I do love a vintage store, but this smell is like something from Hell. At least I am out of the rain though – Britain, am I right?
Surrounding me are a litany of supposedly real leather briefcases and a couple of wooden chairs. I wouldn’t mind a fancy briefcase but where would I wear it? It feels like the flash and suave look of a well-made briefcase died after the second world war. Oh well, I’m not here for me anyway.
In the distance, behind a small, dark wood desk, sits an elderly man with round framed glasses eyeing me suspiciously. I give a small nod and try to act naturally as I leaf through a collection of old comics I’m not interested in.
Why do we all panic that people think we are shoplifters when we aren’t going to steal anything? What’s going to happen? I’ve even worked retail – I know they can’t do anything unless I leave the store with something and yet fear washes over me whenever I get that ‘are you a shoplifter?’ look.
I don’t even know where to start here; what do you get for a retiring professor that you barely know and barely like? I walk past the jewellery section even though it whispers my name seductively; that’s probably going to be a no, unless there are cufflinks but is that too extravagant for Mr. Callan? Probably – he only taught me for one term.
No to the cufflinks.
Maybe a fountain pen? They have quite the selection here. Decent price, makes sense as he’s a professor, can’t have too many.
Sold!
I scan the shelves in front of me trying to find a pen without the label ‘reserved’ on it.
‘Excuse me?’ I call over to the vintage man, ‘All of these are reserved?’
He doesn’t even look up as he shouts back – ‘If it says reserved then it’s not for sale.’
Okay… so fountain pen is out.
Well, there seem to be some nice leather pocketbook covers. I am sure people can always find room for those.
Pfft… £85. Good luck, Mr. Callan.
Ah, it’s reserved anyway. I skim through the rest of the covers and notice they too, are reserved. Considering I am the only customer here on a Saturday afternoon it seems this shop is rather popular.
I traipse the aisles one after the other passing dolls in rocking chairs and cheap paintings in expensive frames; and upon every item rests a small, delicately written ‘Reserved’ sign.
I don’t want to ask the man again; I have that modern fear of ‘being a pain’, so I trudge on.
Reserved… reserved, reserved…. And so, on it goes, mocking me. It’s starting to feel like a prank.
Then out of the corner of my eye I spy what must be a mirage; a sign that says, ‘For Sale’. It sits next to a small silver ring with a pink stone. £12. Certainly reasonable – and just my size.
I guess Mr. Callan is having chocolate.
