I pull into the quiet lot behind the Gymboree, the five and dime, the gourmet grocer. As I lift Hank out into the sunshine, a security guard scowls at us. His stance is wide, his arms crossed. Who is this guy?
I look around the small, peaceful parking lot â€” I can almost smell the Pablum on the air. Why in the world would they hire a security guard? I picture a herd of soccer dads ramming each others’ minivans in a frenzy to beat the line at the nuevo Cubano coffee shop. Perhaps the stroller meets have turned ugly. The Bugaboo moms are lying in wait for the Orbit moms who have learned to use their ponderous diaper bags as weapons. Maybe there was a standoff at the baby center because one of the parents mentioned that their baby was already beginning to talk “for real,” so they were thinking of dropping the baby sign class. Beneath the mundane exterior of this yuppie commercial complex beats a bloody revolution.
The security guard adjusts his mirrored sunglasses, and strolls past a couple of loiterers on a nearby bench. One of them calls out:
Ah. Or that could be it.