George Clooney, Me & My Parents at the Cavendish Mall

Circa 1990...

So George Clooney calls me. He's coming to town (as in Montreal) and he's heard about this fantastic mystical place called The Cavendish Mall.

He asks if I can pick him up at the airport and take him there.

So I step out into the fine season of winter that embraces Montreal in all its wrath and builds character in our tribe, and I get into my car wondering what I am going to say to George when he walks through those sliding doors at the airport. 

Then I think about all the times I walked through those doors returning home from various travels and always having someone waiting for me on the other side - often with a kiss, a hug and sometimes even flowers. 

And then I thought of all the times I stood waiting for a loved one to arrive and of all the sad faces on the people who came through those doors having no one waiting for them on the other side.

Yeah so I get into my truck and it stalls and then it stalls again and George is on his way in. I can't be late for George Clooney. I have no choice. I have to call my parents.

My father answers the phone. He is eating a bag of chips. My mother has planted a bag of "Baked Lays" on him - Dill - his favourite flavour, and by the sound of his munching he has not yet discovered that she cheated him of his regular ones.

"Yes Leeza (can't pronounce Lisa), what's going on?"

"Can I talk to Mom?"

And then my mother's name is hollered across the house as if she has been called to the stage on The Price is Right. I lose the hearing in my right ear so I switch the phone to my left ear that is until my mother picks up the other phone (my father tends not to hang up but rather to listen or simply place the phone on his lap while he watches football and eats his baked chips) and my mother then starts to scream at my father telling him to hang up as if he has won The Price is Right I now have no ears left to use for the phone call.

My mother's first question always is:
"Is everything alright?"

And before I can reply, the second question is:
"Are you hungry - do you want to come over for dinner?"

I have to cut to the chase because George is going to be waiting for me and also because you may stop reading this post (I would).

So I explain to my mother that I need to borrow their car to pick a friend up at the airport and I don't want to pick him up in a taxi because he is famous and then the taxi driver will tip off the paparazzi.

My father who has finished the bag of chips (and is wondering why they tasted different) is asking who the famous person is at the airport. I make the mistake of telling him it's George Clooney. The next thing I know, my parents are on their way to pick me up and go meet George.

They live 10 minutes away from me so 1 hour later they appear at my door as if they have just come from overseas. 

They are exhausted and they want to know if we have time to go to Snowdon Deli before picking up George. That's a firm NO.

I get into the puke colour Corolla (scratches on bumper painted over with liquid paper), that has wind up windows and I think it's made of some kind of plastic and the seats are covered in those seat cushions you put on a stadium seat at a football game, and I don't know why but I don't dare ask.

We head to the airport and to arrivals and the doors slide open. My mother is talking to some woman about this book by Joan Didion about everyone dying and my father is eating jelly beans - sorting out the pina coladas - his favourite flavour and there appears George Clooney. 

He takes one look at me and then keeps looking because he does not know he is in this post, so he doesn't know he is in Montreal, or that me and my parents are there to pick him up, and he never asked to go to the Cavendish Mall but stick with me because this is my story.

We hug and my father shakes his hand and asks him 100 questions in 5 minutes while my mother keeps talking to this lady about how to make butterscotch brownies without butterscotch, and I grab her and we all head to the Cavendish Mall in Cote St. Luc. 

We pull up and well more than half of it has vanished. That's right - no Eaton's, no Discus, no Levis 1850, no Pumpernicks, no Laura Secord, no Cattleman (you  get the point). 

There is an intense man driving around a train like you would find in an amusement park. Clearly, he is driving over the mall speed limit and he almost runs over George!

I figure George must be hungry so I bring him to Cantor's Bakery and order him a kosher chocolate donut and a cherry danish for my father.

 
So there we are - my father - eating a cherry danish - George - eating a kosher chocolate donut - my mother in the dollar store looking for oven mitts when George turns to me and says: "Listen your parents are swell and this is the most depressing mall I have ever been to but why am I in this post?"

So now I'm all uncomfortable and I'm not sure what to say so I look over at my father and gesture to him to do something.

So he stands in front of the on-coming train (that is not really a train) and all the 3 yr olds riding it with their grandparents start to cry. I'm not sure if they are crying because my father has most of the cherry danish he devoured on his shirt (and it looks like blood), or if they are crying because they are on a fake train in a fake mall that isn't really going anywhere.

My father takes George on the train and then they are gone.

     

My mother is off in a corner talking to some lady about some book, about some girl with dragon tattoos, and there I am alone realizing this post better end soon because it's getting way too long.

In the end, George returns to my parents house with me and my mother makes roasted chicken, roasted potatoes, stuffing, salad, knishes, egg rolls, apple crisp, brownies and then a few more dishes just to be sure there is enough food.

After dinner I take George out back to Wentworth Park. It's cold but one of those amazing winter nights when the sky has a purple, yellow hue and you can see the stars and the air is crisp. 

We sit side by side in the bleachers that have names and shapes carved into the wood from the 70's and suddenly he vanishes and I realize it has all been a strange dream...the mall, the train, the donut, the corolla, the seat cushions, the baked Lays, cherry danish, and all the other things that don't matter in comparison to the sliding doors at the airport, that someone walks through with someone they love waiting on the other side.