The Emporium

Three hours till dusk. I wandered without purpose through the open-air marketplace. Shops on my left and more shops on my right—some with pull-down awnings, others with display tables out front (bearing wares) that would have to be gathered-in before nightfall. I picked over items on tables and entered shops at random, not wanting to appear out of place. But I was bored.

    I paused at an inconspicuous little storefront with a shed roof. Something about the place held me, transfixed. And feeling like I was turning my back forever on marketplace behind me, I took one last look around—the market seemed to go on forever in both directions—and then I took the plunge. After this I'm going see if I can find my way out of this place. This is going to be my last stop, I assured myself—and it turned out to be true.

Entering the little shop, noisy, was my first thought. Kids sat in chairs, in front of TVs, playing video games. A smaller kid walked around, his face bent to a handheld game in his hands. Behind the counter, at the back, stood a little oriental man: his head down, reading a newspaper. He seemed unaffected by the electronics sounds and raucous laughter. The kids had four different gaming terminals—all with games going, some two-players—and they seemed to be having a good time. On the table tops, along the walls, were old vinyl records, some slightly used shoes, baseball cards, music players, Tonka trucks and tractors, and some potted plants, these last hanging by each of the storefront's two screened-door entrances. I stumbled across a loose stack of what like music discs, but it appeared to be that smaller forward --what was it called? MD, maybe. Without any real interest, but in that mode—let's just call it the "yard-sailor's doldrums"—I gathered up the discs and took them to the register. I asked the little man what they were.

    For the first time since I'd been in there, he looked up from his reading. But his gaze didn't meet mine, it went out across the room.

    "Hey, you—kid. Come here," he said.

    I followed his gaze and thought, Oh, hell. Here come the racial slurs.

    The little black kid with the hand-held game approached the counter. "It don't work no more," the kid said.

    "Gimme here. Gimme," was the little man's reply.

    Reluctantly, he kid handed it over.

    With speed and efficiency, the storekeeper produced a small screwdriver and with a flick of the wrist the game's back panel popped off; out went the old batteries into trash, and in went the new. He handed the game back to the boy. A quick smile lit-up the boy's face; he walked away humming to himself.

    I watched the kid for a moment too long—realizing subconsciously that something interesting had just taken place, but not quite sure what.

    I turned back to the counter dazedly and was slightly startled to find the old man's gaze resting on me.

    Stuttering, I said, "I was wondering..." I trailed off, showing him the small discs in my hand.

    He looked at them. "You can play," he stated flatly and with his right indicated the closed door behind him. His oriental accent was thick; his English simple, but his meaning unclear.

    Again, he pointed at the door behind him and repeated: "There, you can play."

    Bewildered, I just decided to roll with it. Maybe the player for these discs lies just on the other side of that door, I thought. I came around the counter, to his side, but he was back to reading his paper; I took one last look at the kids in store. They seem to be having a good time. I opened the door and stepped through.

    I had entered a house—that was teeming with life. The atmosphere was festive, but I couldn't be sure that a party a was going on. I had left the little man behind me and was now exploring what was likely his home. I went from room to room, looking for a "player," not having any clue as to what I was really looking for.

    I passed two rooms on my left—they felt like bedrooms; a door on the right—revealed a closet. I continued down the hallway. The music was getting louder. The hallway opened into a living room—sofas; warm red-and-yellow light scattered about the room; and colorful multicultural decorations abounded. At the back of the living room, I saw someone come in through the back door—a shaft of harsh white light penetrated the room briefly—and then the door was shut. After that, the room seemed dark. Two people were talking near the back door, at yet another doorway. The conversation ended and an apparition drifted across the landing (in front of the back door) and down a short set of steps into the living room. But instead of turning toward me, they turned away, ducking into yet another room that I had not entered. Before they disappeared, I caught a flash of feminine red.

    I looked around the living room for a stereo—on which to play the discs that lay mostly forgotten in my hand. Dimly confused; the thread of "why" I was there was slipping away. I decided to go into the room where I'd seen the person go.

    I entered a kitchen. Two girls were talking at the island in the center; on it were dips, chips—a salsa smell in the air—lettuce, tomato, spices. Two young women smiled invitingly from their punch glasses. One wore a red dress—AH-HAA!—it reminded me of a kimono, with its detailing—there seemed to be dragons all over it. The other woman was dressed in a way that I was much more accustomed with—your typical modern young woman: black leather pants, white tank-top with pink and blue horizontal stripes on it. Both women were attractive—and they were oriental. I yelled, a bit excessively, over the music and told them that the man out front had invited me in and held up the discs as if this would explain everything. They looked at each other—and laughed—with me, at me, or something different. My confusion, only deepened.

    Finally, the one in red pointed behind me to one of the bedrooms. I thanked her, nodded at the other girl and left the room. The bedroom was small and in the middle of the floor was foam-rubber mattress, fitted with a blue sheet. On the opposite wall (from where I entered) was stereo unit. I approached it and fumbled with the controls until a tray skated out and (from my hand) I inserted a disc. Soon music poured gently from the speakers.

    And through the living room (not the kitchen) entered—an angel. Dressed in a white, belly-button revealing, short thing—it was toga-like and skirt- and dress-like but neither of the three. She came in and lit-up the room with just a tease of a smile. She was medium to tallish in height, with dark hair and oriental features. Electricity seemed to bridge the gap between us and behind my ears, my hair tingled and stood on end. She stood just inside the doorway and promptly asked me what I was doing. I fumbled my explanation, but eventually conveyed to her that the man out front—I gestured and looked toward the front of the house, and she said softly, "Ohhh, Father"—had invited me in to have a listen at some discs. She asked me to show her. I held out the remaining discs. She rushed toward me and instead of grabbing the discs her smiled turned into a devilish grin and stepping low she socked me on the left side of my chest with her fist. I closed my fist on the discs as they threatened to jiggle from my hand. She came around behind me and threw her right hand on my left shoulder. Leaning close, she said, "Let's see what you've got there." A current ran through my body from her hand. Weakly, meekly—I proffered what was in my hand. With both hands, she lifted the stack from my hand, her delicate fingers brushing across my open palm—everything about her aroused me—and she removed a disc. Setting the rest of the stack beside the stereo, she inserted a disc. Full of energy, she led me across, our hands together, held high.

    Through to the kitchen, we went; introductions around, her two sisters. Sampling the chips and homemade salsa; I was handed a fleshly-blended margarita made from Cuervo 1800. Sashaying to the living room of warm yellow-reddish light; sitting on the long sofa, also red in color; dragons hanging from the ceiling and flying along the walls. Hardwood floors. That atmosphere of uninterrupted year-round festivities. Music wafted through the timbers of the living room's high ceiling.

    She led me up the steps, across the landing by the back door. A bedroom. It was her that I had glimpsed upon my first entering the living room, her sister in red kimono-dress, standing with her at this very door—this event seemed already a decade in the past. We entered her spacious bedroom—bed on the left, dressing-table-with-mirror on the wall to the right. Further to the right was a walk-in closet, and it was through this door that she vanished. She emerged—just a moment later—wearing only lace-white panties and bra, holding blue jeans and a white sackcloth shirt. Sitting on the bed, she dressed quickly; glanced in the dresser mirror, touching up the curls in hair with a brush; and, with my arm in hers, out the back door we went.

    The day was nearly over; sunset only an hour away. Jets, taking off out of the west, roared overhead.

    Her father, the little oriental man from the storefront, tended his new arrivals—watering them on their shelves in the metal rack. Then entire backyard was a garden: produce, herbs, and flowers. No rows could be discerned. The metal rack stood monolithically—lone as the little man. A few trees dotted the edge of the yard—a magnolia, a few, tall poplars—but in the direction of the airport, the yard ended on a knoll of square patches of inch-high herbs. Beyond that was miles of flatland—a place for crops, it seemed. The sun peeked through peach, aqua-blue, and dark-magenta clouds.

    I approached her father, watching him tend his brood of sapling plants. Another commercial jet roared overhead, and without looking up, he said, "Those planes are the only thing I sometimes don't like about this place." Much the same as the night was inevitable and its way, a calm and peace stole over me. The evening air was warm and the setting sun was buried deep in the clouds at the base of the western sky.

    I turned my back to the sun, to look at their home—a brown structure, cedar roofing, siding and trim. I stepped backward: the little man to my left bent to his rack, the house to middle right, a seven-foot-high, wood-paneled privacy fence at my far left and right. I backed up some more, abruptly sensing something soft—like moss—under foot. Looked down, crushed herbs under my feet. I looked at the little man, but he still looked down at his little plants. I looked at his daughter, the new light in my life, and she stared back at me, smiling in her gentle, all-knowing way.

    She approached me, turned her back to the sunset, took my hand in hers, and we both fell backward, plunging into the softness of her father's garden. At this small sound, her father glanced up and, without changing expression, went back to what he was doing.

    Lying on our backs, we looked up at the occasional whitish, reddish, or charcoal-colored cloud—but mostly the sky overhead was a dark blue. The first star of the night twinkled across the eons at us. She and I laying in this soft warm bed—the smell of freshly-turned earth in our noses; the occasional underbelly of a 747 coming across our view. My hand in hers.

Life...was good.