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pokingaboutinsomeoldguysemporium.mp3
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POKING ABOUT IN SOME OLD GUY’S EMPORIUM
An unfamiliar customer is poking about the bookstore, sniffing at books, handling old magazines, picking up and putting down objects from the past, seemingly puzzled.
Eventually, this customer says, “Now what is it that you do with all these things?” A pause. “Do people buy these?”
All I can do is follow the immutable rule every decent bookseller should follow—I keep a straight face, suppress my incredulity, smile big and explain, “Yes, people travel from great distances to purchase these wonderful artifacts.”
“What do they do with these things? They’re old,” the customer wonders, imparting his muted disdain, his wonder at how people could be so stupid as to wander outside the Cone of Wal-Mart shopping experience.
This is my chance to proselytize, which I do at every opportunity. But I hesitate expending the energy. This person seems to have made up his mind that I’m just a crazy old storekeeper surrounded by useless crap that nobody wants, probably living off retirement or family. Maybe I’ll save the sermon for the next customer who, as it turns out, is just the right person to guide through the joys of collecting and selling collectibles.
So, I just minimize my response, make a light remark, and suggest that, once finished here, he might enjoy going next door, to Sojourns, to shop among new and exotic items. This is what he eventually does. My goal is achieved—he leaves puzzled but happy, since I have not treated him with the same disdain he aimed at me. We’re both happy for the experience, and we’ll never see each other again. Meanwhile, Melissa at Sojourns might make a sale, thus she will be happy, too.
Win-win.
Why do I deal with such a variety of visitors in such a pleasant way? Well, partly because I am a writer, a writer who sees each person as a source of ideas, inspirations, ponderings.
If I were to write my mantra about this, here’s what I might compose:
Each person I encounter each person who comes across my field of vision each person who enters my store or talks to me across the counter or serves me or waits on me or ignores me or bypasses me or dismisses me or smiles at me, each person who seems interested in me for a matter of seconds, in me and my existence…each person is bringing an unconscious gift to me…and if I ignore the gift, if I don’t pause (if just in my mind) later and open the gift, I’m abandoning a fascinating Christmas tree with lots and lots of beautifully wrapped packages scattered about.
Why would I not want to open each one carefully, preserving the wrapping paper, cherishing what is inside, shelving for eventual poetic examination?
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
Y’all come by and poke around a bit
© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.