There was a woman who lived only steps away from the store in a Victorian home that had all the hallmarks of an orderly existence. She was a mother of three very successful daughters, about whose achievements she would boast constantly. Nearly 5 feet tall and around 60 years old, with an English accent, she resembled a character from Shakespeare. She was a piano teacher who taught from home and, as most of her students were late afternoon drop-ins, her mornings were free to spend as she wished, and she would come to visit.
One morning, a little after 10, I looked up from my newspaper and cafe au lait to see the door closing. I stood up to have a look, but couldn't see anybody. A scuffling noise from in front of the recent acquisitions shelf told me that someone was in the store. Up popped her head shouting in the queen's vernacular, "Right... SHIT! What are you doing?"
"Good morning, Liz," I said. "How are you?" Refusing to answer, she instead decided to focus on the over-sized steps she was taking to walk to the counter. Reeking of some type of alcohol, or combination of distilled beverages, she now stood before me with something cupped in her hands.
"Close your eyes!", she said, with her usual slow, baritone, regal authority. I did as I was told, as I was always up for a new experience, and waited. "Hold out your hand..." she demanded. "Why," I said, starting to get more than a little suspicious. "Have you been a good boy?" she asked. "Why?" I said, now thinking seriously of retracting my arm. She said, "Don't get smart!"
So there I was, holding out my palm, and in it she deposited some kind of food. I opened my eyes to reveal that it was Black Forest Cake, and she was using her hand as a spatula to scrape the icing from her hand, on to my fingers.
As quickly as she arrived she left me, standing there with cake in my hand. I ate it.
During similar visits, I would open my hand to find a raw egg. On good days, the egg would be boiled and, if I was lucky, it would even be shelled! Sometimes I received a can of unopened tuna.
Liz also possessed the uncanny ability to terrify customers with congenial drunken outbursts. She could be a little more than intimidating, especially to recently arrived foreign students. She would come up behind a customer, cock her head around their shoulder, and loudly whisper one of her favourite inquiries: "And who are you busy being?" This unfailingly led to moments of astonishment, followed by confusion, as the victim tried desperately to determine the relationship Liz had with the store. Almost always, I found it necessary to step in to deliver the person from potential embarrassment, and hopefully, rescue a sale.
One morning, a little after 10, I looked up from my newspaper and cafe au lait to see the door closing. I stood up to have a look, but couldn't see anybody. A scuffling noise from in front of the recent acquisitions shelf told me that someone was in the store. Up popped her head shouting in the queen's vernacular, "Right... SHIT! What are you doing?"
"Good morning, Liz," I said. "How are you?" Refusing to answer, she instead decided to focus on the over-sized steps she was taking to walk to the counter. Reeking of some type of alcohol, or combination of distilled beverages, she now stood before me with something cupped in her hands.
"Close your eyes!", she said, with her usual slow, baritone, regal authority. I did as I was told, as I was always up for a new experience, and waited. "Hold out your hand..." she demanded. "Why," I said, starting to get more than a little suspicious. "Have you been a good boy?" she asked. "Why?" I said, now thinking seriously of retracting my arm. She said, "Don't get smart!"
So there I was, holding out my palm, and in it she deposited some kind of food. I opened my eyes to reveal that it was Black Forest Cake, and she was using her hand as a spatula to scrape the icing from her hand, on to my fingers.
As quickly as she arrived she left me, standing there with cake in my hand. I ate it.
During similar visits, I would open my hand to find a raw egg. On good days, the egg would be boiled and, if I was lucky, it would even be shelled! Sometimes I received a can of unopened tuna.
Liz also possessed the uncanny ability to terrify customers with congenial drunken outbursts. She could be a little more than intimidating, especially to recently arrived foreign students. She would come up behind a customer, cock her head around their shoulder, and loudly whisper one of her favourite inquiries: "And who are you busy being?" This unfailingly led to moments of astonishment, followed by confusion, as the victim tried desperately to determine the relationship Liz had with the store. Almost always, I found it necessary to step in to deliver the person from potential embarrassment, and hopefully, rescue a sale.
Thanks for the morning smile. You need to write a book - notes from the bookstore...
ReplyDelete