You Cannot Mess This Up

by Amy Weinland Daughters

  “Paw Paw … I mean my grandfather,” Kim stated, careful to sound as grown up as I obviously was, “has a gold digital watch with red numbers, but I’ve never seen one like that, in person.”

  “Oh, yeah …” I said, like it was no big deal. “It was a gift from my husband, for our anniversary.” I totally made that up, but Kim was duly impressed, so I continued, “He got it for me at Macy’s …”

  “Macy’s!” she said. “That’s only in NEW YORK CITY!” Apparently, this was before Macy’s had cheapened its name by buying a regional mall anchor in virtually every zip code, including the same Foley’s we were standing in right now … crap, now I was going to have to act like he had bought the watch in New York.

  “Yes,” I said casually. “He was there on business.”

  “Wow …” she said, mesmerized by the ballers Willie and I were in the future. “Have you ever been there?”

  “I went once, a couple of years ago,” I said, telling the truth this time. “We met some colleagues from England there.”

  “ENGLAND!” she screeched. “You know people from ENGLAND?” Little did she know she would be going to England in just a couple of years, with Dad and Little Amy, on a business trip.

  “Yes, well, we lived there for a few years.

  “YOU LIVED IN ENGLAND, YOU NEVER SAID THAT!”

  “Yeah, we did …” I said, again being completely truthful, and realizing that our future was exciting even in the past. I liked that, I really did.

  Before we could continue, Dick and Sue approached us at the meeting point.

  “How did it go?” Dad asked.

  “Oh gosh, Dad,” Kim literally gushed. “It was wonderful … and cousin Amy, well she’s just the best, most generous, most glamorous person I’ve ever met … and to think WE’RE RELATED TO HER!”

  It was perhaps the greatest single moment of my entire life. The most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to me, or about me, the biggest compliment and the highest praise. And to think, all it cost me was a stickpin, a cheap-ass digital watch, and a wild, probably made-up, trip back in time.

  “Well,” I said, laughing with more than a hint of self-superiority, trying to act like this wasn’t the pinnacle of my very existence, or, just being breezy in my breezy emerald-green fabrics. “Rick, it’s your turn.”

  “Be careful with my little Snake,” Mom cautioned, putting her hand softly on little Rick’s head.

  “I will, don’t worry, Sue,” I said, once again getting where she was coming from, as a mom and everything. It’s just the kind of thing I would have said if some stranger cousin was taking my little Matthew off for thirty minutes in the mall—that is, if I would have even let that happen. The very thought of it conjures up a vision of myself in Ficus-camo, stalking the shoppers.

  If I had to make a list of all the many things I liked about myself the most, my rock-solid, concrete sanity would be at the very top.

  I took Rick’s little hand. “Where to?”

  Rick pointed down the corridor leading away from Foley’s. Looking back at the rest of the family, I could see Kim proudly displaying her stickpin. I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the sound of the fountains, but I didn’t need to. It was the best nine bucks I had ever spent.

  Little Amy, on the other hand, looked to almost be writhing in pain from not being the next in line. She wiggled and stared back at Rick and me, totally missing out on the impact that I/ we had had on Kimber. We were rolling this thing, deep, and she didn’t even notice, instead choosing to take her bug eyes off the prize.

  Rick cautiously led me to a sign in the next courtyard. It was near a huge fountain, a whopper, with a café next to it and over it, the upper part accessible by a set of stairs. Yellow-and-white umbrellas rose up from among the tables, giving it the air of a French sidewalk café rather than what it was in reality, a site located about three-hundred yards from Interstate 45. It was so pleasant that I felt myself wanting to sit down and order something. Couples and families sat at the small tables, enjoying a cup of coffee, a meal, or even what looked like a cocktail. Just the thought of alcohol made my stomach turn and my mouth salivate at the same time.

  Everyone was well dressed, manicured and polished. Why wasn’t the future like this, shiny and acceptable? Where were the pajama pants, the piercings, the tats, the tits?

  Was the idyllic scene even real, all these people lunching properly, or nothing more than a shiny veneer? Or, instead, was it labeled “perfect” because it left out about eighty-seven percent of society? And what did it say about me that I found this exclusivity an attractive feature?

  Yanking on my hand, pulling me back into reality, Rick pointed at the sign. “Here it is!” Though he was short on words, he was still big on facial expressions, again pulling that almost flirtatious smile.

  MEET DARTH VADER AND CHEWBACCA IN THE TOY DEPT. AT MONTGOMERY WARD FROM 11:00 A.M. – 12:00 NOON ON FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24.

  Checking my digital watch, the same one that added to my obvious sophistication, I saw that it was mere moments before the appointed hour. “We’re just in time!” I said. “Let’s go!”

  Rick’s eyes filled with wild excitement as he looked up at me, cocking his head and giving a humorous wink. It was the same thing young Finn had done when he wanted an extra Starburst last Christmas. Oh the circle of life.

  Now I had to find Montgomery Ward … Wards, who in the hell ever went there? I asked Rick if he knew which way we should go. He answered with a shrug. Crap. If Kim had still been with me, we would have already been halfway there. I loved people who just required me to follow along, happily.

  Scanning each of the three passageways leading away from the courtyard, I vaguely remembered that Wards was back down by the movie theatre. Whirling around, I pulled little Rick in that direction, passing Coach House Gifts and Wicks ’N’ Sticks. Whizzing by the red-carpeted General Cinema, I quickly glanced at the marquee to see what was showing. National Lampoon’s Animal House (R), Midnight Express (R), Walt Disney’s Escape to Witch Mountain (G)/Return to Witch Mountain (G), Comes a Horseman (R) and Boys from Brazil (R).

  Though I totally remembered Animal House and the Witch Mountain films, I didn’t know anything about the Express, Horseman or Brazil. Wasn’t it hilarious that the Witch Mountain people were now on the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? And where in the hell were the PG films? At this theatre it was either full-on frontal nudity or young over-actors preparing themselves for a future in reality television, where mascara runs down your face while you’re drunk in a limo. Maybe that’s where the PG comes in, later.

  Pulling out my notebook while continuing, only more slowly so I could make sure Rick remained at my side, I scribbled, “When did the PG rating begin? What is Midnight Express, Comes a Horseman and Boys from Brazil? Check Netflix.”

  In front of Wards, we encountered what had to be the finest fountain in a Greenspoint Mall blessed with water features. Not only did it look good, the water spraying in this masterpiece filled pipes and made music. People were lined up around it, as if it was the Pied Piper. It was attractive and well-engineered, but these overdressed suburbanites were crowded in, three rows deep, staring at it like it was freaking YouTube, which they didn’t even know they were missing. Come on, folks, it’s a fountain, A F O U N T A I N, move along.

  Though it was clear that Wards was not up to the modern, cutting-edge interior-design standard set by the Foley brothers, it wasn’t bad. To me, it had much more of a true ’70s feel, kind of like a super version of Kmart. Plus it was clean and brand new.

  The amount of stuff piled up, neatly, in Wards was mesmerizing. Following the signs to the toy department took us through the sporting goods, an area decorated with pine shingles, giving it an earthy yet flammable feel. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a duck flew overhead, a trout flopped and splashed in the distance or a chain-smoking shopper caught one of the shingled posts on fire.

  What outdid Foley’s, and the rest of the mall for that
matter, were the Christmas decorations. They weren’t necessarily better, or more numerous, but they screamed ’70s with lots of tinsel, plastic and weirdness. I liked it. I liked it a lot. Think giant illuminated plastic candles and nativity sets, fold-out paper bells, creepy Santa heads circled by foil-backed lights and reindeer fashioned out of colored popcorn.

  Finally in the Toy Department, we joined the crowd around a runway. It was wooden and oddly yellow. It stood at about three and a half feet tall and had exposed lightbulbs running up and down its entire length on both sides, glowing so furiously you could almost hear the glare. These were a burn hazard, capable of charring the flesh of any client who dared to brush against one. Where in the hell was OSHA?

  This was where we would “meet” Mr. Vader and his hairy friend. Settling into a couple of chairs, we waited. Looking down at Rick I went with the obvious “Are you excited?” To which he produced a huge grin and another thumbs-up.

  The seats filled in around us, as did the standing room, before a male employee eventually emerged from the back room and onto the runway, making it shake in a way that made me question, again, whether anyone had inspected it from a safety standpoint.

  “Boys and girls!” he said excitedly, utilizing a small microphone that looked as if it had been ripped out of a nearby cassette-tape recorder. “I hope you are ready for our very special Christmas visitors.

  “Boys and girls,” he repeated, his voice a weird mixture of cheesiness and manliness, like a Disney character who also sold used cars. “On behalf of THE toy department at Montgomery Ward, I am happy to introduce you to some very special guests … Here they are, boys and girls, from a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away … Darth Vader and Chewbacca!”

  From out of the swinging doors a pair of shadowy figures emerged. Darth Vader was first, looking almost genuine and believable in his black garb. The crowd oohed and ahhed over him, clapping enthusiastically. Though the people were impressed, and why shouldn’t they be, most every youngster was looking past Vader to Chewbacca, who was waiting in the wings.

  As he emerged, on cue with another dramatic announcement from the master of ceremonies, the crowd roared, most of the kids on their feet. While there was no doubting that this figure was the Chewbacca who had been so promised, because who else would he be, his costume was almost laughable by new-millennium standards. Though his plastic head was problematic, what had really gone wrong was the hair, or fur. Instead of mirroring the long, almost stringy all-over hair of the character in the film, the mall version was covered in short, matted stuff that looked more like carpet fuzz. It was a lot like the hair on a doll after ten years in the back corner of a girl’s closet.

  So while Chewbacca looked friendly and jaunty as he sauntered down the runway and waved at his fans, anything resembling authenticity wasn’t happening. But this didn’t diminish the crowd’s enthusiasm.

  After about five minutes more of showmanship, the employee directed the crowd’s attention to the other side of the department, where an enormous Star Wars display just so happened to be. “If you’ll head this way, folks,” he instructed, “Darth Vader and Chewy will be happy to sign an autograph, no purchase required.”

  Rick grabbed my hand, looking up. “Let’s go!”

  Somehow, maybe because I nearly knocked fifteen people down, we managed to get past the throng and found ourselves at the beginning of the haphazard line. When it became our turn, Rick edged up hesitantly to Darth Vader, who was the first character stationed at the long bank of tables. It was obvious he was nervous, so I did what I would have done with my own two boys, placing my hand on his shoulder and speaking for him.

  “This young man would like your autograph, Darth … um, Mr. Vader.”

  Rick liked that, and smiled. “Yes, I would like one, please.”

  “What’s your name?” Darth grunted, between heavy, laborious breaths from the depths of his heavy resin mask.

  “Rick,” he said. The character swung his marker at lightning speed across a black-and-white eight by ten of the real Darth Vader, or at least a realer version. Apparently it didn’t matter what Rick’s actual name was because all I could make out was an R, D and V in the autograph. That was understandable, being that this Darth Vader was burdened with a huge pair of what looked like vinyl combat gloves.

  “Thank you very much,” Rick said, almost as if he were ten years older than his actual age. Darth Vader nodded, adding some sort of official hand salute.

  Sliding down to the other end of the table, Rick said, “Hi, Chewy!” Chewbacca cocked his head humorously, grunted, and then shook his hand. Rick absolutely loved it. I marveled at how we can make believe something is the best thing we’ve ever seen, even when it’s clearly not. Maybe the happiest people are those who don’t grow out of that.

  Chewy had a better grip on his pen and was careful to get Rick’s name correct.

  “To my good friend Rick. Love, Chewy”

  I realized that we needed a photo of this auspicious occasion. Instinctually, I dipped into my purse. I may not have been able to apply seven filters and post this on Instagram, but surely I could take a picture of it … Where was my phone?

  Crap.

  This would have to be yet another memory that we just remembered in our heads.

  Moving on, we stepped toward the Star Wars toy display, impressive not so much for the number of items on sale, but because they weren’t wrapped in five layers of hard plastic. Everything, all of it, could have been opened standing right here, without the help of any tools.

  I knew that Rick already had the R2-D2 and C-3PO action figures, a fact I picked up from the Gong Show act yesterday, so I pointed to a small set that included Darth Vader and two Stormtroopers. “How about this?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes!” he said, taking the set out of my hand. “THIS is what I want.” Examining the package, I found the small price tag, $4.88. That was only half of what I’d spent on Kimber. Even though he’d never know the difference, I felt like I should keep things as even as possible, another lesson from Dick and Sue, who had always made a big effort to be fair when spending money. It was one aspect of life that could be kept even.

  Looking around, I saw the Land Speeder, a brown vehicle I vaguely remembered hovering around in an early Star Wars movie. It was $4.76. “How about this for everyone to ride in?” I asked.

  “Really?” he responded. “I can have that too?”

  “Sure!” I said.

  “Great!” he said, grabbing the second package and heading toward the packed register. “Let’s GO!”

  This time I was much more comfortable with the check-out process, whipping out my card and not groping around for a place to self-swipe.

  Looking at my watch, I realized that it was past time to meet Dick and Sue. I was hoping Mom wouldn’t overreact, though I wouldn’t blame her if she did, I got that, totally. Grabbing Rick by the hand, we hurried out of Wards, past the singing fountain, still surrounded by eager onlookers, and back toward the first courtyard. There they were, just behind another fountain, this one with a frog spitting water at mosaic tiles. Mexico had met Italy, and nobody had won.

  “It was so cool!” Rick told the rest of the family. “We MET Darth Vader and Chewbacca IN PERSON!”

  “IT’S MY TURN!” Amy screeched, busting through our joined hands as if this was an impromptu game of Red Rover. She didn’t care about what Rick or anyone else had gotten. This was all about her. “Red Rover, Red Rover, let freaky selfish hyper girl come over.”

  “Amy!” Mom scolded. “Calm down, give Mrs. Daughters a chance to catch her breath. My God, you need to control yourself … Dick, she’s out of control again …”

  Dad put his hand on Amy’s shoulder. “Sue,” he said firmly, but calmly, “she’s fine.”

  I desperately wanted this moment to end. I couldn’t handle the obvious conflict between Mom and Dad regarding how to handle Little Amy, who was, without a doubt, difficult to control. It was precisely what he, Dad,
had eluded to in our recent conversation, the one back in 2014 that had so affected me. “I tried to protect you …” were his words. Now here it was, in black and white, on display for validation. Only now, I was seeing my part in it too.

  Maybe this was one of the questions I didn’t have, the ones that Mary said needed answers.

  But this, just like real life, was moving too quickly for me to ask or answer anything.

  “Are you ready to go?” Little Amy asked.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if there was any way to get her to the see bigger picture.

  “Where should we meet this time, Dick?” I asked.

  “Well, there is a kids’ play area by the Food Court,” he said.

  “Great,” I said, putting my hand on Little Amy’s head. “You ready?”

  “Now, Amy,” Sue cut in, “YOU KNOW HOW TO ACT, DON’T YOU?”

  “Yes!” Amy screamed, unconvincingly, “I will be SO GOOD!”

  “Just CALM DOWN and LISTEN,” Mom continued, “MRS. DAUGHTERS IS BEING VERY KIND AND SHE DOESN’T NEED ANY TROUBLE.”

  “She’s OK, Sue,” Dad interjected again.

  Mom didn’t look convinced.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  FISCAL PACKAGE

  Well, it’s just US now!” Little Amy said as we began to walk away.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked, feeling half-scared and half-intrigued. Maybe that’s how I felt about my adult self too, half-delighted and half-alarmed. Half-ashamed and half-proud. Therapy, I needed therapy.

  “Well, I’d LOVE to go look around Oshman’s Sporting Goods,” she said.

  “OK …” I said.

  “But first, can we just walk through Hickory Farms?” she added with an air of desperation.

  “Hickory Farms?” I asked, wondering what the hell she was thinking.

  “Yes …” she said, almost dreamily, pointing to a barn-like façade about seventy-five yards down the corridor toward the Food Court. “It’s right there and did you know it’s a lot like my favorite catalog, The Swiss Colony? Only it’s different, and you know what? I’ve always really, really, really wanted to go there. But, guess what, I’ve never been?”