Did I Ever Tell You?

“Good afternoon, are you happy with your family’s cell phone provider?”
Mr. Dawes guided his two daughters forward past the vendor and said, “Thank you, we’re fine.” The cat calls were extended to another family while Mr. Dawes wondered if his reply was true.
         
        “Remind me where we’re parked again,” said Mrs. Dawes.
         “3C,” Mr. Dawes responded. 
         “3B, Dad, we’re parked in 3B.”
         “Are you sure?  I swore it was-”
         “It was 3B, ok,” Tara said. 
         “Hm, I guess so.  Well anyway, what’s our first order of business?”
Colleen started ramming her head into the side of her father’s leg. 
         “Da-ad we haftaget the present for Melissa.”
Mr. Dawes leaned over to his wife.
         “Which one is Melissa?”
         “The one she bosses around,” she said. 
         “Ah yes,” he murmured.  “Alright, present for Melissa, anything else?  Tara?”
         “I don’t know,” Tara said curtly.  “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

      Large ferns, possibly plastic, were potted everywhere, and the sunlight slanted across marble-like walkways.  The Parkview Mall was well known in the area: it contained fancy jewelry shops that contrasted with teen clothing stores reeking of pot and suburban blight.  Mrs. Dawes had brought her daughters to the mall to visit the Santa in residence, and it also served as the staging ground for Tara’s entrance into teenagehood.  For most purposes, its convenience was astounding.

      “What does Melissa like, honey,” Mrs. Dawes asked.
        “Uhm, she likes aloddathings.”
        “Yes, but anything in particular?” 
        They all stood at an intersection, the familial unit sifting in between haphazard traffic.
        “Let’s goduthat store,” Colleen said as she pointed to a popular boutique.  She lit up and exclaimed, “Oo”, taking off for the displays in the back. 
        “Col-Tara, could you please go with her,” Mrs. Dawes asked. 
        “Wait up, Colleen,” Mr. Dawes shouted while he began walking in her direction; Tara grimaced at her father shouting near her ear and hurried ahead of him.
        “So,” Mr. Dawes said while he pulled up, “what do we got?”
        Grabbing and rearranging in whatever way suited her, Colleen pawed at the glittering merchandise.
        “What about this headband, do you think she’d like this?” 
Colleen shrugged.
          “That’s hideous, no one would ever want that on their child.  You have no fashion sense,” Tara said.
   
          “Did I ever tell you about when I was in Europe?  It was in the early 70’s, France to be specific.  Well, I was traveling around with a buddy, seeing all the sights…Mason Breaux, heir to several famous vineyards…who knows where ole Mase ended up.  But he was taking me to every hot spot.  I mean we saw everything.  Have you heard about the Moulin Rogue?  Anyway, after one wild night Mase thought we should relax at his country club.  And this club was spectacular : crystal and flowers as far as you could see.  Mase made a few inquiries and found out that the club was hosting a pretty important tennis tournament for Europe on that day.  So we sat down and were immediately drawn to this kid tearing up the court.  You would have liked him, Tara: blonde hair to his shoulders, big muscles, tan.  But this kid was dominant, and I mean he was a kid out there.  At one point during his match, he looked up and stared at me.  Mase turned and said, ‘hwat wuz zat awl abut?’ and I told him I had no idea.  The kid finished the match quickly so we had decided to roll out.  We’re leaving through the clubhouse when we hear someone loudly clearing his voice behind us-it’s the kid.  He waves hello, and I point to the racket and say, ‘Tres bien’ and he nods, but something else was up.  He focuses on my head and motions for me to take off my headband, a grimy, little thing that I had worn around for who knows how long.  On it goes and he immediately loves it; he crinkled his face, kind of like he was asking me to keep it.  I figured, sure, why not?  A few years later I see the same kid on TV wearing the same headband; the kid turned out to be Bjorn Borg, a real fashion icon, let me tell you.”

        “Wow, a fashion icon for old people,” said Tara.
        “He’s not old, he’s a legend,” Mr. Dawes said.
        “I want diswun,” Colleen interjected.
        “Remember this is for her, Colleen, not for you.  Are we close to finding something?”  Mrs. Dawes tilted her head and propped her arms up, unfolding herself into a maternal structure. 
         “You know, I might want to get new shoes while we’re at it,” Mrs. Dawes ruminated.
         “This izdawunIwannagit.”
         “Are you sure because we’re not coming back if you change your mind,” Tara said. 
         “Yah yah yah,” she responded.
         Colleen and Mr. Dawes approached the cashier, a duck shaped man with bloated cheeks.
         “Will that be all?” the man spat out between his purple worm lips.
         “Yup, that’s it for today.”
         Mrs. Dawes walked over with Tara.
         “Sweetie, I want to take a quick look at some shoes, and then we can get lunch afterwards.  Does that work for everyone?”
         “Of course,” Mr. Dawes answered.
         
        They left the store and strolled past a padded play area; small children caromed off multi-colored walls as solitary parents sat with their backs against ledges and glanced up at the ceiling and back down again.  A woman had drawn her child to sit next to her and yelled, “When you’re perfect, then you can start criticizing me.”  Mr. Dawes shook his head and cleared his throat; the family continued to the department store.
         
        “I believe the shoe section is this way,” Mrs. Dawes said.  “You all don’t have to come with me if you don’t want, it shouldn’t take too long.”
         “Don’t worry about it, let’s just get what you want and we’ll be out lickety-split.  Tara, Colleen, you coming?”
         Tara didn’t say anything, and Colleen had already taken the present out of the bag to try on the trinket.  The shoe area was fairly expansive and populated with small, rotund salesman who shuffled over to buyers and onlookers alike.  A pianist on the floor above played a tune that resounded off the escalators while Mr. Dawes sat in a plush chair.
         “Girls, don’t wander off.  With any luck your mother will be done quickly.”
         “We wanted to go look at-”
         “Come on Tara, just sit down for a bit and then we’ll be off.”
         
        The piano player had stopped, and a crackle over the PA system brought on soft pop music.  Mrs. Dawes studied a wall of designer shoes, at the same time pivoting her right foot out of her flat and commenting, “Disgusting thing…”  She picked out three sets of shoes and carried them to a chair far away from the family.  Mr. Dawes started singing to a song that was droning from the speakers, occasionally getting the lyrics correct.
         “Like a dog at the moon,” Tara groaned. 
         “Did I ever tell you about the time when I saw this Britney Spear or Speared or whatever?  I was staying at a Ritz in Chicago, had this fairly important semi-annual business conference to attend.  Here’s the thing about Chicago: the wind has a cold snap that goes straight to the bone.  It’s about as bitter as the people who live there.  City’s got a lot of character though, you’d be surprised to know it’s got a real thriving jazz and blues scene.  I don’t think that’s why she was in town, but who am I to judge.  Regardless, it was on the second night there-most of the critical talks had already happened by then-and I was coming in from a bar where I was discussing the convention with an associate…I’m walking into the lobby, and I clearly still have my wits about me.  This enormous entourage explodes out of an elevator and is as loud as a circus.  Well, she’s in the middle of it all, a celebrity supernova, and she had no idea where she was and what she was doing.  I’m walking past her and being polite, not even asking for an autograph for you two, and one of her bodyguards gives me a shove and yells, ‘Move out of the way.’  I couldn’t believe it; no one treats me like that.  So I shout out, ‘Excuse me, Miss, may I have a word with you?’ I make direct eye contact with her and I may as well have been speaking Greek because she is completely zonked out of her mind.  She doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.  Her cronies start shooing her out of the lobby and I yelled out, ‘You’re on a real bad track, honey.’  Sure enough, she ends up marrying a random idiot and ruining her career.”
         “Are you finished?” Tara asked.
         “With what?”
         “Da-ad, I’m gettin hung-ry,” Colleen whined.
         “Ok, ok, let me go see if your mother is wrapping it up.”
         
        Mr. Dawes left his chair and walked to his wife who was nearly done with her last pair.  She fidgeted and forced her feet inward among black straps that struggled to snap shut.
         
        “Honey, the kids are getting a little antsy; should I tell them to hold on?”
         “No,” Mrs. Dawes sighed, “these shoes are hopeless so it doesn’t matter.”
         “Don’t say that, it’s just summer weight,” Mr. Dawes responded.
         “That happens to people in the winter,” she said while grabbing her purse.
         
        Mr. Dawes was about to ask if the girls were ready to go, but they were waiting near the exit and talking to each other in indecipherable, sibling whispers.  The mall traffic had decreased considerably except for the janitors sweeping the floor and emptying trash receptacles.
         
        “I hope you all have a big appetite because I am famished.  What are you hungry for Colleen?  McDonalds? Subway?”
         “I’m gunaeet alot,” Colleen groaned and clutched at her stomach, folding her shirt and belly into cotton wrinkles.
         “And you, Tara, what are you going to have,” Mr. Dawes inquired. 
         “I don’t know yet, obviously I’ll see when I get there.”
         
        The food court at the Parkview Mall was known as “The Café” although it featured nothing more than a varied selection of chain restaurants; there was only one café in the mall, and it did poor business.  Employees dressed like chefs hawked food on toothpicks all along the court, and they seemed pleased to offer a taste to preoccupied shoppers.
         
        “Go and get your lunch; I’ll stake us out a nice table,” Mr. Dawes exclaimed enthusiastically. 
         “No, you go, I’m not getting anything to eat so you go order,” Mrs. Dawes answered while she took the bag from Colleen.
         Mr. Dawes reached into his pocket and procured a cylindrical roll of money.  He sorted through the bills and, licking his thumb and forefinger, removed a twenty.
         “This should more than take care of you two; we’ll be sitting,” he pointed with a blatant gesture, “over there.”
         
        Tara wiped the corner of the wet bill on a neighboring chair; the two girls went to the left side of the Café, and Mr. Dawes thought for a moment until choosing the right.  He walked by several places that specialized in deserts and sweets, but he didn’t want to set an example of impulsive gratification.  Colleen had developed too many cavities.
         
        “Colleen, stay close.  Don’t wander off, we’ll get food at the place you want,” Tara said.  She turned to assess her options when she caught sight of two boys keeping their eyes forward and their mouths set. 
         “Josh! Austin!  Hey, what’s up?”
         “Hey Tara, not much but we’re actually on our way out.”
         “You guys never called me about the party last night.  I specifically reminded you to let me know the details.”
         “We thought Chase was going to call you…sorry about that.  I’m sure there’ll be another one this weekend, though.”
         “Yeah, alright, I’ll see you at school,” Tara said and turned her back to them.
         
        At the table Mrs. Dawes picked a couple of French fries from Mr. Dawes’ plate.
         “Get more ketchup next time,” she ordered with casual deliberation.
         “The conquerors return,” he exclaimed upon catching sight of the girls.  “What did you two decide on: celery and carrot juice?”
         Colleen made a face and stuck her tongue out.
         “Is that a coke you’re drinking?”
         Nodding her head, Colleen clamped her mouth on the straw in a tilted, tearing motion.
         “Well, you can thank me for that.  I was in Atlanta in the mid-80’s, visiting some relatives at the time.  The Coke company had taken a huge gamble and changed the formula of the drink, trying to update it basically.  So I was walking down a street right in the heart of Atlanta, and it’s a typical hot Atlanta day: I’m completely drenched in sweat.  I figured I’d get a soda to cool me off so I get the drink, and I take a sip as I’m coming back out onto the street.  It tasted horrible.  The can said “New Coke” on the side of it.  I was so ticked off that I spit it out and throw the drink on the ground.  I hear a screeching of tires (I figured it was the police), but it’s a huge, grey limousine.  Somebody was rolling down a window, and an old man stuck his head out.  He said, ‘Excuse me, why did you just throw that drink on the ground?’  And I told him, I said, ‘Because it tasted like crap.’  He says back, “I see, thank you,” and drives off.  The next day I see his photo in the newspaper: turns out he was the head of Coca-cola, and he had decided that they were going back to the original.”
         “Can’t you ever shut up?  I mean really, who cares?  Who cares!  Are you always on?  Is being quiet really that difficult?”  Tara left the table and headed to the bathroom.
         Mr. Dawes looked at his wife. 
“What was that all about,” he asked.       
         “I’m going to the bathroom to get her.  Finish your meal, Colleen.” 
         She took two more bites and began playing with the gift bag.  After five minutes, Mrs. Dawes and Tara came back to the table.  Tara stared at her cold plate.
         “I’m sorry I was rude.  I overreacted.”
         “No problem.  Apology accepted,” Mr. Dawes responded.       
He had accidentally yelled at a senator once.  He wondered if he had ever told her about that.