Consignment Shop

She walked into the consignment shop and, after perusing the too neat and orderly rows of items lining the walls, realized what she really wanted was a thrift store. The elderly women behind the counter glared at her, even though their hellos sounded genuine enough. She decided to stay, for a minute at least, and examine what she had already decided would not interest her.

Turning a corner into another room, there were books, mostly hardcover, mostly religious, with vague mainstream titles like How God Affects All of Us and The Power of Prayer. “Nothing here,” she thought, then spotted a copy of LeRoi Jones’s The Dutchman & The Slave.

The bell on the shop’s front door jangled. She grabbed the play from the bookshelf. “Hello ladies.” It was the voice of a middle-aged man. The shop’s keepers echoed their hellos. “It’s Monday. What are you doing here today?” “Well, I couldn’t…” She stopped listening and focused her attention on the play again, first toward the feel of the actual thing in her hands and then toward the flexibility of its binding. This lasted seconds.

“You know what, I never said I would be one to get into political discussions, but I’m just so damned pissed off these days,” said the voice of the man she hadn’t seen. Her eyes moved toward him, but a wall crowded with magazines blocked him. “I hear ya,” a female voice, mucous in her throat, this time. “These people are just so corrupt.” “You’re right,” said the other one behind the counter. “How much more can people take?” He sighed.

She returned to the book and began to read its back cover. Centered squarely on the Negro-White conflict, both Dut… “…I mean, what I want to know, well, what I do know, but what I want those socialists to admit, is that he ain’t even an American citizen.” “Oh yeah,” one of the cashiers mumbled. “I mean, they spent 7 MILLION DOLLARS covering up all that birth certificate stuff and now he’s over there in DC drinking $1,000 bottles of imported Italian wine… “

She tried to read more. …conflict, The Dutchman and The Slave are literally shocking plays—in ideas, in lang… “…want to force us all to have healthcare, right? No one can think for themself. Remember Hitler? Of course you do. Well, they’re worse. The ruler of communist Vietnam used to kill people who wore glasses, right.” “Oh geez,” the old women whispered. “Well, it’s true. That’s what it’s gonna be like here before you know it…” The girl smiled. …in ideas, in language, in honest anger. They illuminate as with a flash of… “…he left his poor cancer-ridden wife for that woman…” …with a flash of lightning a deadly serious problem—and they bring an eloquent and except… …to say is this: look at his middle name… …exceptionally powerful voice to the American Theatre.

“I can’t do this anymore,” the girl thought. She turned the book over and stared at the large, brown hand on its cover. Sepia and tan highlights defined its contours. She ran a finger over it, traced it. She tried not to listen, but she had nowhere to go. “…That’s all I got and I’m damn proud to have it,” although the man’s confidence had waned a bit by the sound of his voice. “I don’t see much new stuff lying around.” “No, not much new since your last visit….” The girl moved over to the magazine wall and grazed her right hand over copies of Astronomy from the 1970s. “…See y’all soon.” The jingle again.

She didn’t hesitate to move straight for the front counter. The women were red-faced. “I’d like to buy this, ma’am.”