Leslie Woolf Hedley

 

It was an ordinary store and I saw it every day. Especially in the morning. After office hours I noticed nothing but that bus to rescue me from depressing San Francisco streets. But during early morning moments there’s some abstract appearance of cleanliness, the atmosphere less pathological. There’s an illusion of freshness, brightness. In the morning, life seems possible. That’s the only time it does. This store was most noticeable then. Actually, it was a small shop, nothing conspicuous about it, unobtrusively located on a side street between a pornography peddler and a boutique selling leathers and dope.

In the elevator I once watched how people moved their mouths. I used to try determining if they were telling a truth or a lie by their lip movements. I no longer do that. Now riding up and down daily in the cage I don’t think, feel, dream, suffer, speak or act. I just listen, no longer caring if people are lying or telling the truth. I no longer try to form logical conclusions about human beings.

Common to many major office buildings in this city, a branch of government rented an entire floor. Consequently our ears were verbally harassed by this breed whining about not having enough money, enough holidays, enough sick leave, enough promotions, not enough of everything we ordinary civilians never had. Moaning about their finances, they took trips to Europe or Asia almost yearly. I heard about their fancied hardships and their fancy travels. My ears were raped by their noise. In the men’s room it was a similar counterpoint of petulant voices. Often I flushed all the toilets in order to drown them out. Now the store, with its window partially covered by a Dutch curtain like a half-closed eye, no signs visible anywhere, served as puzzling relief from the usual monotony.

I then decided to visit the mysterious shop during lunch. Everyone around me was discussing a double murder, the city’s first in several days. A seventeen year old boy had butchered two elderly people because, he claimed, they had refused him a ride. A few defended the boy. Others attacked the boy, saying that anyone stupid enough to get caught wasn’t worth bothering about. Soon they asked what I thought of this ubiquitous affair. They always did. As I was leaving, I responded.

“The guilty in this alleged crime,” I said apologetically, my private soul grinning, “are the two old people. They should be arrested for tempting youth. He was innocent until he met them. They forced him to become their murderer.”

“B-b-but,” someone stuttered in amazement, “they’re both dead!”

“Exhume the bodies,” I clarified. “Justice doesn’t apply only to the living, you know. Free the boy and put the two corpses in the gas chamber.”

No one said anything, wrestling with that treacly ball of logic. I had another matter of interest.

When I approached the shop I became hesitant and studied it. Painted green—celadon, I imagine—it seemed trim and certainly not so mysterious. There was no number or name on the door, I again noticed, or any indication what kind of merchandise they sold. I thought it could be an illegal bookie, but remembered that the corner policeman, in conjunction with the newsstand, ran that gambling enterprise. Feeling foolish, I slowly advanced to the door. What was I going to do after I entered? I hadn’t figured anything out yet, but my hand reached the door in a kind of consumer-reflex action—and it opened.

The interior was immaculate. That was my first impression. In contrast to drab waves of San Francisco’s boasted decay continually spewing downtown streets, the shop’s cleanliness was startling. The floor was highly polished white tile. Shelves were spotless, dustless, and all the metal trim shone in sedate light. The air seemed pure, almost with a faint scent of meadow after a spring drizzle. Even the glass cases were impeccable. But the place was empty, devoid of any stock. Nothing on the shelves, nothing in the display cases, nothing hanging from walnut grained walls.

A voice nearby annunciated, “May I be of assistance?”

He was ordinary, balding, grayish, smooth faced, with crisp crystal spectacles which made his eyes very alive. His dark blue suit was flawlessly tailored, and he wore a white shirt with a neat foulard patterned tie of gray and burgundy. I think his shoes were so highly polished they squeaked, but gently so. Everything about him was gentle, quiet, precise, maybe pridian. His soigne appearance fit the premises. He was an orthodox image of a manager.

I replied to his question with a smile. “What do you have?”

He returned the smile. “What do you want?”

I felt ridiculous. “You’ve got absolutely nothing in stock!”

He shook his head. “Business has been extremely good lately,” he explained. “It’s difficult to keep fresh supplies of everything on hand. Also, sir,” he emphasized, “this store is very fussy about the merchandise we handle. And you know, sir, how shoddy they make things these days. No pride of workmanship.”

I knew. Even our murders are sloppy.

A stock boy, that kind who majors in business and ends up owning it, appeared at the other man’s elbow. “Sir,” he said in a low voice, “what should I do with all these new invoices?”

“Ah, yes, those. Place them on my desk,” the man instructed. “I’ll examine them later. But do make certain each invoice corresponds with our order number.”

“Really,” I tried again, “you’ve got nothing to sell!”

He gently corrected me. “But, sir, you haven’t stated what you wanted to buy.”

“To tell the truth,” I relaxed toward him, “I’ve been going past your store for some time and I wondered what you sold. There’s no sign outside. I was curious.”

His eyes dilated. “That’s a natural reaction from all our customers, sir. They, too, were curious at first. They dropped in, looked around, chatted and, if I may boast, soon became steady patrons.”

“But…the absence of a sign…” I wondered.

“I understand, sir. Everyone these days is so used to seeing garish neon and atrociously decorated displays! I object to such flamboyance. Don’t you agree, sir?”

“Well,” I easily admitted, “bad taste is the norm.”

“Exactly, sir! My sentiments exactly. This age is a triumph of bad taste.”

“I think,” I said, “a lack of higher standards permitted this triumph of bad taste.”

He agreed. He absolutely agreed. “Perhaps, sir, it has something to do with an abuse of what is loosely termed…relative? All things being relative, all things lost their meaning and their human connection.”

“The question,” I said with a sour smile, “is that unless otherwise directed, all taste becomes bad. Leaving aside a thousand quibbles, accurate or inaccurate, about definitions of ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ the question we’re both trying to frame has to do with human decline. When man ceases to strive for higher civilization, he declines.”

“Man is a large word, isn’t it, sir?”

We paused. The entire episode had become an adventure into symposium. The door opened and a female customer entered, greeting the manager.

“Well,” I turned. “I must be getting back to work.”

“Right, sir. It was a pleasure talking to you. Please come back again.”

I left that store feeling guilty. I had purchased nothing. That’s an inbred syndrome. No one profited. In our society it constituted an abnormal transaction.

The next day I returned. Somehow he began to talk to me about wine, California, French and German wines. We went through that topic, and he noted down a few of my suggestions. Again a customer, a slender woman with a limp, entered. Shyly, she whispered hello to him and even to me. This time upon leaving I placed two dollars next to their antique cash register. I don’t know why. Then I opened the door.

“Just a moment, sir,” his voice stopped me. “You’ve forgotten your receipt.”

That’s the way it went. And for two days I resisted returning to that store. But around me droned chatter about property values, weather, autos and such with intense tides of seriousness, so on the third day I went back. This time the manager and I thoroughly discussed the art of string quartet playing, its tremendous musical challenge and fascination. I plunged into hearty exchange, and upon my leaving I placed five dollars on the counter and he promptly rang it up, handing me the receipt. The following day we talked about art and literature. The register made its dainty bing bing at the end and I got my receipt. Although I told myself I couldn’t afford the luxury of such purchases, the next day I returned and we wrestled with the insuperable topic of international politics.

“This is an age seeking pseudo-discovery in nihilism, and nihilism leads to madness, madness to death,” he told me. “Don’t you think so, sir?”

“The first victims of nihilism,” I then said, “are the nihilists themselves. Every nihilist I’ve known was primarily at war with himself, a social suicide. Many advertised revolutionaries are. That’s the paradox.”

“Didn’t you tell me, sir, that you had written on that subject once?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid many readers refused to understand my thesis. Or the paradox within themselves.”

“Are you bitter?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

Maybe because this was the first time I had lied to him, I quickly placed a ten dollar bill on the counter. Now he rang up and gave me change….

I remained silent about my visits to the store. Silence is the only shield left us. For several days after the incident I strolled by the shop, noting an occasional customer enter and leave. But my funds were low. Life was expensive in this tinker toy city.

A few days later I noticed a discreet card tucked into the door frame: SALE. EVERYTHING ½ OFF. Automatically I walked in.

Promptly I posed a question to the manager. “Look, we both have admitted that life is a paradox. Okay. But why is it,” I said carefully, “why is it that every paradox is resolved at the expense of the human?”

“In art, in all culture, in life!”

“The fact that we’re both alive, sir, and striving to increase our sense of humanity—doesn’t that prove or at least imply that every paradox need not be so badly resolved?”

I shook him off. “Mankind too often resolves only illusions wrapped around words.”

“Some contend, sir, that everything’s an illusion.”

“This store?”

“Oh sir, how could we stay in business if we were only an illusion?”

“But there’s nothing tangible for sale here! There’s nothing to choose!”

“Perhaps, sir, that’s because you don’t know what you want.”

“No—the store is empty.”

“No, sir. The store is full and you’re empty.”

There was nothing more to say. I paid and left.

During my next coffee break I ran out of the building and back into the store. I had to settle this damned business.

“All right,” I said breathlessly. “All right. The moment has come to resolve this situation. Give me a selection of things. You pick them out. But please keep the price reasonable.”

“An excellent idea, sir,” the manager said with a firm nod. “But, sir, no price is ever reasonable.” There was a glint in his eyes. “No matter how high the price, you’re bound to pay it—sooner or later.”

 

Leslie Woolf Hedley was born in New Jersey in 1921. He was an accomplished author, writer, and poet. A World War II Army Veteran, he attended NYU, Oxford, and Ohio State University. He published many articles and 14 books: Contemporary American Satire, Death of a World, Motions & Notions, Problems in American Culture, The Day Japan Bombed Pearl Harbor & Other Stories, Confessions, On My Way to the Cemetery, XYZ & Other Stories, Art & Politics, & More Stories & More Stories, Fiction 83, Selected poems: 1946-1953, Abraxas & Other Poems, and Alphabet Soup. He was the recipient of the Poor Richard’s Award. In 2013, Headley passed away in California at the age of 92.