A First Impression

A Story by Rick Tipton

A short tale about first impressions and how wrong they can be.

Last night was a real lesson in how wrong first impressions can be. I was sat outside a great people watching bar in Ibiza Town, looking out on a picturesque square, whilst enjoying a few ice cold beers. There were plenty of goings-on to keep me entertained, from teenage boys riding around on those heavy suspension mountain bikes with the oversized wheels, to bizarrely dressed couples flaunting their Saturday night attire, deep tans and tacky jewellery. But there was one thing in particular that caught my attention. A girl.

I say girl, because at first look, although taken aback by her attractiveness, I was aware she was probably only sixteen or seventeen. This was made more likely by the absence of an alcoholic beverage by her side, in contrast to the lady sat across from her, who was drinking a beer and that I assumed to be her mother. Not that it is at all uncommon for a teenage girl to enjoy a beer out with her mother on a Saturday evening in this particular part of the world. I’m just explaining my thought process.

On second look, intrigued by the girl’s facial expressions and mannerisms as she spoke, I considered she was probably older. A confidence and maturity now exuded her that only usually comes about from two plus decades spent living on this giant rock. She was Spanish, I believed. I wondered whether she was Ibizan or Spanish born, having moved over here, not that it matters. Either way, she seemed settled and at home.

The conversation between the two was brought to a halt when a small boy appeared at their table. To this, they reacted with great delight. The ‘girl’ picked up the small boy excitedly, bringing him onto her lap, before smothering him with hugs and kisses.

My first impression was that the boy had to be related to the girl otherwise the level of kissing to the face would have been highly inappropriate. The girl had a very natural way about her with the child and seemed overly excited to see him. I assumed it could not be her brother. Perhaps, a cousin? I still, to this day do not know where the boy magically appeared from or who was looking after him, prior to this moment.

Over the next few minutes, the ladies took great pleasure in looking at the boy’s cheeky smile and listening to him do his best to conjugate sentences while looking adorable in his Saturday night get-up. All the while, he hopped on and off the girl’s lap, riggling free now and again between cuddles. He wandered off eventually along the cobbles toward the middle of the square and started playing on the floor. The ladies looked over at him from time to time but continued on with their conversation.

I then noticed the girl take a sip of (her) beer before placing it back in the middle of the table and lighting a cigarette. She ran her hand through her ponytail and dangled it in the air in a carefree manner while expelling the smoke from her lungs.

To my disbelief, the boy then called for the girl using the word, ‘mama’. I was surprised because up until that moment, I did not have her down as a mother. Rather, I was considering her only as the daughter of the mother sat before her, contemplating her attractiveness as a girl, albeit gracefully, only just entering the realms of womanhood. Suddenly, everything was different. She was a mother.

Cue, an entirely new set of thoughts. Who was the father. Where was the father. Was he her boyfriend, or was there a marriage involved. Was he good looking. Did I have a chance. Was I willing to father a small boy. Was I even that attracted to her in the first place or simply enthralled by the mystique and mystery now encircling it all.

Next, I realised I had an entirely new outlook on this stranger. I had been impressed by her level of confidence at a seemingly young age. Now however, it made much more sense. She had seen the world through the eyes of a parent. She was schooled in a way I was not. I had a newfound respect for the ‘woman’ - the same respect I have for (most) people who have raised a child.

Despite this, my next thought was more negative. I thought, they sure are casual over here when it comes to childminding in public places. Her glances toward the child were few and far between. I found this surprising considering the current political climate. But I was warmed by her trust in the surrounding Ibizan public and the freedom she bestowed upon her child. So too, her headspace.

During this time, the boy, whilst running his hands through some loose gravel at the base of a tree, had entered into a conversation with a man sat on a nearby bench. I did think, don’t worry, I’ll keep my eye on him, as the ladies carried on blissfully unaware and my eyes rolled back inside my head. As it happened, the exchange was eventually noticed by the mother, who reassuringly, appeared momentarily concerned. Not that a small boy and a stranger sharing a conversation on a Saturday evening has to be anything other than purely innocent. But with the added detail of neither woman seeming to pay much attention to the boy, you do start to worry or at the very least, wonder.

It then became clear that the boy was simply asking the man questions and not the other way around. The man was not a natural at talking to unminded boys in the street and so unsatisfied with his level of engagement, the boy ventured back toward the tables. He showed the various samples of dirt and unsanitary things he had discovered during his excavation of the tree’s soil bed. The mother was delightfully unphased, with nothing more than a quick brush of his fingers to announce him clean again.

By now, I had sunk three or four beers and was less interested in the boy’s whereabouts. More so, the tattoo on the shoulder of the girl sat in front of me. It was of an angel’s wing. Though my attention was drawn back to topic when surprise, surprise...the boy was nowhere to be seen. Not only this, but the girl’s mother had also now disappeared from view, which added to the drama of what consequently became a solo pursuit for the boy.

His name, that the mother was now shouting every five seconds, while pacing the square, sounded Greek almost but I could never clearly make it out. It was three syllables though importantly, which again dramatised each cry from the mother. I want to say his name was Ah-khin-a but that’s actually probably quite far from the truth.

As the mother strided up and down the length of the square, calling out the boy’s name, she left her handbag (which I later found out had her mobile phone in it) on the unattended table where they had been sat. This raised another thought, the gist of which, I’ll leave you to figure out.

Upon her face, was the look of sheer panic. And I thought, if you can have this casual approach to your child’s whereabouts in busy public places, how can you become so immediately manic when his geographical coordinates are not instantaneously available to you. In other words, carry the (chill) over to this situation and assume he is safe and only meters away. Or, be less chilled in the first place and keep a better eye on him.

What ensued was a throng of passers-by becoming more and more concerned with the developing situation. A scattered display of hands over circle shaped mouths as the realisation of a misplaced child set in amongst the engaged, onlooking public.

Believe it or not, this went on for a good fifteen minutes. Her cries out never decreased in frequency and yet she hunted so far from where we sat, they silenced often due to the wide radius of her search. It goes without saying that all the while, her handbag lay open upon her chair.

She ran back over to the table looking desperate to collect her phone in order to call someone - I assumed later, her mother, as shortly afterwards, she reappeared. Now, the two of them were frantically looking.

Unsurprisingly, the boy eventually showed up. Hilariously, was how the boy reappeared. Clutching two giant wooden spoons he was, with sugar powder all over his face, smiling from ear to ear. I could only presume some cheeky chap at one of the evening market stands, selling kitchen utensils and sugary treats had taken a shine to him, opting to entertain the unattended child, in utter disregard of an almost certainly distraught, searching mother. Curiously, this character never showed, even after the mother and child had been reunited.

When the boy came into sight, the ‘mother-girl’ ran to him in the style of someone coming to the end of a marathon sprint. She picked him up with her entire hand engulfing the back of his head, bringing him into her, in a protective animal-like hold. The boy’s limbs dangled behind her whimpering frame.

Turning on her heels so that she now faced me, I could see tears streaming down her cheeks. Her face expressed the emotions of someone mourning a sudden death, with the faintest subtleties of close call relief.