The Shopkeeper
"What can I do ya' for?"
"I need me a full suit and some shiny shoes for starters."
"Well, ya' came to the best place in town." he stopped short of saying the only place in town. They both knew that.
"That's what I've heard, that's what I've heard..." repeating himself for lack of other thoughts.
"I'll let ya' look, but you just let me know if ya' need a thing."
"I thank ya', the fellers at the mill said you'd be helpful."
"I'll always do what I can to...." he stopped himself again because he knew the man had quit listening. He knew their type. They didn't converse or listen. They only spoke. The customer didn't notice the end of conversation. He had moved on.
The shopkeeper wandered back over to his little stool and stared at an old t.v. that hadn't been turned on in years; well, not since all of them started shopping there. He didn't know where they all came from, but didn't rightly care as long as they would agree to go back, but knew they wouldn't. They were here to stay and he hated it. They didn't give a damn about what he did or where he'd come from. And to top it off, none of them gave a damn about looking nice.
He watched the man wander around the little store. The man's reflection could be seen on the dusty screen of the old television set. He used to watch basketball on it all the time, but they'd taken that from him as well. Now, he could only watch their reflection as they made their way through the shop; touching all the clothing and shoes that he'd been forced to sell. If it was tacky, flashy, or ill-tailored they'd pick it up and rush to buy it. He could barely think about it. It took everything in him to look at what his shop was full of now. Trash buying trash and he was selling it to them. He wasn't a shopkeeper. He was a trash man.
"Ya' got these in a 42?" the man motioned to a pair of banana yellow slacks.
"If ya' dig further back into the rack there should be a pair." the shopkeeper replied wondering how someone could look over a whole rack of proper slacks and find the only yellow ones in the store. He wondered what mindset one would have to be in to do something like that, but then gave up because he knew. It wasn't a mindset or an emotion. It was them part and parcel. It was in their every bone and fiber. You couldn't change them. It was as if they had been formed from some uncarvable stone. They did not change. They carved paths through everything they passed through. He would never change them. They were changing him. Carving deep rifts through him that he would never get back.
"These sure would pop with a purple blazer, wouldn't they?"
"Excuse me, sir? I didn't quite catch that." the shopkeeper was forced back into the moment.
"I was just asking ya' if ya' had a purple blazer to go with these yella' pants."
"No sir, sold my last one yesterday about this same time of day and I just sent the new order out this a.m."
The customer didn't reply, but just kept digging through the coats. The shopkeeper couldn't even stand to look at him anymore. He thought he looked like a pig rooting around for the last acorn of fall. The shopkeeper grew sick just looking at him; it was what his life had become. He used to dress gentlemen. He could walk down the street with his head held high and all he had to do was look around in order to see all the men wearing his clothes. They looked like men, real men, and it was because of him. They looked like gentlemen because they had been outfitted by a gentlemen.
His mind wandered and he forgot about the swine that was busy rooting through all of his scraps. He only saw the men who walked tall because they knew that doors were open and closed for them because of their clothes. They met other gentlemen who reached out their hands and greeted them because they too looked well and spoke well, but these new types were far from that: shuffling through the front door, nervous, beady eyes scanning the room for a discount rack, trying to find something that would do, something that was a disguise. They didn't trust your advice or ask for help. They all came in with mental pictures of what they dreamed of looking like. He could see the way they looked at themselves in his mirrors. They did not see themselves for what they were. They only saw those mental pictures and he hated the reality and their dreams......
Should I Keep Writing? Let me know.
David
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