Today is the long-awaited “pay your age” promotion at Build-a-Bear. I’ve been standing in the line for three hours with my 5-year old self-proclaimed princess. Three hours. I am capable of simple math, and I am aware the savings is not worth my time. But, it’s the princess’ birthday and this was her one royal wish — to torture her mother.
Well done, little one.
The line is full of suckers like me. Haggard moms just trying to stay upright and grandparents wrestling super-spoiled toddlers. A couple forward-thinking families have brought camping stools. One might think they look stupid perched in front of Victoria’s Secret, but I’m convinced they are geniuses as I shift from one sore foot to another. I consider how many free samples of teriyaki chicken I would need to pilfer from the food court to barter five minutes of sit time on one of those bad boys.
Princess tugs on my elbow. “Momma, that guy keeps opening his coat and showing people things!”
“What?” I whirl around, ready to punch a face with my coupon-clad fist. But, when I find the man she’s pointing to, I see he is trying to sell stuffed animals to frustrated line waiters.
As he nears, I smell sour alcohol and cigarette smoke. His face is akin to beef jerky, wrinkled and baked. His hair is long and feathery, and it floats backward when he opens his jacket to me.
“Don’t get caught in this racket, Shape-a-Snake from my jacket,” he says in a raspy voice.
I can’t help the snort that escapes. “Excuse me?”
He winks, but I’m not sure it’s on purpose. “I’ve got more selection at a fraction of their collection. Make-a-Manatee, Organize-an-Orangutan, Form-a-Frog…” He pulls three lifeless furs out of his pockets and juggles them. “Puff-a-Panda, Manufacture-a-Marsupial, Construct-a-Koala, collect them all!” He catches them and stuffs them back in his coat. A flourish of stuffing flies everywhere.
“Whoa,” the princess whispers.
I push her behind me and shake my head. “Good luck, buddy, but we’re not interested in your knockoffs today.
He ducks as a booming voice sounds ahead of us from a man I suppose is the Build-a-Bear manager. “We are sorry to inform you all that we are closing down the promotion due to overwhelming crowds and safety concerns.”
The people in line boo at him. One rather swarthy lady throws a half-eaten cheeseburger at the man’s head.
He apologizes again, wiping ketchup off his face.
The man in the trench coat giggles and turns back to me, wriggling his eyebrows.
I sigh and reach for my cash.
