Four of us that day had made the pilgrimage to King of Prussia, the world’s largest shopping mall. My father was much younger than I am now. Katja, my step-mother, was barely in her twenties, a college kid. And behind them, just out of sight, lurked the tykes. My brother was four. I was seven.
We left Mom’s house to spend every other weekend with them. Dad and Katja had moved from Germany into a small apartment above his new boss’s garage on a sprawling Main Line property, replete with a gated driveway and a lake covered in moss. “Don’t go near that,” Dad said that winter weekend when the lake froze over. But God created frozen lakes for kids to play hockey on, even if they don’t have skates and their father rushes out mid-game to prove with one stomp of his boot how fragile the ice is. That is what they were dealing with. They were substitute teachers trying to corral the miscreants.
This King of Prussia run was uneventful until we arrived at our last stop, Herman’s. In 1996 the sporting goods store Herman’s clung desperately to life. “Going out of business” signs decorated the space. Katja waded through the NFL jerseys looking for new sneakers.
The objects of my desire in my life up to that point all had to do with sports, and all seemingly lined the aisles here. A year or so earlier, our upstairs neighbor, a young beauty, used to sunbathe in our backyard. What struck me at six years old was not the swimsuit model but the folding chair she used. The possibilities I saw for it! Folding it just so, I had my first field goal posts for backyard football games. Rotating that downward, we had a new soccer goal. Here in Herman’s we had the real thing. Jackets, bats, racquets, uniforms—all beautiful to behold but unattainable without Dad’s help.
Now Brian and I spotted a can of two racquetballs. The price tag said two dollars. I had none—racquetballs nor dollars. Tennis balls were a dime a dozen. But racquetballs! I’d always wanted some. The shine, the rubbery smell, the deep blue, the higher bounce, the smoothness. They called to me.
From Mom we learned faith; from Dad, the virtue of frugality. You didn’t build wealth with depreciable assets, and small purchases add up. But second graders are not investment bankers. His philosophy wasn’t a virtue then, to us. It was infuriating. For if we perused the pharmacy with Mom, Brian and I would clamor for a Hot Wheels or Jolly Ranchers, and she would sigh and say, “God will provide,” before capitulating. (He even sent a nun, my teacher Sister Virginia, who happened to shop there and told us in the checkout line, “But Brian’ll still have his car long after your Jolly Ranchers are gone.”) But as opposed to Mom, Dad had more backbone, or espoused a tighter fiscal policy, or didn’t want his kids to grow up spoiled, or at least held the luxury of standing firm with relief in sight—the brats are going home Sunday. There wasn’t one time he caved to pressure to buy a Kit-Kat.
I did not trust God to provide the racquetballs. I asked Dad.
I could hear the response before it came. “No, we aren’t going to waste money on that,” he said. He turned to join Katja while we wandered the store.
Quickly the rage filled me. Two dollars! And didn’t he work for Deutsche Bank? Years of rejected pleas for toys drove me over the edge. (Never mind the Nintendo he gave us for Christmas.) Once he could no longer see us, blocked by rows of Flyers sweatshirts, I turned to Brian. Wordlessly our eyes met. He saw me reach for the container of racquetballs and shrugged. Starter jackets were hot then; mine was a black half-zip pullover with the kelly green Philadelphia Eagles logo stitched on the back. What was interesting about those jackets was their pockets. Instead of two separate, small pockets, Starter installed one large pocket with two openings, on either side, like a tunnel. It was perfect for burrowing the plastic cylinder inside.
I knew it was wrong every bit as much as I know it now. I slipped it in the jacket and walked off. Neither Dad nor Katja sensed a thing. Nor did any Herman’s associate. We made it home, where I slipped it into my suitcase. Sunday came, and we were hours away from safety at Mom’s house.
But inexplicably, Dad foraged through my suitcase before we left. There, in the side pocket, he found the racquetballs. Then he found me in front of the TV.
“Look what I found in your suitcase,” he said. “Are these the racquetballs you asked for at the mall?”
“No,” I stammered. I thought fast. “They were always in there. I brought them from home.”
“Then why did you want me to buy them so badly?”
“I like racquetballs!”
“So if I call Mom right now, she’ll tell me these are yours and you brought them?” He reached for the phone.
This was a killer blow. How could I get out of that? She’d packed my clothes; in my mind she’d know they weren’t mine. Too young to think he might be bluffing, too young to foresee that Mom might not know the entire inventory of my belongings by heart, I started crying. I couldn’t bear for Mom to know I’d stolen them.
“No!” I cried. And in that moment Dad knew the truth.
“We’re going right back to the store. And you’re going to turn them back in and say you’re sorry for stealing them.”
So drove back to King of Prussia. On the way I thought my life was over. The police would drag me away in cuffs, bound for a foster home. Walking inside, I carried the racquetballs myself. I tried to enjoy my last moments of freedom but couldn’t. The thought, odd but distinct, that I vividly recall was that I was having trouble swallowing. That as I approached the store manager, I had gulped my last gulp.
“This young man has something to tell you,” Dad told her.
The manager was dressed for the golf course. I looked up and presented the can, unopened. “I’m sorry I took them,” I said.
To my astonishment, she accepted them quickly. As quick as that, it was over. No prison, no trial, not even a scolding or a stern look.
And I was back on the German ring road, finished the story. At the wheel, Katja nodded. That was her recollection, save for one thing. “Do you know where your Dad got the idea to bring you back to the store to return it?” I hadn’t even considered it might take some inspiration; it seemed natural. “He was in a fury when he caught you and said to me, ‘What the hell do I do with him?’ And I thought about it and told him, he’s gotta bring it back himself. A woman’s touch! He was ready to ship you off to Siberia!”
A few weeks later, back in the States, Brian and I bought a house together. Dad flew over to help us move, and that night he unveiled a Nespresso coffeemaker as he raised a toast. “A gift for the new place,” he said, winking. “Prost! Now don’t say I never got you anything.”
The objects of my desire in my life up to that point all had to do with sports, and all seemingly lined the aisles here. A year or so earlier, our upstairs neighbor, a young beauty, used to sunbathe in our backyard. What struck me at six years old was not the swimsuit model but the folding chair she used. The possibilities I saw for it! Folding it just so, I had my first field goal posts for backyard football games. Rotating that downward, we had a new soccer goal. Here in Herman’s we had the real thing. Jackets, bats, racquets, uniforms—all beautiful to behold but unattainable without Dad’s help.
Now Brian and I spotted a can of two racquetballs. The price tag said two dollars. I had none—racquetballs nor dollars. Tennis balls were a dime a dozen. But racquetballs! I’d always wanted some. The shine, the rubbery smell, the deep blue, the higher bounce, the smoothness. They called to me.
From Mom we learned faith; from Dad, the virtue of frugality. You didn’t build wealth with depreciable assets, and small purchases add up. But second graders are not investment bankers. His philosophy wasn’t a virtue then, to us. It was infuriating. For if we perused the pharmacy with Mom, Brian and I would clamor for a Hot Wheels or Jolly Ranchers, and she would sigh and say, “God will provide,” before capitulating. (He even sent a nun, my teacher Sister Virginia, who happened to shop there and told us in the checkout line, “But Brian’ll still have his car long after your Jolly Ranchers are gone.”) But as opposed to Mom, Dad had more backbone, or espoused a tighter fiscal policy, or didn’t want his kids to grow up spoiled, or at least held the luxury of standing firm with relief in sight—the brats are going home Sunday. There wasn’t one time he caved to pressure to buy a Kit-Kat.
I did not trust God to provide the racquetballs. I asked Dad.
I could hear the response before it came. “No, we aren’t going to waste money on that,” he said. He turned to join Katja while we wandered the store.
Quickly the rage filled me. Two dollars! And didn’t he work for Deutsche Bank? Years of rejected pleas for toys drove me over the edge. (Never mind the Nintendo he gave us for Christmas.) Once he could no longer see us, blocked by rows of Flyers sweatshirts, I turned to Brian. Wordlessly our eyes met. He saw me reach for the container of racquetballs and shrugged. Starter jackets were hot then; mine was a black half-zip pullover with the kelly green Philadelphia Eagles logo stitched on the back. What was interesting about those jackets was their pockets. Instead of two separate, small pockets, Starter installed one large pocket with two openings, on either side, like a tunnel. It was perfect for burrowing the plastic cylinder inside.
I knew it was wrong every bit as much as I know it now. I slipped it in the jacket and walked off. Neither Dad nor Katja sensed a thing. Nor did any Herman’s associate. We made it home, where I slipped it into my suitcase. Sunday came, and we were hours away from safety at Mom’s house.
But inexplicably, Dad foraged through my suitcase before we left. There, in the side pocket, he found the racquetballs. Then he found me in front of the TV.
“Look what I found in your suitcase,” he said. “Are these the racquetballs you asked for at the mall?”
“No,” I stammered. I thought fast. “They were always in there. I brought them from home.”
“Then why did you want me to buy them so badly?”
“I like racquetballs!”
“So if I call Mom right now, she’ll tell me these are yours and you brought them?” He reached for the phone.
This was a killer blow. How could I get out of that? She’d packed my clothes; in my mind she’d know they weren’t mine. Too young to think he might be bluffing, too young to foresee that Mom might not know the entire inventory of my belongings by heart, I started crying. I couldn’t bear for Mom to know I’d stolen them.
“No!” I cried. And in that moment Dad knew the truth.
“We’re going right back to the store. And you’re going to turn them back in and say you’re sorry for stealing them.”
So drove back to King of Prussia. On the way I thought my life was over. The police would drag me away in cuffs, bound for a foster home. Walking inside, I carried the racquetballs myself. I tried to enjoy my last moments of freedom but couldn’t. The thought, odd but distinct, that I vividly recall was that I was having trouble swallowing. That as I approached the store manager, I had gulped my last gulp.
“This young man has something to tell you,” Dad told her.
The manager was dressed for the golf course. I looked up and presented the can, unopened. “I’m sorry I took them,” I said.
To my astonishment, she accepted them quickly. As quick as that, it was over. No prison, no trial, not even a scolding or a stern look.
And I was back on the German ring road, finished the story. At the wheel, Katja nodded. That was her recollection, save for one thing. “Do you know where your Dad got the idea to bring you back to the store to return it?” I hadn’t even considered it might take some inspiration; it seemed natural. “He was in a fury when he caught you and said to me, ‘What the hell do I do with him?’ And I thought about it and told him, he’s gotta bring it back himself. A woman’s touch! He was ready to ship you off to Siberia!”
A few weeks later, back in the States, Brian and I bought a house together. Dad flew over to help us move, and that night he unveiled a Nespresso coffeemaker as he raised a toast. “A gift for the new place,” he said, winking. “Prost! Now don’t say I never got you anything.”
No comments:
Post a Comment