Late afternoon on a Friday long, long ago at the office in downtown Santa Rosa where I work, Cal was dropped off by his mommy to lasso me from the office in time for dinner. It was past 5:00, and in Toddler Land, where you consume 5-6 snacks a day and dinner regularly begins around 5:30, daddy is not allowed to hold up meal time—ever.
Counterintuitively to his purpose of pressuring me to hurry the hell up so we could grab some grub, Cal's curiosity got the best of him, and, not unlike every other visit, three hole punches, computers that beep when far too many buttons are held down and a dying fern in need of watering in my boss’s office require his attention.
Thankfully, my last task of the day involved a stop at Sonoma Bank, just two blocks away.
Cal was quickly retasked with delivering some very important checks; whereupon I saved the plant from its forthcoming drowning and protected our legal documents from possible defamation.
Being a late Friday afternoon, the bank was busy, but an armistice deal was to-be made to the overly curious, yet destructive, child.
Luckily, for whatever the reason, the bank was attracting customers all that week to its free checking or savings accounts, or whatever, and they had redecorated for the week with dozens of balloons and haphazardly placed streamers.
I’m sure they’ll have no problem giving up one balloon to a well-behaved toddler, I thought.
“Hold my hand and be a good listener and I’ll ask the lady for a balloon when we’re done,” I bargained.
Cal, eager to get his hands on a helium filled ‘ball’, did as requested and followed suit, handing the teller our checks and peaceably assembling among the other last minute depositors.
Having forgotten about our little deal, we began to walk out, where Cal reminded me, “I want my ball!”
Oh yes, your ball.
The middle aged banker, a woman with her hair bobbed and desk taken over by countless balloons, heard Cal’s demand.
“Would you like a balloon?”
She asked.
At that very moment, I saw something in this woman’s eye, a glimmer of some kind, but what?
Little did I know, she did not like the balloons that had taken over her workspace, and she was all too eager to give up, not one, but the entire bunch, gaggle, group and load.
Shit, I thought.
“I’ve been trying rid my desk of them all week,” she said.
“You obvious don’t have children,” I muttered to myself.
And what a sight we were.
The overly generous, yet self-serving banker had securely fastened the balloons to my child’s flailing wrist.
After spending minutes simply trying to maneuver our way out the door, with Cal’s multicolored bouquet of balls floating high above the offered clearance, we began our two block journey back to the office.
I felt the world staring at me, balloons bobbing, wind blowing, smiling child wrapped in curly strings—it reminded me of a blustery day in the Hundred Acre Wood.
God I hope he doesn’t float away like Piglet, I imagined.
Halfway back to the office, it became apparent that the balloons need to change hands.
Already two bystanders had become victims to our balloon parade, as the staticky mess wafted into unexpecting faces.
It was shocking, to say the least.
Perhaps next time, I’ll risk killing off the damned fern instead of taking an intended leisurely walk to the bank.