THE SHOP NEXT DOOR

Well that’s kinda bland, isn’t it? It’s a curiosity shop but too many words, it’s not quite antiques so that won’t do either, I was going to call it The Crooks Next Door but that implies they are all crooks, and I felt the singular Crook Next Door doesn’t sit right for this story is not only about Trixie. I cannot find locate or otherwise conjure my thesaurus and I am too conceited and stubborn, too fond of speculation to ever ever use google. I’m sure they have thesauri galore at The Shop Next Door which quite suddenly sounds just right don’t you agree, but I think I’ll go anyway, already wearing the go-go boots I bought myself for Christmas, slept in them, it’s not every day you find the perfect footwear and the perfect fit in a thrift shop, also too many words. When Trixie, the proprietor, when she saw I had these white beauties in hand she was frantic, she tried to get them off me, she said they’d been put out by mistake, that they were obviously too big for me (the perfect fit in a thrift store can be imperfect) but I paid my twelve dollars as I said I am stubborn. She gave me my change like poison.

It’s not Dickensian but for a few isles where nobody goes, where silver bells tarnish and crystal vases dim, gold-plated dinnerware stacks high as you like, higher even, and silverware so abundant, mountains of it, glassware too, delicate cups and their delicate saucers, all of it unwanted, and beneath wilt the embroidered tablecloths, the fuzzing tapestries, and beneath these, a shelf of ignored Bibles carefully separated are those personalized which are displayed in alphabetical order, and then in their own corner are the rescued Gideons. It is an act beyond comprehension to discard not only these books but all things that languish in these aisles for everyone believes, to some degree, in karma.

But the minute I step inside I forget about the thesaurus for it’s not Trixie today grumpy at the cash it is instead a sort of Kris Kristofferson dude, he’s playing Glen Campbell loud, who has, by the time I slip through the door with my hatbox, made Albuquerque.

I hurry without hurrying because I know the diamond on the brooch hidden in the old folds of my new hat in the old round box is real. I duck into my house feeling half guilty, like it’s me who is the crook next door, and half wonderful.

News gets around doesn’t it in a small town and the following Saturday, in the Daily Miner and News my picture I looked like Jane Hathaway and the headline as if written by Jethro Bodene: Local woman finds 5 carat diamond is rare. I bought five copies, not one for each carat but one for each sibling I mailed two and hung on to the rest I’d drive to the farm soon enough, and later I bought two more one I took to the cemetery like I did every Sunday for my mother loved her crosswords, and a spare I could leave strategically in the way of any future company.

In the fine print I tell that I was at the time of discovery humming along to Rhinestone Cowboy which is totally true. What are the chances of that? Jethro skilfully added.

I felt the weight when I picked the hat off the floor. I had only wanted to move it from where it blocked the titles of the books behind it but it slid to the floor didn’t actually make a sound but Jethro went on to call it a thud, irresponsible journalism unless he was talking about Trixie’s heart when she heard she came over so rattled she didn’t even have to knock.