The Girl in Balthazar's Window
The Girl in Balthazar’s Window
Was she “real”? That was the question that immediately jumped into shoppers’ minds. Her appearance differed greatly from the other mannequins: the flesh of that face was undeniably natural, the glow of the cheeks luminous as the rising rays of the sun on virgin snow. There was, however, something mechanical in the way she moved – a herky -jerky motion
when she lifted her arms, a rigid step with her feet and legs when she stiffly marched like the toy soldier her costume suggested. Could it be a remarkably lifelike robot? The answer perhaps hid behind in her chilly expression which never changed from the hour the store opened until closing time. The half-smile was frozen, and the long eyelashes never seemed to blink.
“Hey, Baby, wanna jingle my bells?” This was a taunt from a mall rat, one of a trio who as always never passed up an opportunity for some laughs. They stood in front of the window, whose display was on a slightly raised platform without a glass buffer separating it from the interior corridor of the mall. The open display was thus “up close and personal” for public enjoyment. Small children expressed delight and most adults seemed mildly amused, except for the uncouth few who took it as a challenge to make the living doll break out of character. In a way, these louts were like the rude tourists whose high point of a trip to London would be the attempt to break up the stoic stance of a Beefeater. Inspired by a handsome commission, the window designer hired by Balthazar’s Dept Store had come up with the notion as a way to lure in curiosity seekers, who would come for the window
display and - so it was hoped – stay to shop. The targeted audience did not include these idle youths, who at this point had failed to force the model/mannequin to break her concentration. That did not, nevertheless, discourage them from trying. For nearly a quarter of an hour, they tossed catcalls and insults, made faces and improvised gestures.
“Dudes! Check it out– ten bucks says I can make her laugh!” The boy who said put down his bag of popcorn and thrust his fist under his arm pit to approximate the impolite noises associated with a involuntary bodily function.
“Ew, Smitty, that wasn't even funny back in the fourth grade!” This from a boy who in better company almost personified a quality of sensitivity, finer than the moodiness common to adolescent angst. Among his peers, though, Mel often took the most- traveled road, the easier route of going along with the crowd.
“Yeah, Smit, “ the third kid announced. “Ya owe us both a sawbuck!”
“ Yeah, well, subtract it from the forty you owe me, Dylan!” Then Smitty returned to the matter of hand. The prank-producing process inside his rebellious, hormone-addled pate urgently churned. After a moment, Smitty shrugged. He picked up his bag of popcorn and began to fire kernel after kernel in the general direction of the window display.
It was only a matter of seconds later that someone grabbed Smitty’s shoulders and yanked him backward with a minimum of force. “Excuse me, Fellas,” a mature male voice announced, “may I ask you what you're doing?”
Turning around the trio saw a middle-aged man, presumably the store manager. A sprig of holly decorated one lapel of his suit jacket and on the other a large white button with red lettering that said: “Welcome to Balthazar’s, the Lord of Treasures.” Not one of the boys answered his question.
The man popped a cell phone out of his pocket and said something inaudible to it. A few seconds later the tinny holiday music on the loudspeakers ceased as female voice announced: “Maintenance to front of the store. Clean up in front of the store.” In the meantime, the trio
make a few backward steps to slip away. “Just a minute there, Guys” the manager said. “It’s, uh-–“ he shot his cuff to peer at his watch “–ten thirty-seven am on a weekday, a Tuesday. Why aren't you all in class?”
Smitty spoke up. “Uh, we're home-schooled?”
“Yeah?” the man replied. “Then why aren't you all home being schooled? Listen, I'll give you a head start. But if you're not away from my store in thirty seconds, I'm calling security!”
“Oooh, listen to ‘im, Dudes!” Dylan remarked. “He’s got a cell phone and he’s not afraid to use it.” No faster than was necessary, the trio sauntered away. When the store manager assured himself that the troublemakers were gone for good, he disappeared as well. Meanwhile from a side door to the window display a woman in gray overalls had entered with a small broom and a dustpan. Like a busy little elf, she attended to the chore of sweeping up the popcorn kernels strewn around the mannequin, who never looked down nor broke her pose.
A little later the three youths returned to the front of the window. This time Smitty was armed with a soft drink in a container the size of a bazooka. He held it up near his shoulder as if he were taking aim at the window display.
“Oh no, Smitty, don't you dare !” Mel said in a voice that was part-warning, part-laugh.
Smitty did not move. “What are ya, a chicken ?
Dylan seconded him.“Yeah, Mel, sometimes you act so gay!”
With that, Smitty popped off the plastic lid of the drink, pulled his arm way back, and let it fly with the force of a grenade. The enormous paper cup and its entire contents,an orange ocean and a fleet of tiny ice chips, hit an area between the girl’s neck and shoulder. Upon impact, Mel gasped, as his two associates fled – “more rapid than eagles” before anyone could call out or determine their names.
Mel froze momentarily and then stepped up onto the platform of the window display. Despite the attack, the victim had never wavered from her routine; she continued going through the motions with her tall plumed hat askew, sticky orange liquid dripping down the back of her velvet toy soldier suit.
From the back pocket of his jeans Mel exhumed the tissue which his mother had never let him leave the house without. As efficiently as propriety allowed, he used it to mop up some of the damage. “I am so sorry,” he said. “Sometimes those guys can be such jerks! They've got self-esteem issues.”
With that, the mannequin’s head turned. This unprecedented action startled Mel so much that he almost fell off the platform. “Tell me about it!” she said. “I already know from low self-esteem. That’s why I'll be spending Christmas Eve dressed up like a freakin’ clown!” In a normal gait she walked over to the side and closed the blinds to shield the compromised window dressing from public view. She pointed to the side door. “That'll take lead you to a different way out of the mall.” Mel stood staring at her. “Uh, I can take from here,” she said. To punctuate the hint, she swung open the door wide, and Mel finally went through.
The route from the secret exit to the mall’s parking lot was a short one. The trek to the bus stop back to town, however, was a long one. Mel shivered in the cold, though his face burned with shame, engendered by embarrassment about his lousy choice of friends and especially by the totally lame phrase he'd uttered upon taking leave of the beautiful model:
“Well, Happy Holidays!”
The following year Balthazar’s window display included a tasteful arrangement of outsized snowflakes hung from the ceiling with invisible strings, along with selected items of merchandise colorfully backlit by baby spots. There were no whimsical figures, human or otherwise. Nothing moved.
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