Wingman

It's been a rainy season here in Dallas this year. Something like 10 inches over our average rainfall so far, and counting. Yesterday, we had the privilege of both rain and 90-degree weather, turning our little concrete jungle into a humid tropical rainforest, but I had to venture out in it to the mall, no less, to run an errand that just couldn't wait. I took both my kids with me to the famous Galleria, and we parked in the Nordstrom's parking garage.

As we walked in through the immaculate department store, I could hear beautiful, live piano music wafting through the store, and I made a mental note to come back by the piano so the kids could listen for a moment or two. For some reason, going into this store makes me a little self-conscious about what I'm wearing. Yeah, I know that that's a little silly, but seeing a woman who looks like she just popped out of a Prada catalog makes me think to glance inconspicuously down to make sure I'm not wearing the shorts with the paint stains on them...and I have these great leather shoes that Fran has threatened to toss out--luckily she's afraid to touch them. At one time in history they had gel soles on them, but on a hot afternoon a couple of years back the gel packs popped and green gel oozed out of the sides (which was kind of awesome, but made me self-conscious about losing weight) They've been soaked and dried so many times now that they look similar to a squirrel that's been run over and left out in the street for a few months.

My errand took quite a while, and then Kaitlyn wanted to play in the kid's play area, so by the time we were leaving the mall I was worried about getting something for the kids to eat--Ryan was "STARRRRVING!!!", so I nearly forgot to stop and listen to the music. Even though we have a piano at our house, the resident musician, my lovely wife, plays only occasionally, so I felt compelled to stop.

The pianist was a 50-ish gay man with a dark 3-piece suit. He was awfully proud of being the Nordstrom's featured piano player, and his fingers floated across the mirror-polished black baby grand piano like Liberace. He was playing "As Time Goes By", from the movie Casablanca with flourishes and trills and runs across the entire keyboard. He wore a contented smile and his head bobbed from side to side, showing off his huge diamond stud earring which was shining brilliantly in the immaculate lighting. His hair was also flawless--freshly cut, the gray completely washed out with Beach Boy color and bright blond highlights. He pounded out the song loudly and dramatically, swaying his body and half-closing his eyes as he played. I had Kaitlyn on one side, and Ryan on the other, and they both stood still for a few minutes, forgetting all thoughts of eating or playing and just enjoying the music.

Suddenly, my 3-year-old daughter bellowed at the top of her voice, "You look like a rotten egg!"
Without missing a beat, the pianist, now with fully opened eyes, smiled cow-like at me and asked "Did she say something?" (People who aren't around little kids seem to not be able to understand their high-pitched voices...thank goodness). But his snapping to full awareness made me suspect that he had an inkling that he had just been insulted.

I answered, quickly, "She says you look like a Rock Star." I mean, why hurt the guy?

His concerned look turned back to pride and contentment and he even seemed to add some extra flourishes to his playing as I led the kids toward to the door. I looked over to Ryan, who had witnessed everything and knew exactly what had just happened. When we were safely away, we looked at each other and both broke out into laughter. I reached out and held my hand out, and he gave me a high five, laughing uproariously.

"That was pretty good, Dad!"

Katilyn then corrected me, "No, I said he looks like a rotten egg!"

We laughed about it all the way home.