10
O
n Saturday, Rossman's held its grand opening, complete with a ribbon-cutting ceremony, free Christmas cookies, a free concert on the ice from the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, and fireworks over the harbor in the late afternoon. Of course, no one on the Santa Squad was able to see the concert or fireworks since the line of children waiting to see Santa never let up, but I didn't mind at all. This was the opening I'd hoped forâcrowded, festive, busy. With a reception like this, Rossman's stood a chance of surviving in downtown Baltimore.
The ribbon-cutting ceremony in front of the store was attended by the architect, my old pal Woody, or rather, Sherwood Cruise, a few Orioles and Ravens players, and the mayor himself, whose jazz band was slated to perform later in the store restaurant. I tinkled my fingers at Woody across the plaza in front of the store while the mayor spoke to the crowd, hundreds of people thrumming along the marble stairs and cobblestone square. I think Woody nodded back, but then maybe he was just ducking his head against the wind that had begun blowing in off the water that morning, lifting skirts and swirling debris in grand city fashion. The whole scene reminded me of a political rally, complete with applause and cheers and music booming from high-amped speakers. The big difference here was that these people were motivated not by free speech but by a free cookie and a chance to get a jump on their Christmas shopping.
A little thrill had rippled through the Santa Squad that morning when we learned that Evelyn and Karl Rossman, of the department store dynasty, had flown in from Chicago to take part in the store's opening ceremony.
“Do you think we'll get to meet them?” Skinny Stu wondered. “I've always been a fan.”
“Like royalty!” Chet beamed. “My wife won't believe this.”
“But she'll see it on the news,” ZZ said. “I understand all the major networks in Baltimore have their satellite trucks parked in front of the store.”
Although the Rossmans were aging royalty now, Evelyn seemed quite gracious, with ivory skin like porcelain, and Karl seemed so earnest when he explained to the crowd that ribbon cuttings were becoming a lost art.
“Nowadays, they take a giant pair of ceremonial scissors and smack the ribbon down. Not here at Rossman's! We guarantee, no lip-synching, no fake scissors. Today we'll be cutting the ribbon with a pair of scissors we sell in the store, which you can use for anything from butterflying a chicken to trimming posterboard for school projects. They come apart for easy cleaning in the dishwasher.” He demonstrated. “Voilà !”
Evelyn nudged closer to the microphone. “Karl, I thought you retired from that sales position.”
“Can't take the sales out of the boy,” he joked, turning the microphone over to the mayor.
“Do you believe in Baltimore?” the mayor asked, smiling as the crowd roared its response. He talked about the continuing pledge of Baltimoreans working together for safer streets, new opportunities, and the hope of a better future for the children of Baltimore.
As he spoke, I flashed back to the time when my parents had purchased the house on Lombard, when every third house was boarded up and occupied by vagrants or drug users. I'd been sent to Catholic school because the local schools were in turmoil, the reading and math scores substandard. And as I walked two blocks to the bus stop, I had to pass an overgrown alley littered with shattered glass and trash, sometimes crawling with rats.
So much had changed.
Now my mother's Butchers Hill neighborhood was a showcase, its annual fall house tour a magnet for decorators and historians. With gentrification, the vacant homes in her neighborhood had been renovated and were now occupied by residents who cared about their communities. Debris was cleared from alleyways by neighbors who took pride in their homes. Real estate prices had risen steadily, as had test scores for first and second graders. One brick at a time, one child at a time, my old hometown was improving.
The mayor summed up his comments, saying that the battle for Baltimore was a continuing effortâa long-term commitment. He celebrated Rossman's share in that commitment and pointed to this department store as further evidence that Baltimore was the place to be.
As people applauded, I glanced across at the Rossmans and the mayor and Woody and felt my eyes sting with tears. I quickly rubbed them away, embarrassed at misting up over my feelings for a city, especially a city I didn't claim as my home anymore. But I couldn't help but feel for the schoolkids and the people who took charge of their neighborhoods, picking up trash and joining citizens on patrol.
Okay, maybe I wanted to take Manhattan, but for now, in this moment, Baltimore was a good place to be, and I was proud to be a part of it, even if my contribution was to play Mrs. Claus and perk up a few little kids.
After that there were a few carols from a children's choir, and finally, drums rolled as the Rossmans stepped forward and cleanly snipped through the red and gold ribbon with that pair of shiny kitchen scissors. “Eighteen ninety-nine in our housewares department!” Karl said proudly as he held up the scissors.
After the noontime ceremonies, Santaland was flooded with children, the lines extending to the gingerbread maze for the first time. My training kicked in, and I moved through the line, teasing the children and asking them questions, sending sections off to craft stations where they could kill time making name tags, sending other sections off to pass the time riding Santa's toy train. For the most part the compartmentalized queues worked efficiently, and I was amazed to see that little children could endure a solid hour of waiting as long as they were distracted.
Time passed quickly for me, too, and before I knew it the crowds were thinning. Most families were home for dinner hour.
One of the elves stepped in front of me, blocking entry to the toy train terminal. “You've been at it since noon, Olivia. Go take a break.”
“You know, Shayna, I think that's a good idea. We don't want the little ones to have visions of Mrs. Claus fainting in their heads.”
She laughed. “Whoo, no. That would not be one for the Rossman's memory book.”
In the employee lounge I exchanged my Mrs. Claus top for a black button-down fleece and headed up to the store restaurant for a quick bite. The mayor's jazz band was just packing up its gear, and there was a cluster of activity near the sound equipment as customers vied for a few words with the popular man. I ducked into the self-serve line for a Caesar salad with chicken, emerging into the quieter section of the dining room lined with poinsettias and white holiday lights. As I moved past a table of business suits, someone called my name.
“Olivia?”
Bracing myself for a barrage of insults based on the show, I turned and realized it was Woody. Sherwood Cruise, architect of the month.
“Oh, I didn't notice you. I mean, I didn't notice you were dining with friends.”
“We were just having coffee, waiting for the mayor.” He gestured toward the empty chair. “Have a seat. It's good to see you.”
I moved to the empty chair, trying not to gape at the beautiful people flanking my seventh-grade sweetie. The man on his left looked like he might have just stepped out of
GQ
, and the woman on Woody's right could have been Business Suit Barbie. Short blond hair in a fashionable cut, chiseled cheekbones, the dignified look that I envied. At the moment she was laughing over some exchange between the mayor and a young boy in a baseball cap.
Funny how you run into an old boyfriend and immediately sense that the thrill is gone . . . until you see them with someone else.
“Are you finished for the day?” Woody asked me.
“Just on break.” I nodded toward the others, but he didn't seem to get it. Giving up, I extended my hand. “Hi, I'm Woody's friend Olivia Todd.”
The woman shook my hand, her eyes opening wide. “Oh, don't let us interrupt.” She gave a quick shake, then smoothly rose from the table.
The man in the suit also got up. “You have a good evening,” he said warmly as he started across the dining room and paused a few feet behind the mayor.
“They're the mayor's security team,” Woody explained. “Bodyguards. I was waiting for the mayor to finish up so that we could go over a few projects.”
“Oh.” The sound came out more like the native “Oow . . .” but I didn't want to think about it too much. “Aren't you the entrepreneur. But taking a meeting on a Saturday night?”
He shrugged. “Nine to five is boring. You know me, I never did well inside the box.”
“None of us did well inside the box, but most adolescents grow out of that.”
“What happened to us? Why didn't we grow up and begin conforming? Neither of us got real jobs.”
“Woody, I may be pursuing the life of the tap-dance kid, but look at you. Architecture school, which has got to be more math than most people can tolerate in one lifetime. And now dinner with the mayor? Hardly the work of a rebel.”
He twirled the pepper shaker on the table. “So, you've been on the job here a few days now. By the way, I'm digging the Mrs. Claus suit.”
I crunched on a mouthful of lettuce, nodding happily.
“So what do you think of my work? I mean, how is the whole Santaland thing working out with the design of the third floor?”
“It's a great space. The maze for the waiting area works well, and the train is a real crowd pleaser.”
He grinned. “Great, glad to hear it. I wrote a proposal to keep the train running after the holidays. That whole area was designed for baby-sitting while parents are shopping, but Rossman's is still looking into it. Liability issues, I think.”
We talked about possible design changes, the need for more bathrooms on that floor, the need to move the dressing rooms for the Santa Squad a little closer to Santaland. “Can't have a little kid running into five Santas on the escalator,” I explained.
He nodded, his dark eyes squinting as he took it all in. I imagined he might have the same look as he shared this information with the Rossmans and pitched some minor design changes. I didn't know what Woody's contract with Rossman's entailed, but it seemed to me he was sticking on the project longer than most architects, with care toward function more than structure. This was a man who cared about the building and his vision for the people who used it.
I wanted to fall back in love with him right there and then, but a very rude woman was suddenly leaning between us, in my face.
“If you like New York so much,
Olivia,”
she said, “how 'bout a slice of New York cheesecake?”
I turned and only got half a glimpse of her when a plate of cheesecake filled my line of vision and wonked my face with its sweet, cheesy, moist mass.
There were cries and gasps of “Oh my gosh!” “Did you see that?”
I dug two wads of cheese paste from my eyes and blinked at my attacker, a woman with a blond beehive do and too much blue eye shadow. “Do I know you?” I asked her.
“You know my type,” she said. “Don't you remember what you called us in the show? Balti-morons.”
The show. Of course. The wicked Olivia.
I was about to defend myself, to recuse myself from Bobby's skewering spoof of this city, but suddenly it seemed like such a lost cause that I just scraped off some cheesecake with my fingertips and took a taste.
“Are you okay, Liv?” Woody asked.
“I could be worse,” I said. “I could've moved to Boston. Then I'd be wearing Boston cream pie, and brown is not my color.”
In the aftermath of the attack I came to think of as the Cheesecake Toss, a dozen things happened at once. A few people called the police on their cells, while the mayor's plainclothes security guards moved in and handcuffed the tosser.
The mayor was whisked out of sight, off to a secure location, lest there be a second deranged doughnut flinger or pie pelter lurking in the kitchen.
The attacker's friends sat down beside me and tried to rationalize their girl Doris's behavior, explaining she was “pretty darned serious about her TV shows,” how she'd been having a bad run with her husband getting transferred up to Mount Carmel, Pennsylvania, “And him 'specting her to leave her family and all and move up to that godforsaken backwoods and all.”
Many of the diners pushed in to surround our table, some curious, some sympathetic. The guy bussing tables eyed me with suspicion, as if I were a ketchup graffiti artist, but Woody sent him for a few hot towels, which he brought promptly. Through it all, Woody remained beside me, the calm voice of reason in a sea of hysterical, shrill voices.
By the time the police arrived I didn't want to press charges, and I convinced them to release Doris, who promptly burst into tears and told me I wasn't at all like my character on the show. “You're a real decent human being,” she sobbed.
We hugged and everyone applauded.
“And that's what this is all about?” Woody said aloud. “Bobby's show?”
I had forgotten that Woody knew Bobby. They had both gone to Mt. St. Joe's, and even though Bobby was two years older, Woody would have witnessed the bohemian artist period, the leather-jacketed bad boy of Baltimore phase, the quick cleanup and tutorials to land a college scholarship at the end of junior year. What a relief! Woody was totally wise to Bobby's act.
“I don't understand that at all,” Woody went on, looking Doris in the eye. “If you don't like the show, why don't you speak to the man who created it?”
“We don't care about a bunch of writers,” one of Doris's friends said. “Everybody knows that the bad girl herself is here in town. Why waste your time on a bunch of writerly types when you can have the Nutcracker herself?”