Wipe-out

WIPE-OUT

1992 words

THE little shop on the corner had recently been decorated, the air redolent of fresh paint.

The shelves were glossy with magazines; colourful and attractive in neat array, assembled in order as precise and consistent as a military guard of honour.

At my feet the banner headlines reflected the tensions of the day, shouting their urgent news from the newspapers at ground-floor level.

They stretched, in a well-ordered line, almost the width of the shop - red-tops on the left, broadsheets on the right.

There were just two others in the shop, both female and matronly. They were dressed alike, as identical twins - grey blouse under a colourful smock and navy skirt.

Grey hair tied severely in a small bun. Clearly staff members of long-standing, chatting animatedly.

While I browsed the magazine shelves they busied themselves: one perched on a stool while she counted out the money in the register.

The other used a feather duster to flick away the unseen mites and dust particles from the shelves behind the counter that were packed with sweets, confectionery and tobacco.

They carried on a conversation that was of significance only to them but could comfortably be overheard by anybody who might be in the shop.

"Did the wedding go well ?" asked the lady counting the money. "I heard she looked beautiful."

"Yes, she was gorgeous. My daughter told me it was perfect for them" answered the other, "the weather was good and everything went off on time. She had more than a hundred at it and the hotel did a good job ... the food was lovely."

"That's good, she deserved that. She had a tough upbringing. That poor girl lost her mother soon after her father left and she had to be a mother to her younger sisters. She's a great girl ... and so mannerly ... not a bit like her father."

"Yes, she deserved to find somebody good. They went off to Tenerife on honeymoon. They left about six o'clock so the party ended early for most. My daughter was home before midnight."

Just then he strode through the shop door with confident stride; young, probably still in his twenties, well-built and shadow-bearded, after the fashion of the day.

He wore a leather bomber jacket over jeans with cowboy boots and a peaked jockey-cap. His thick black hair thrust below the rim of the cap and framed his head in a bushy hedgerow. He was every inch a modern chap.

He moved without hesitation towards the newspaper display, plucked a red-top from the floor and took a step backwards.

He let it fall open and spread his hands wide to display the centre-spread after a cursory examination of the page one lead story.

A brief glance at the back page before he closed the newspaper and dropped it back to its place on the shelf.

This exercise he repeated three times with three different titles and the chatter of conversation behind the counter died. The tension in the shop rose exponentially as he moved from one neat stack of papers to the next.

The strained atmosphere was tangible once all conversation ceased and a sense of anticipation formed an expectant knot deep in my innards. I kept my hands in my pockets as I slowly moved along a shelf of magazines and, somehow, sensed some sort of confrontation was brewing behind my back. The loud silence was oppressive and fraught with animosity.

The lady assistant with the feather duster stepped into the row of shelves opposite the newspaper rack. A glance told me her cheeks had reddened and I noticed her sharp expression and her body was tense as a violin string.

Furtively I watched as her cheeks seemed to twitch and her mannerisms projected her inner feelings. She rhythmically tapped the side of her leg with the feather duster.

Her long nose narrowed to a point that looked severe enough to cut delicate slices off a block of cheese.

She moved to engage even as the young man picked up yet another newspaper and as she thrust the feather duster forward in threatening fashion her first challenge was issued before he had time to focus on the headlines.

"You can read that outside" came the barked statement, in chilling monotone, "if you choose to buy it, that is ! This is not a library, you know … the newspapers are for sale, not for browsing."

The irritation in her voice was challenging; her sharp rebuke and her general demeanour, bristling with aggression.

He was, of course, taken by surprise and totally unprepared. His eyes opened wide as he raised his head sharply and turned to face the lady.

His face coloured up immediately as he made eye-contact with his adversary, his mouth, slack-jawed open as if in shock.

"You can't read that newspaper here" she said without giving him time to gather his thoughts, "there's a waiting room outside where you can go and read to your heart's content.

“This is a shop for sales … NOT for reading."

He shuffled his feet in confusion now as he struggled to find a measure of composure.

She stood, impatiently waiting for his response.

"I beg your pardon" he said with as much indignation as he could muster, "are you addressing me ?"

She defiantly took a step forward and stood directly in front of him, hands on hips, feet apart.

"I...I wasn't reading" he ventured, "I was just looking ...."

There was no movement whatever in the shop now and the atmosphere was heavy with menace. I watched with mounting curiosity as the mini-drama unfolded.

A strange mental image presented itself as I listened and waited. I saw it as a scene from Ben-Hur. Here he was, a Christian … thrown to the lions, or maybe the lionesses ?

But his spirit was flooding back now as he assembled his thoughts and he found a measure of authority in his next verbal sortie.

"I was not reading, I was merely glancing through the papers to see whether I would buy this one or the one next to it" he said with an air of entitlement.

"Well that's exactly what you can't do in here ... pay for it first and then you can read it."

She smoothly swung towards her sister-colleague and addressed her as if to open an avenue of approach for her.

"They think this is some sort of library where we go to the trouble of lining up all the newspapers so they can come along and rummage through them."

She swept her feather-duster towards the door in a magisterial gesture and said: "There's a newsboy out there since early morning with a bundle of newspapers under his arm ....

"Go to him and see if he will let you thumb through his papers ... I'm full sure he would have a few nice things to say to you if you tried that with him."

He struggled to frame a response before saying: "But there are so many" he protested weakly as quickly he lost his appetite for confrontation under the unflinching gaze of the two women,

"I was just trying to make up my mind ... I was only trying to choose … "

She cut him off in mid-sentence … "If you were buying a cream bun would you ask to take a bite out of it before making your mind up ?" asked the lady of the cash register with callous logic and palpable disdain, "or a piece of chocolate before you bought the bar .... would you what !"

Her arm was stretched ram-rod straight now, the feather duster almost into the man’s face.

"Imagine how long we would last in business if we let everyone who came in here stand around and read the papers. Why should they pay for them if they can read them standing here ? We'd end up trying to sell shop-soiled goods."

Anger now replaced confusion and surprise as he realised this was over-the-top and their aggression was unreasonable.

"For crying out loud" he rallied, "I just glanced through it .... and I put it back together, all neat and tidy. What sort of crime is that ?

"Your attitude is appalling ... I doubt your boss would approve. How many look forward to coming in to do business with ye, how many do you sell with an attitude like that ?"

"Thousands" they said in chorus, with such perfect timing that I suspected they had played this scene before, many times.

""We sell them all" said one, "by two o'clock they will all be gone, those shelves will be empty.

"And we've been doing that for many a year" said the cash register, "our regulars know us by name and we know them. We don't have to depend upon the likes of you ... passing by and copping a free read."

"I've never had anything like this happen to me before” he said with resignation beginning to take hold.

"I've never heard the likes of it … your attitude is appalling”.

"Never heard the likes of it ... appalling ! ... you go into any shop in town and see if they'll let you read the papers. They'll tell you exactly the same thing” she countered.

"This shop is for selling papers, not for reading them. We go to the trouble of laying them out so you can see what they’re all about without handling them," said feather duster.

He had the paper folded now and he tucked it under his arm as he pulled coins from his pocket. He stood hesitantly as if trying to decide whether to put it back on the shelf but then he walked quickly to the counter, counted out the correct change and banged it down in the midst of an embarrassed silence.

"There" he said as he turned to the doorway, "there's your money .... and it's the last money you'll ever get from me."

His indignation was wasted ... I doubt it even registered.

"Did your niece call round the next day ?" asked feather duster, even before he cleared the doorway as she resumed her activity, "wasn't she at the wedding too ?"

"She did" said her sister-colleague as she walked behind the counter and picked up the conversation, smooth and calm as you like.

"She wore the blue dress she had bought for her grand-daughter's christening ... she looked lovely."

His eyes swept helplessly from one to the other as he turned with one last look before he disappeared through the door, without another sound.

"And the bride wore white they tell me ....?”

Suddenly his shadow fell across the doorway and both ladies broke off conversation to eyeball him.

"I've never been so insulted in all my life" he said limply from the doorway, "imagine that .... for you to behave like that because I picked up a newspaper and read the headlines ... I've a good mind to write to your boss but from your attitude I doubt that you care ....."

And finally, with a supreme effort at meaningless sarcasm .... "you've no manners ... and that's why you'll always be a shopkeeper !"

He turned away with as much dignity as he could muster and was gone.

"She did ..... she was all in white ... imagine that .... she was dressed in white ! Young people ... they don't care nowadays, do they ?"

"They think they can do as they please .... well not with me !"

"Now where is the current edition of Dublin Opinion" I thought as I turned again to the magazine shelves, silently thanking my lucky stars I had not fingered anything !

And as I walked past the shelves after paying my money I scrutinised the floor and was surprised to see there was no blood on the tiles.

//ends