support rectangular baskets made of willow boughs, their silvery bark still in place. Inside of these, small items await perusal.[7]

I go up and start thumbing through hangers on one rack. It's full of double-breasted, navy blue jackets. The labels are all plain white with black lettering, and prove their no-nonsense, original military pedigree.

I take out a 'large' example and admire it. Although not the type of thing I'd see guys wear around here on the streets, it has a classic, handsome look.

"Try this on," I tell Waldo. "Humor me."

Reluctantly, we head to a mirror and he sloughs off his leather jacket. I hold open the Navy blazer while he slips his arms through. The fit is ideal; it makes my buddy look dashing, brave, and I have to say, flatters both his waistline and broad shoulders.

I pat his chest affectionately. "Lookin' sharp!"

His freckles get washed with crimson from underneath as I watch him in the mirror.

I reassure a softer voice: "I'm not joking." I spot and grab a nearby sailor's hat from a post finial. I place the white cap rakishly on the side of his head to complement the look. "There, that looks good on you, sailor boy."

Waldo smirks at me in reflection. "Satisfied?"

"I guess."

He turns around. "Since I did this for you, next shop, I get to pick out something for you to try on."

"Nothing too girly – I mean, you look…." I kiss my fingers in an explosion of lip smacking.

"No, nothing girly at all, but it's my choice and you have to put it on. Deal?"

"Deal."

Waldo whips the cap off his head and disrobes.

Later, we climb the stairs to the mall's second level, where we pause, lean on the handrail and look over the bustle.

Moving on, we encounter another placard. A full-color photo of the building's Richardsonesque façade and characteristic red tile roof is accompanied by this text.

"Saint Louis Union Station cost $6.5 million to construct in 1894. Oppenheimer Properties, from Boston, Massachusetts, bought the unused station from the city for $5.5 million, and spent $150 million to restore and renovate the National Historic Landmark. When it re-opened in 1985 it was the largest adaptive reuse project in the history of the United States. Now it's once again one of the nation's preeminent destinations."[8]

"It certainly is," Waldo says.

I nod. "We're lucky."

"Yep. Sure are."

Again, a silent blush rolls beneath his chocolate-brown gaze at me.

"We're both lucky."

As we continue on, the bright lights of the Tee-Shirt Shoppe attracts Waldo's attention. "Come on," he says, hooking a finger in one of my coat buttons.

In the shop, framed shirts cover three walls from countertop to ceiling. Like a gaudy exhibit, they offer color, vitality, patterns and whimsy.

I suddenly hear Waldo's voice telling the clerk, "My friend would like to try on that one, size large."

A few minutes later I look in the mirror with Waldo over my shoulder. My chest and abdomen are clad in an Andy-Warhol-style tiling of the same image over and over – the Mona Lisa. In a nod to 80s cool, she has on dark sunglasses, but the shades only have the effect of enhancing her enigmatic grin.

Waldo kisses his fingers. "Bellissimo!"

"Wise ass."

Truth was, I loved it. That's why twenty minutes later I left my buddy sitting on a bench, after I told him I needed a bathroom break – mumbo jumbo about too much champagne. I went back, bought the shirt, and stuffed it out of the way in the inner pocket of my jacket. I couldn't get that Nat King Cole song out of my mind, that and the picture of Waldo's blush.

 

"…Is it only 'cause you're lonely

they can blame you

for that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile…"

 

Now, rejoined with him, we look at a few more shops before heading down to the main level.

In the train hobbyist's shop, a big picture of the local group's efforts for the corner window display at Famous reminds me of seeing it two weeks ago with Ian, and puts me in a bad spot. I don’t like that I held something back from Waldo earlier. But, I'm nervous about it; I'm not proud of the way I feel.

As we exit, I ask him, "Remember I said Ian was being hard on himself, about the death of Jon Ashton?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I know Ian's suffering, and I feel for him, and I know Jon was popular and had a lot of friends, but my feelings are more conflicted."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the dead boy was mean. He was petty, self-centered – a bully, in fact."

"Oh, I didn't know him."

"Yeah. The rock-climbing accident happened before you were there. But the guy seemed to hate me, I mean, personally." I lay it on the line. "He called me bad names." I don’t elaborate, but I trust Waldo is bright enough to know what those 'bad names' were.

"Ah, Harry – "

"Don’t get me wrong. It's not as if I wish the kid dead or anything, but it's the way he left it – a limbo of bad feelings, so to speak. And now I can't get over the thought that Jon knows more about me at this point than I do. Maybe he knows my future, beyond all the mumbo jumbo stuff."

"Dude. I hear ya. There's absolutely nothing wrong with feeling the way you do."

"No?"

"No. And maybe if Jon Ashton is looking down on you and me, he'd want us to know he understands too. He can feel what he did to you, and be sorry. Who knows, maybe he'd be willing to do us a favor too."

I don’t ask what he means by that, but I do appreciate the sentiment of support. "I feel I should forgive him – "

"And you will. When the time is right. I have faith in you, Harry. You'll get it done when all things are ready."

I stop to inspect Waldo's features. There's something undeniably good about him. Perhaps the priesthood needs a few more 'good eggs' like my buddy here, but then again, a relieved flush raises through my spine knowing that I have him and not The Church.

I hope the grin on my face isn't too sly as I say, "You know, that Famous Bear guy has a rainbow flag bumper sticker."

"Oh. That's cool."

"Yeah. Made me think of something though."

"What?"

"How this summer, me and York went to Six Flags, and we saw this young couple – two guys who couldn't have been more than two or three years older than us – and they were just having a good time, walking around the amusement park, hand in hand."

Waldo's silent.

I continue, "I thought to myself 'How brave,' but then wondered why that has to be considered courageous in the first place. They're just two kids in love. Not really anything special, is it?"

"No, they were brave. Sound like awesome dudes."

"I guess we should've said 'Hello.' York wouldn't have minded; I've never heard him say anything against Gay people."

"Me neither. No one in our group, really." Waldo appears to swallow down his nerves, eyeing me calmly as he adds, "One of the reasons I chose Champaign-Urbana is because they have a large LGBT Student Union."

"I know," I tell him with a re-emerging smile. "I checked them out too; can't wait to join."

We near the main doors. The Tree of Lights catches my attention through the corner of my eye. "I had fun today, Waldo, but let's do one more thing, okay?"

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

We stand at the base of the tree, I reach for my wallet, but Waldo gets to his first.

He hands over $5 and is told it will be two minutes.

We walk to the pond's edge and count down. At precisely one hundred-twenty seconds, we fain we see two more points of illumination light up the face of the waters.