Periodicals (Open)

[Marcel Fritz]

If Mrs. Baltimore knew anymore about the history of the building she meandered about, she would surely earn the deed to the decrepit storefront herself. How old Daniel ever handled her monologuing was the only question relevant in Marcel's mind. But he could grin, and with the occasional timid nod he could affirm his attention, her watchful eyes periodically surfacing over the tops of shelves.

“Such a burden Daniel had, such a burden. His back, you know he never saw a doctor, oh but did he listen to me, Marcel? No, he did not, and he's all the worser for it, I say. 'Less you're also a kairo-practa', Mr. Fritz, I don't think he'll find any man here to fix him back to shape. Oh, but still I wish him the best, always the smile on his face, so cheerful he was. Have ya' shared words with the old troop lately?”

“Well, as have you so diligently asked me yesterday and the day before, and so on, I have not. Our next meeting will have your precedent concern at the forefront of our conversation.” Marcel respond with the polite and casual tone he had formed over the several weeks since his first day at work. Mrs. Baltimore was just another part of the store, an ever constant who would probably outlive his time here as manager.

She navigated the passageways like the halls of her memory, Mrs. Baltimore could find her way through the store blindfolded, each step taken so many times before her shoe-print would so likely make indentations on the hardwood floor.

“I appropriate you for doing so, you oughta know that, Mr. Fritz. I'll be taking my leave! See you tomorrow, Dan-- oh, I mean Marcel.” The new manager would never know what day Mrs. Baltimore would remember to say Marcel first, but he never paid it mind. The rusting bell attached to the front door chimed with that false note, a sound meticulously corroded over time. It was that sound, as it radiated out into the absorbing silence that reminded Marcel of his own life. From high points to low points, he could still bring a smile to peoples face, and while his tone might be a bit more sour than this glory days, it could still be clear in its own way.

Upkeep. No doubt Mrs. Baltimore would be his only customer until the evening, with the sewing circle's daily evening migration. His mind wondered to Miss Eli, a frail old widow with gleaming white teeth and a tenacious desire to inquire his taste in gloves. Each day they would play twenty questions, and each day she grew about a centimeter closer to the truth. More often than not, she would forget that more than half her questions were repeated questions, but he never paid it mind.

His cloth captured a particularity rebellious patch of dust while cleaning a collection of tin lunchboxes. And while his careful handed ensured the preservation of the ancient metal creations, he realized how different his life had been only ten years ago. A manager of a less than stellar temp agency couldn't hold a smile and mean it, least not for Marcel. Maybe he wasn't ready to write any autobiographies, or pay for a therapist, or sit down with This American Life, but if he could keep cleaning the tin and the copper and the aluminum memories here, he wouldn't mind his story to end on such a heart-warming note.

Like second nature, his cleaning routine came to a quick close, and he meandered across creaking floorboards back to the cashier's desk, just in time for the door's bell to chime, the sound of customers. Too early for the sewing circle, as he patiently awaited the silhouette to appear through the shelves. Either someone tripped in by mistake, or the planets aligned and someone actually found Taiga Memories an interesting venture to explore.

[Mia Keystone]

Mia didn't really like old things. Firstly, they had all been updated, so why people thought it was cool to have older, crummier versions without blue tooth or wireless or even without electricity flumoxed the tech savy girl on a regular basis. Her nose wrinkled at the dust and she looked around like she expected a mummy to emurge from one of the wardrobes like some sort of parady of Eygpt.

What, they'd been hoarders, hadn't they? Filling their pyramids with a bunch of useless stuff in case they needed it later.

That's right, Mia paid attention in history class sometimes. Feel free to take a moment to recover.

A man who looked as appropriately antique as the things he had to sell was polishing something, and Mia wondered around, ignoring him past the once over. This was unfamiliar territory, and while she'd already planted a camera by the door (hey, she did that no matter where she went,) and had a look in the security footage feed to see, well, nothing intersting, this wasnt a mission. This wasn't Operation Salesman, when she'd tried to find out if there were any white collar criminals in Pilot Ridge by posing as a dealer of rare and valuable Morocan artifacts (it had been a slow week).

This was Mia's mom's brithday coming up and the technopath deducing that her mom wanted an old cabinet for the bedroom. She'd based this on her mom's browsing history, emails between her parents, and what Ollie said.

Hands shoved in her pockets, the pint sized girl looked up at one and scowled. It was wood. That was fine, but she figured there were details she was missing. "What wood is this made of?" she called out. "Is it mahogany? Do you have some made of mahogany? Does it have," her eyebrows drew together as Mia put a hand on her phone to scan her email. "Dovetails. What the fuck is a dovetail?"

Old things REALLY were not her thing, and neither was carpentry.

[Marcel Fritz]

Quick footsteps and darting eyes entered Marcel's store. A step that the floorboards could not recognize, and its squeaks were strange and sporadic, while Marcel breathed with the slow creaks of the aging infrastructure. He deduced that she wasn't looking for an introduction, as her neglect for such a thing spoke eloquently enough, or at the very least promptly. Like always, his hands retrieved the stained cloth from his back pocket, and in the memory of repetition, he unconsciously brushed off the already-brushed counter.

“So you're not one for shop-class.” He said, brown leather grips against the counter raising him from his meager throne. “Wait, do they still have shop... nevermind.” Shaking his head, he cut his response short. Old as he was, Marcel wanted to keep some semblance of a contemporary persona. He drifted towards her, his eyes re-checking his mental to-do list objectives. Sweep the floor? Check. Dust the shelves? Check. Attempt communication with the techie-youth? Eh, we'll see how that goes.

“Well, miss. A dovetail joint is a style of wood joinery. But if I can be honest, that's something not you'll have to use the Google for. You really don't need to worry about what the fuck a dovetail is.” His left eyebrow raised to accompany the dryness of his voice, while his pronunciation of 'fuck' was especially slow and implicitly parental in tone. By the way, 'using the Google?' Was that the right expression? I'm a dead-on-arrival Luddite, Marcel thought. I shouldn't worry about unfavorable syntax.

“Our mahogany cabinet over in the right corner over there, by the children's books.” His glance traveled to a corner concealed by a maze of shelving and passageways, with the top of the cabinet peaking out overhead like a summit.

“This here's a good hard maple. It's a straight grain, can't complain much about it, even during the wet seasons. I won't bore you more details, I can see the antiquity here is giving you some suffering. I'd say that either pieces are fine for you.” His leather hands rested on the corner of the cabinet, and he took a moment to orient a feel for the cabinet’s structural quality. “That is if you're buying this for yourself, and I don't think that's the case.”

[Mia Keystone]

Mia did not do Shop Class. The idea of having her near power tools was honestly the stuff of nightmares.

Use 'the Google'. Mia's eyebrows shot up, and her mouth twitched. The twitch gave way to a one sided smile when the shop owner swore right back at her, practically screaming 'watch your language young lady'. The fact he didn't tell her to watch her language could only be a plus in her book. Her free hand idly scratched at her head as she shrugged and looked back at the cabinet and glanced at what she assumed were the joins.

"I'm not goggling it," she said dismissive, shaking her head. "If I'd looked on Google, I wouldn't ask you because I would have found out." The scorn in her voice was significantly less than it could have been; most people were slower about the internet and tech than Mia.

Her own gaze, significantly below his, glanced up at the big cabinet that peeked over old books. Mia wasn't a book fan, and the thought of buying old books? Strange. This shop was disorientating. All she could feel was the buzz of the lights, barely a tickle. Was there nothing in here that was electric?

"Too big," she muttered, taking a quick guess at the Mahogany monstrosity, then looked back at the maple. The suffering quip earned another smile and a defensive shrug. "Present," she explained. "Wouldn't want something like this. Not really my thing."

It was only a little obvious.

"My mom wants one," Mia finally went on, sighing. She hated explanations. "For the bedroom. Needs to be dark wood, and not painted. About... 7 feet tall? Maybe? I don't know, mom's a minimalist so nothing crazy fancy." Her nose twitched, and she rubbed it with a frown. "What happens to it during the wet season?"

If the technopath had realised there were so many variables she would have told Ollie to do it, or found something else for her mother. Like a new teapot. Or some nice picture frame. "Do you ship to Boston?"

[Marcel Fritz]

When was the last time I used a computer voluntarily? This was a question Marcel couldn't precisely answer to himself, although he seemed to recollect an instance near the end of the 20th century. The instructed were in Chechen. He couldn't understand it then either.

Marcel would take her word on the Google point. He was out of his league with the modern folk, maybe just for the fact he never liked the technology scene. Cell phones, laptops and even those newly manufactured cars gave Marcel that feeling of a caveman's fear, a sense of culture shock that grew progressively worse as time went on. He wasn't a complete Luddite, there were some old memories of old devices he used. But those talents were learned out of necessity.

“We have a few in the backroom. They're unpainted but I'm not sure how more minimalist you can get than just wood and screws.” Maybe he wasn't very learned in the ways of minimalist. An interior designer Marcel was not. Behind the counter he opened the door, entering the backroom for the larger objects that couldn't be so easily displayed as bracelets and porcelain figures. He motioned her to follow. “There a bit of swelling during the wet season, the air is moist. That's for places out in the country, without marvels like air conditioning. Boston wouldn't be a problem, I think, for humidity I mean, and yes I can ship there.”

Pass the door was a larger room, containing many cabinets, of many wood colors and many sizes, by height and dimension. The air was ripe with the smell of wood and age, although Marcel always took time out for inventory maintenance and upkeep. Across the hardwood floor in the cleared far corner of the storeroom, there stood a table, with some bulging object atop. A large blue tarp covered the object, securely tied down with wire. Marcel placed his gloved hands on one cabinet he thought fit the desired description.

“Now I might be wrong with this one, you can check all the others, and if one peaks your interest let me know. They're priced about the same.”