I felt so comfortable in Mary’s ’hood. Still, I had another
location to explore. The most iconic scene accompanying the “Love Is All Around” theme is the end of the opening credits. Mary spins amongst pedestrians
on a busy street and tosses her hat in the air. Naturally, I had to re-enact
that. It would be my way to show I was going to make it, too. Just like Mary.
(Never mind that she got fired in the series finale.)
If I’d only had a vague inkling of one day following Mary
Richards to Minneapolis as I watched original episodes on Saturday nights in
the ’70s, the notion stuck with me. After I moved to Los Angeles, I confided in
my dear friend Robert (whom I’d meet on Saturday nights in West Hollywood only
after I’d watched the latest episode of “The Golden Girls”) that my one true
love was Mary Richards. He neither frowned nor flinched. He nodded and then
smiled. “Yep. That’s so you.” And after five years of struggling to make it in
L.A., I piled all I could in my Honda Accord and drove north to Vancouver. On
the day I left, Robert stopped by and dropped off a gift, a black beret. His
only words: “You’re gonna make it after all.” My mission was obvious. Once I
got to Vancouver, I was to find a busy intersection and throw my cap in the
air, a sign of exhilaration, comfort and triumph.
But I didn’t do that. Not right away. I wanted to be true to
Mary. I wanted to segue from that shaky Season One lyric, “You might just make it” to the more assured
line in subsequent seasons, “You’re gonna make it.” It took a couple of years,
but I finally felt ready to toss my hat. I searched through the closet of my
fourth apartment since the move back to Canada, but the beret was nowhere to be
found. No worries, I thought. I never
throw anything away. It would turn up. But it never did.
In the weeks leading up to my road trip to Minneapolis, I
began hat shopping. I decided to splurge and pick something that would be my
own fashion statement. The problem was that I have never liked hats. They are
perfectly fine on other people, but I don’t look good in them. Hair has always
been my best asset and covering that up only made all my facial flaws more
glaring. Besides, hats make my scalp itchy. And I was reluctant to try one on
after spending the entire school year futilely combating a lice epidemic at my
school.
Still, I looked. I’d only have to wear the hat for thirty
seconds before thrusting it skyward and hoping I wouldn’t make a “Rhoda” fumble. The frugal teachings of my father suddenly made an eighty-dollar
expense for a half minute’s wear seem foolish. Instead I dug out a Gap baseball
cap from the bottom of a drawer in my closet. Never worn. Denim blue with my
first initial front and center. (A little like Mary’s “M” on her apartment
wall.) I packed it in my suitcase; it would have to do.
With only two days left of my week-long stay in Minneapolis,
I boarded a bus for downtown, cap in hand. I got on the bus, hat in hand. At 7th
and Hennepin, I disembarked and then walked the block to the corner where
Macy’s is. Much at the intersection was yellow-taped off as construction workers
went about doing something. What exactly, I don’t know. They were not my
focus. As I approached, my only thought
was, Please don’t let the Mary statue be
blocked off. Please don’t let construction come between Mary and me.
I stood at the Macy’s corner, 7th and Nicollet, the
corner I’d read online as being the site of the statue of Mary Richards and her
hat. I spun around, perhaps like Mary did, only I was trying to spot the statue
instead of doing some sort of exhilarating twirl. A Latino man in a neon yellow
shirt standing on a Segway asked, “Can I help you find something?” He seemed to
be an Information designate.
“I’m looking for the Mary Tyler Moore statue.”
“It’s gone,” he said. “It used to be right here.” He point
at a framed square on the pavement. “They took it out last weekend.”
“Nooo!” There was no hiding my disappointment. I stood there
clutching my lettered baseball cap, too stunned to move. How could the City of
Minneapolis remove it? For how long? Permanently?!
There had been no tourists lurking outside Mary’s house—not
on any of my visits there. And now
the statue was gone. Had Minneapolitans finally turned their backs on America’s
sweetheart, Mary Richards? Did “The Mary Tyler Moore” show mean nothing
anymore? Is this why I could no longer find it in syndication? Who the hell
decided that “Hogan’s Heroes” and “The Andy Griffith Show” were still relevant,
but Mary wasn’t? The statue had to be here. I slowly 360ed once more. Alas, my
search turned up nothing.
The man sensed by confusion. My head looked down again at
the framed square on the pavement as if the statue would suddenly reappear. If
I only I could have twitched my nose like Samantha on “Bewitched” or crossed my arms and blinked like Barbara Eden on “I Dream of Jeannie”. I was a pathetic
curiosity. Mr. Bearer of Bad News did his best to show empathy. “A guy showed
up as they were removing it. He came from Baltimore. They stopped so he could
have his picture taken.”
“I came from Vancouver,” I said. And the man, for whom Mary
Richards meant absolutely nothing, stayed by my side. He could see the
devastation. He gave me a map of downtown with a number to call. “Maybe they
can give you some information,” he said.
I couldn’t think clearly. Pedestrians passed, coming and
going from all directions. I knew this man would take a picture of me throwing
my cap in the air. All I had to do was ask. This was the same corner. The
statue wasn’t part of the show. It didn’t matter. But somehow it did. It
represented Mary Richards’ place in pop culture and her ongoing association
with this city in Minnesota despite the fact the show was filmed in L.A.
I didn’t ask for a photo. I felt silly. Like Linus waiting
for The Great Pumpkin, I was the only one who believed. I walked away, still stunned,
not knowing what to do. I turned back and went into Macy’s. A shabby Macy’s it
seemed, but perhaps the warm glow I’d gained visiting this city was gone,
everything now tarnished. I wandered on the second floor where the menswear was
and drifted across skybridge after skybridge into other buildings. There was
nothing to do. I had hoped there would be a shopping experience calling to me,
helping soothe my sense of loss.
F
or a while, I stood in the building across the street and
looked up at Basil’s Restaurant, another site in the opening credits. I snapped
a picture and told myself to go up. Get a coffee or something. But I’d lost
interest. The City had lost interest in Mary Richards. Why should I care about
Basil’s? Finally I found the elevator in the Marquette Hotel and pressed the
third floor button for the restaurant. I stood where the host or maitre-d would
assume his place but no one was there. I settled for a selfie and took the
elevator down again.
I made it back to the corner of 7th and Nicollet.
The Information guy was gone. I felt stupid holding my cap. Was it always this
crumpled? People continued to stream by. I tried to muster up the will to try
the hat toss. Without the statue near me, there was nothing I could point to in
order to explain the odd behavior of repeatedly tossing a baseball cap in
trying to capture a bizarre selfie. I lost any courage to ask someone to take
my picture. I thought of just throwing the cap without a photo. It suddenly
seemed complicated. I’d lost the will. I walked back toward Hennepin, ready to
catch the next bus.
I felt empty and I wondered, What would Mary do? A silly question. A fictional personality, one
that meant nothing anymore to her adopted city. Instead, I went with the old
standby of What would I, James, do?
I got off the bus a block early and ordered a double scoop
of ice cream—chocolate mint and raspberry chocolate chip—at Sebastian Joe’s, a
signature spot in the city since the mid-80s. It still had its status. For now,
at least.
