Sometimes It’s Easier to Hide Behind the Curtain

It was hardly one of my proudest moments.

I could pick an excuse to explain my behavior . . . heat, exhaustion, frustration with a day when nothing had gone right. But nothing could elevate my actions beyond embarrassingly lowbrow.

I was at my neighborhood discount store, locked in an argument with the service desk clerk over how much I was due for the pink plastic sandals I was trying to return.

Something about the SKU and computer price not matching up. . . . I don’t really recall what she said, though I made her explain again and again.

I got louder, madder, stood my ground.

“This is what I paid,” I told her, waving the receipt in front of her face. “And this is the refund I should get!”

We were one dollar apart--on shoes that cost no more than $5.99, no matter whose account you believed--yet our confrontation went on and on until I was sweating and she was red in the face and folks in line behind me were beginning to whisper among themselves and roll their eyes.

Finally, I sighed and gave up, muttering a curse under my breath as I shoved the shoes across the counter toward her. I snatched my money and turned to go. Then I felt a tap on my arm.

I turned to face the lady who’d been behind me in line.

“You’re Sandy Banks, aren’t you?” she said, loud enough for the line to hear. “I enjoy your column.”

I couldn’t tell if her expression was smile or smirk. I mumbled a thank you and slunk away.

*

In the year I’ve been writing this column, I’ve been approached by strangers a few times. Somebody finds my face familiar or hears me tell someone my name.

“Sandy Banks?” the stranger will say. “I read your column in The Times!”

It’s flattering, mostly. Thrilling even, whether it’s my daughter’s soccer coach or the doorman at a hotel in Beverly Hills. It’s the fantasy of celebrity come true.

But the threat of recognition also carries the power to embarrass, when my public behavior doesn’t match the column persona.

My column may portray a woman on an even keel--thoughtful, good-humored, in control of herself and her family’s affairs.

My real life is considerably different.

I can be messy, self-righteous, impatient, mean. I yell at my kids, insult the drivers of slow-moving cars, sneak into the express line with too many things. . . .

Like most people, I’m used to living in anonymity, without having to worry if I’m measuring up to an image I’ve created in the public domain.

And when I fall short, it brings to mind that scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when Toto pulls back the curtain to expose the “great and powerful Oz” as nothing more than a tired old man, frantically manipulating dials and levers to create his image of omnipotence.

“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” the embarrassed wizard pleads when his charade is exposed. “I am the great and powerful Oz.”

*

I’m out with my kids at a concert in the park. It’s supposed to be the relaxing finale of a busy weekend; instead, we’re hot and cranky and they’re begging to go home.

We’re hungry and our legs itch from sitting on the grass, because mom forgot to bring a blanket or anything to eat or drink.

I get them ice cream and snow cones, trying to buy their patience till the music begins, but their incessant complaining frays nerves already worn thin.

Ice cream is flicked onto somebody’s legs; a clump of red ice is fired back in return. It lands on my white shirt. I snatch the offender’s snow cone and dump it on the lawn.

They’re yelling at one another and me, and I’m angrily dressing them down when I notice the woman next to me--with her husband and two well-behaved kids, comfy lawn chairs and a basket of food--staring with a bemused look on her face. She leans toward us, and I know what’s coming. I grab the kids and try to get away before she pulls the curtain back.

“Are you Sandy Banks?” she calls as we retreat.

I nod and force a smile. But what I want to say is the wizard’s line: Pay no attention to that woman behind the curtain. Please.

* Sandy Banks’ column is published Mondays and Fridays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.