That’s his style. His personality. Just jump in. Spontaneity, that’s what he responds to. Don’t even think about it. Seldom was he left without a response. Optimistic invitation to discourse, as much a personality imperative as was inhaling oxygen to fuel his mechanical bodily functions. He was gregariously inclined, open to every opportunity to communicate.
Confoundingly, he was also a cynic, clearly recognizing the base as the basis of most basic human emotions when people were pressed for personal advantage. Within him, the two polarities struggled to compete for ultimate advantage, one capitulating to the other.
So when he pulls up in front of the antique mall, taking care to park as far as possible from the signe in its large raised-bed structure, he is automatically responding to a previous incident he was exposed to.
Two rough-looking men on their way to the entrance of the mall were perfect foils for his exhilaration on arrival, his anticipation. As he exited the driver’s seat, he engaged them immediately and their disinterested surly faces turned friendly and amused by his description of misadventure.
“You were
that excited?”
“Yep. Backed right into the bugger. Didn’t even see it.”
“You must’ve got some bargain!”
“Not that, just so pleased at finding good stuff. And you’re right; good price, too.”
They laughed, looked over at the offending structure.
“Dented my back-side door. I had to wrestle the bumper back straight on. Kind of soured my mood.”
“Yeah, it would”, they agreed, suddenly good fellows, making their way to the door, waving to him.
In the group shop, he adjusted his expectations, reminding himself of the majority of annual visits where he had found nothing worthwhile. His other side nudged another memory, of porcelains and clocks and paintings he had ‘discovered’ at various dealers’ stalls over the years. He moved slowly from one large glassed-in shelving unit to another; perusing, evaluating their interiors. Some half-intriguing objects, the majority representing bits and pieces of unadulterated junk.
The unfamiliar face he had greeted on entering, sitting behind the front desk had eyed him curiously, returning his greeting. Halfway down one case of glassed-in junk a voice floated over to him.
“Those fires out yet?”
What? He turned, called back, “not sure”. Wondered if this was someone who improbably recalled seeing him in previous years.
“You from Montreal?"
“Nope, not Montreal. I’m Canadian, though. From Ottawa.”
“Oh. Saw that logo on your tee-shirt. Thought you’d be a McGill alumni.”
Ah. “No”, he laughed. “Just wearing the shirt.” Second-hand; whoever had originally owned it likely
had been to McGill, but not him.
“It was the smoke. From those Quebec forest fires.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, my wife woke up last Monday, said it smelled like someone had a wood-fire going. Not likely, in that heat and humidity, let alone that time of day. Then she said she thought it might be from the forest fires.”
“We had the same experience over here. You wouldn’t believe it, at this distance. Boston had it even worse. There were air quality alerts. People told to stay indoors."
“Sure, in Ottawa too. We had health alerts, people with asthma, the elderly. We heard the smoke had gone as far as Boston. Couldn’t believe it.”
“Believe it, I was there. Though we had it as bad here. Guess it was the way the wind shifted. Scary stuff. Especially for all those people they had to evacuate, I guess.”
“Yep, for sure. Reminds you of the Icelandic volcano spewing carbon all over Europe; flight chaos”, he responded, pleased with the analogy.
“Hell, no! Bostonians don’t miss a beat. It’s the American way“, scoffed the other. “Visibility was bad, you could hardly see the skyline. But all the boaters got their sailboats out on the Charles River. Nothing daunts them. All the runners were out jogging.”
He shrugged, grinned, agreed it would take a hell of a lot more than charred wood violating U.S. airspace to hinder life and recreation here. Went on nosing about the pathetic offerings, heavy on the ‘collectibles’, light on the ‘antiques’, despite the pride of signage.
He moved on to other aisles with shelving holding even less desirable offerings. But you never know, he always told himself, hope springing eternal in the expectations of an ‘antique hunter’.
Most group shops like this had their more authentic, pricey, 'desirable' items out front, closer to the front desk, and the entrance. The further into the interior the poorer the quality. And those establishments that boasted ‘three floors of antiques!’ had their dealers, obviously charged commensurately less for less desirable space, purveying ever more degraded-quality junk. Crap, he called it.
Toward the back of this vast, one-story building with its scores of dealers hawking hopefully, unrealistically priced items (on the obvious theory that there’s a buyer for almost anything) that never distinguished themselves by even notional quality of design, fabrication, creativity or material composition at absurdly inflated prices, he noticed an attractive young woman holding and closely examining an old golf club. Beside her, an old golf bag with a few other clubs within.
He approached, expressing mild admiration for her find. She looked at him gratefully, breathlessly confessing she was considering buying the bag and contents as a gift for her father’s birthday.
“Tell you a little story”, he said. “Interested how golf got its name?”
“Why yes, certainly I am. I’d
like to hear that”, she responded, turning fully toward him.
“Scotland, that’s where golf was first played. The national game there”, he said knowingly.
“I think I may have heard that before”, she smiled.
“
Sure you have”, he said. “But here’s how they named the game. The Scots were always fiercely militant. They originally used clubs like that to knock hell out of one another. Clan warfare. Kilts and clubs, that’s the Scots.”
She nodded gravely, listening carefully. He liked that. Playing homage to the distinguished-looking stranger’s obvious knowledgeability.
“Eventually they decided”, he continued, “to be more civil. Decided instead of bashing one another insensible with those clubs, they would whack at these hard little balls, the winner would lead the way to the clubhouse bar, loser would pay for all the evening’s rounds.”
“Neat”, she cooed. “That’s
cool.”
“
Wait, I’m not finished”, he admonished, trembling with delight. “You see, with those clubs they ‘flog’ that ball. Remember, they used to flog one another with those clubs? Before they decided it would be more fun to drink one another under the table than bash one another’s brains into jelly? They simply - some genius among them - decided to take the word ‘flog’ and symbolically turn it around See, ‘flog’, becomes ‘golf!”
“Well, hey,
that’s terrific”, she enthused. “I really,
really appreciate you telling me that. I
love getting to know these things!”
He nodded, smiled graciously, quite smitten with his own erudite, spur-of-the-moment brilliance. And he responded in kind when she called after him “you have a good day, now!”
Peoples’ gullibility never failed to amaze him.
And damn, he would find nothing but crap here, this time.
