Tapestries: The Blue Cat Special

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By Nancy Pando

When my youngest outgrew the birthday party circuit, I dropped to my knees and said, “Thank you, God, I never have to go to Chuck E. Cheese again.”

So, last year for Lola’s fifth birthday party, when she chose to go to a place called Dave and Buster’s, I said, “That’s nice.” Presents wrapped and ready, we stepped through the front door of the establishment. It suddenly becomes abundantly clear to me that Chuck E. Cheese has been taking steroids. Dave and Buster’s, as luck would have it, is an Olympian-sized video arcade complete with a restaurant that serves alcohol. Thankfully.

I enter the wonderland of sensory overload as Lola pulls me to the “Whack-a-mole” game. I have to admit, I do have advanced “Whack-a-mole” skills (a fact I would like mentioned in my obituary), but that’s it. Henceforth, I am the silver ball in this pinball wizard. Hurtling by neon lights and flashing sirens, my body jerks side to side. Lola’s foot pattern reads like an EKG. Crashing alarms envelop me once, twice, a thousand times over as points and scores go ching, ching, ca-ching. No super powers, second chances or bonus games left; I fall into nothingness on the video screen. Plummeting to an untimely death in video land is never a peaceful one: “WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP.” The alarm sounds like Dave and Buster’s version of a nuclear warning. My first instinct is to holler to the crowd, “Everybody get your coats, single file, nobody panic.” In other words, it is a meditative environment.

Screeching to a stop, Lola points to the “claw game.” You’ve seen this game. It’s got a silver claw and stuffed toys inside a glass box. This game, however, has huge stuffed animals (each one has approximately a teaspoon of stuffing inside). “Go ahead, Lola,” I say. She doesn’t move. Pointing to a homely blue cat, she says, “Will you win that one for me, Mimi?” Her pleading eyes tell me I need to suit up and do battle with the “Claw.” Okay. The war is on: It’s Mimi vs. the Claw.

Flash forward lots of quarters later and a crowd is gathered around the claw machine. Their voices rise and fall with my every failed attempt. There is a nice dad standing near us with his daughter. He gives a sympathetic smile. My left eye twitches, my teeth are clenched, I give a weak laugh. When one’s mercury is about to rocket out of the thermometer, it is time to take a few deep breaths. Calmly, I look around the room to see if there is a fire extinguisher that comes with a pick axe. One crack to the Claw and I am going to yank that sorry cat out by its fake blue fur. This is when Lola decides to whale, “But, Mimi, it’s my birthday!” Gee, I didn’t know. Now the uninvited peanut gallery behind me groans, “Aaaaaahhh, the poor thing.” Adorable people. Just adorable.

Somewhere between an intervention and Gamblers Anonymous, I quickly calculate whether or not I can fit up through the chute where the toys come out. I could — if I had one of my hips removed.

The dreaded moment arrives. I have been “clawed.” Game over. “But, Mimi, it’s my b-b-b-b-birthday!” Gee, I didn’t know. I pick Lola up because she has crumbled to the floor. Over on the restaurant side, the family is waiting for us to come and order dinner. I am holding the happy, happy birthday girl. Everyone looks to me for some kind of explanation. “Yes, yes, she’s upset,” I say, “because I could not win her the blue cat in the claw machine.” I order a bottle of vodka with a straw.

Just then, a young girl quietly appears at my side. I recognize her. She is holding the blue cat. Lifting it up, she says, “We wanted her to have this.” I flip my head around and see the nice, sympathetic dad standing in the corner. Right in front of this man, I had gone from a happy birthday grandmother to a chain smoking flame thrower. I tell him he is my hero. He’s humble. I am touched. Wordless. Overcome. Now, when we look back at Lola’s fifth birthday, it doesn’t have to be, “Remember the time Mimi flunked it?” Instead, we can remember the act of kindness.

As for the blue cat? Given the workmanship on this toy, we were certain it would become an heirloom. But, alas, it joined a gang of other ones. Those “carnies” like to stick to their own kind.

Lola’s sixth birthday party is now upon us. She has been planning this party since the day after her fifth birthday party. One can never start too soon. “I am going to have a princess party, no, I am going to have a gymnastic party, no, I am going to have a tea party, no, it’s going to be a mermaid party.”

A mermaid party it is. One small request. “Dear God, please don’t let Dave and Buster’s have a pool.”

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