It was a shop like many others visited over the years, but I found there a tenuous frequency. As though lingering from the chime of an overhead bell that rang upon entrance, a cautious appeal hung in the air, inviting me on like the phantom aromas of old time cartoons. I smiled in opposition at the scowling proprietress looming over her counter, who only acknowledged me with a nod before turning her gaze downward, and was struck by the absurd feeling that this was quite unfamiliar territory.
Carefully and quietly I advanced, picking my way through rows of sideboards, dresser drawers, vanities, and pie cabinets. Upon each surface was a scattering of objects in just about any embodiment imaginable, as long as they were to be found in an early to mid-century ladies’ domicile. Boxes of costume jewelry, stacks of old books, strings of skeleton keys, formidable baby dolls, pillbox hats and sewing notions are the standard inventory of such emporiums. Though I pay them respect for simply being what they are, these things need magic to satisfy my craving for obscurity. Profound procurement is rare and bitter-sweet. Any object I adopt must have certain properties, and it must speak to me. If it has no evident story, I need to concoct one for it, which is by no means an easy task if the thing refuses to concede. Some things, however, do more than just speak. They acquire me, even when they refuse me.
I continued along the labyrinthine trail of concrete and seasoned remains, and had nearly made it back to my starting point when my foot knocked against something, the corner of which protruded from beneath an old hoosier cabinet. That initial frequency which greeted me at the door had not subsided, and actually seemed to increase the moment I looked down upon the thing I had nudged. Unconsciously, I was sinking to my knees, reaching for it. Pulling it from beneath its hiding place, I found that it was a small chest covered with dust. Old, rusted, deteriorating, it was locked up and had no discernible weight aside from that of its construct materials. I felt a slight, buzzing discomfort as my hands rested on its edge, and I made as if to push it back into its original place, but at the same time felt an urge, a need to open it. I released two stubborn draw bolts, lifted the lid, and found a little man inside.
A wooden man with a face of crackling paint, eyes peculiarly bright, wearing a frown and a dusty brown suit. He lay dreadfully composed, emitting the deepest lament, resting in that box as if he was finished with everything. A wave of vertigo overtook me and I could only seem to focus on his face, seized by it, held fast by what I saw there. I felt fear, but wanted to touch him, tried to reach further. As my hand drew near him, an ache grew rapidly from the bones of my fingers up into my chest, and I thought my heart had stopped. He stole my breath, taking it from my lips while forming it into his own whisper: Too late, dolly.
Now, I am first to admit that my mind can be fitful, and this aberration settles me on the far side of normal. I search not for dead things, but for things that communicate after being broken or discarded. Things with perceptible spirit. I may have been accused of unreasonably assigning life to inanimate objects, but those accusers lack spirit themselves, and scarcely weaken my resolve. The little man – he was a source of this “eccentricity”, and the simultaneous negation of that very term. I heard him, and felt him like nothing I’ve felt before. He was the embodiment of all that I search for, but as I reached for him his anguish was thrust upon me with such finality that I fell back against the shelf behind me and brought a shower of ancient spice tins down upon my head. He had somehow pushed me, shoved me back and away from him.
Trembling, crying, feeling as if an invisible hand had a death grip on my heart, I sat starting at the man for a long moment, until the shopkeeper appeared at the end of the aisle a few feet away. She regarded me with some combination of anger and concern, but said nothing as her eyes fell on my face. Her face softened ever so slightly as she came to my side and gently closed the lid, locking it in place and sliding back underneath the cabinet. I watched her do so in horror, wanting to scream at her to stop, to tear her arms away. I wanted to see him, to keep him, but he had been kept too long, forgotten, and was resigned to his decay. His story came to me in an instant, and I knew that he had not always been made of wood, but he was now beyond living in the light. For us both, it was too late.
The woman looked down upon me, pulled me up by the arm, and promptly herded me up the aisle to the front of the store. “You need to go,” she said as she produced a box of tissue from behind her perch. I could not tell pity from anger on her face as I struggled to orient myself again. I didn’t know how to leave. His whisper still echoed within me. I could still feel him and could hardly resist going back, but I quietly forced myself to exit the store, knowing that I should not return.
That pain has never left me, so in a sense, I do keep him. Embedded in my heart is a shard of utter hopelessness, due not only to his state of being, but also to his benign intent. The shove was not malicious, which only makes it sharper. This incredible encounter has been a profound lesson, as was his rejection of the world outside of his box. I have come to explore things with a greater understanding of my own nature and with more consideration than I had in the past, finding myself increasingly hesitant to concede to the world's understanding of anything. I am sad, and sorry, but grateful for all the little things. For stories, and the lessons of the forgotten. Gratitude only comes after we’ve been brought to our knees, subjects of inconceivable truth.
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