A DAD'S DAY OUT

Strangers in a strange land

This is a story about my friend Jim. It’s a late Saturday morning in early spring, 1999, at Vision Quest, Jim’s store on Royal Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter dedicated to all things Native American. The shop’s quiet at the moment; Jim’s in the back office and the shop assistant, a street sharp Quarter character who wouldn’t have been Jim’s preferred choice of employee had a better option been available, is minding the till. The world is in restive equilibrium until a man in his mid-thirties walks in with his two daughters, aged, let’s say, 9 and 11. They could be tourists or, just as easily, locals from a middle-class elsewhere in the city or surrounding parishes.

Lured in, not doubt, by the shop’s eye-catching window display of authentic Native American rugs, blankets, art and crafts, including a magnificent feathered headdress, the girls fan out before zeroing in on the jewellery cabinets filled with an impressive selection of rings, bracelets and pendants in sterling silver, turquoise and bright-red spiny oyster, hand-crafted creations by contemporary Navaho and Santo Domingo Pueblo artisans.

The girls are giddy. They hover over the cabinets like bees above a flower, the younger on tippy-toes, in awe of the treasures within. They’re talking a mile a minute, arguing which are the prettiest, which they like best. In no time, the inevitable arrives: they look up at dad with wide-eyed “can we, can we” expressions and it’s obvious that the day’s agenda includes buying something they ‘really, really, want’ – well, these are they.

The die cast, the man asks the shop assistant if they can have a closer look at some of the bracelets. As mentioned, the shop assistant is not Jim’s ideal choice for his store. In American sporting parlance, he wouldn’t be a first-round draft pick; he’d go in the latter rounds, if at all. While he’s fine pushing posters, t-shirts, dream-catchers, the odd book and other paraphernalia on the young and hip element of Jim’s clientele and can, occasionally, cajole a moneyed adult with an eye for a quality something different into shelling out for a top-shelf item, he’s totally out of his depth when it comes to serving a dad with preteen daughters. Clueless. A liability.

He pulls out two trays of bracelets and places them on the cabinet top. Gorgeous handiworks that have the girl bursting with expectation until dad casually flips over a price tag and stifles a gag. He checks another, then a third. A silence ensues. These bracelets are in the $250-$500 price range and, though he probably hadn’t set any particular spending limits, these are nowhere near what he had in mind. We’re talking no-special-occasion gifts for little girls, for heaven’s sake.

Dad’s enthusiasm drains further with each tag he turns over in desperate search of an item whose cost, in a pinch, he could just about justify. But it’s hopeless. They’re in the wrong shop. It’s time to retreat before his daughters get too attached to the idea they’ll walk away with something.

Signs of a happy ending aren’t good.

Then along came Jim

Enter Jim from the back room. He spies his employee and customers standing in silent disarray, stubs out his cigarette (American Spirit Blue) and moves swiftly into action. He briskly excuses his assistant, introduces himself as the proprietor, and ask how he may help.

All eyes fix on the jewelry case. Jim nods to dad and turns his attention to the girls. His entire attention. He replaces the offending trays with one containing visibly less pricey items, and invites the girls to go ahead, try them on, see what they like.

While they do, Jim treats them to the socio-historic background of the jewelry, what they’re made of, by whom, and why. It’s a story of southwestern Native American tribes, their customs, rituals, and beliefs, their use of silver and turquoise, the significance of the designs. Chronicles of their annual journeys to the Baja peninsula to trade precious stones for precious shells and corals, and of timeless ceremonies praying for rain.

This isn’t a sales pitch, this is anthropology. This is about values and worth.

As they’re narrowing down their choices, Jim lets the girls in on a secret; these particular bracelets, he tells them, are favorites among the female students at the local universities because they like the way the silver and white-shell beads look against their tanned skin.

The girls nod. They understand. They know a seal of approval when they see one.

Meanwhile, dad’s standing quietly in the wings, a huge smile on his face.

The older daughter cautiously turns over a price tag on the piece she’s been admiring. It says $22.50. She looks up at dad, who shakes his head ‘yes’. Her sister’s approved choice costs one dollar more.

Sales confirmed, Jim tells the girls to pick out a postcard each from the card carrousels while he wraps and bags their purchases. These feature iconic photo portraits of famous Native American leaders - Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Geronimo and more - as well as period photos of Native American women in tribal attire. These, to be sure, are on the house.

Epilogue

Cards in hand, the girls skip out of the shop followed by dad, who, of course, is left carrying the bag. But, before he steps out the door, he turns and once again thanks Jim for everything, for a day he won’t forget.

Allen Stone is a London-based writer, editor and ex-actor. Apart from supplying content for UK public and not-for-profit sector websites, he has written several as-yet-published short stories, adapted Jackie Mason’s biography, Jackie Oye, for audio books, and was once the voice of Pepsi Cola in Lebanon and the UAE.