Originally published in 2020 in my alma mater’s annual literary magazine (which I will not be naming for the time being, for the sake of privacy).
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The Right One by Riley Eaton
The sun’s hazy rays beat down upon the humming streets of a downtown city that summer day in 1954. Businesses closed in the afternoon as workers left for their lunch break. However, one business in the city’s shopping district kept open during that hour in hopes of drawing in more customers. The crude sign advertising Ward’s General Goods sat above the venue’s doorway, welcoming anyone brave enough to enter. The wallpapered panels of the open-floor room were a dull yellow, with multiple patches peeling up throughout, and cracks ran through the concrete floor. The building’s pipes burst at the most inconvenient moments while the air conditioning faltered on the hottest days. Indeed, Ward’s General Goods was a new establishment with an unfortunate venue that could hardly be helped on its budget, but its owner hoped to make up for its physical condition with excellent products and the diligence of its employees.
On that sweltering day, the store’s AC unit broke down. Martin, the handsome man behind the front counter, fanned himself with a sheet from the morning newspaper. “Loretta,” he inquired of his co-worker, “when will Jonathan be here?”
“I’ve been here for an hour!” cried Jonathan, the young repairman that often came to fix the shop’s broken machines and utilities. He wiped his sweaty brow with a rag before returning to his silent repair of the AC unit.
“Jonathan’s a quiet one,” Loretta, a young lady who was idly rearranging items on a nearby shelf, said.
“I don’t know if I should be flattered because I was stealthy, or offended because you didn’t realize I came in at all,” Jonathan huffed.
Martin merely offered him a grin. “Be flattered.”
Mr. Gabriel Ward walked in from his office at the back of the store. “Ello, Mr. Ward,” Martin greeted in an exaggerated English accent to the middle-aged shop owner. “Enough, Martin,” Mr. Ward dismissed. “I need you all to listen—yes, even Jonathan. I’ve been looking over the budget—”
“Oh dear,” Loretta muttered.
“—and things aren’t looking well.”
Jonathan looked indifferently upon Mr. Ward. “You don’t want me here today.”
“No! There’s no budget! I can’t afford your service.”
Martin chuckled nervously as Jonathan’s intense gaze burned into him. After all, Martin was the one who promised Jonathan money. With a pompous, “Humph!” Jonathan packed up his tools and stormed out of the store, leaving the AC unit dismantled.
“We’ve been open for five weeks. How could we already be threatened with a shut-down?” Loretta asked.
“You haven’t seen any costumers around these days, have you?” Mr. Ward crossed his arms.
“It’s these chain stores! We didn’t get a chance to build decent clientele thanks to those places stealing would-be customers,” Martin ranted. “You can’t get this neat yo-yo and laundry detergent in a single chain grocery, can you?” Martin showed the other employees a wood-finished yo-yo.
“Actually, Martin, you can,” Mr. Ward deadpanned.
“Oh.”
“It could be our strange inventory.” Loretta leaned against a product shelf. “Also, this building isn’t exactly the living end.”
The wrinkles on Mr. Ward’s face deepened as he scowled. “For years, I saved so I could open my own business. This building was the best I could afford on those savings. I don’t want my struggle to have been in vain.”
The three fell into silence. Cars whirred by outside, and the sound of heels clicking against pavement drew near. The small bell on the door rang. All eyes fell on the poised woman who stood in the doorway. Before she walked in, she inspected every inch of the room. She never once looked at the employees, who stared at her, for they were stunned over someone entering the store. They dared not speak for fear of scaring her away. As if by magic—as if she knew by instinct where to look—the first shelf she drifted towards made her immediately exclaim in a curious accent, “You have this?”
“Yes —that,” Mr. Ward blindly concurred.
“I hadn’t found these in America until now,” she praised, holding up a candy bar labeled “Violet Crumble.”
“Huh. I wonder why,” Martin remarked as he leaned against the front counter.
Mr. Ward looked at Loretta with perplexed features; Loretta shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose you did know what you were doing when you ordered inventory that nobody wanted,” Loretta said. “It was the right inventory, but the wrong customers.”
Mr. Ward gazed quizzically at Loretta.
“I’m just saying maybe we do have a chance, Mr. Ward.”
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