Hank

So, I wrote a thing.  It's the first part of a SHORT story.  (Please great Muse of Stories, LET IT BE SHORT.  I don't think I could handle anything else right now.)

But, seriously, I think it's a short story, and I already know how it ends, so... yeah.  It ought to be pretty short.

I hope I'll finish it.  I really like it, but that doesn't always mean anything.

Still, the fact that it positively vomited itself out of my fingertips after a near sleepless night is (believe it or not) a good sign!

I've felt creatively constipated since election night last November.  Everything has felt a bit "What's the point?" since then, so I'll take any inspiration or creative burst I can get.

This was that.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

As always, criticism and encouragement are greatly appreciated.

Lots of love,

Jules

PS- Ugh, the format is all messed up again, and I just don't have the patience to fix it, so y'all are just going to have to deal.  Sorry.

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          It was the sort of shop one would wander into entirely by accident after having taken a turn down the wrong street.  The sort that having found it once, one would never be able to find it again, despite having taken careful note of the address.

          When she entered, the clerk at the back (a dark-skinned young woman with shaved head, nose ring, and combat-boot-clad feet propped up on the counter) said "You break it, you bought it" without looking up from her book.

The place was so narrow and so overstuffed with items - all of which appeared breakable - that she felt she needed to turn sideways and breathe shallowly while she looked.  There appeared to be no system of organization in place, with each item seemingly plunked down on the nearest empty shelf at random.  Books were scattered throughout, including teetering piles of them on the floor which she stepped around with great caution.  Many of them had rather lurid covers with strange depictions as something out of a dream, while others were so worn she could barely make out the titles.

The book the clerk was reading showed 6 monkeys dressed in Renaissance clothing, sitting in a summoning circle around a giant banana which had been peeled halfway to reveal a nearly naked woman with an enormous headdress emerging from it.  Even stranger, it was entitled "Jenny Goes to the Prom".

Everything in the shop was interesting, which made it difficult for her to focus on any one item at a time.  She would just be contemplating a Ganesh statue that appeared to be made of computer chips when a pair of sunglasses with a tag which read "For Eric, from his ancestor Thomas: You're going to need these!" caught her eye.

And so it was that she was drawn from object to object, never able to stop long enough to actually consider buying anything.  The consequence of this was that she found herself wanting everything and nothing all at once.

She wasn't certain how long she'd been there before the clerk sighed heavily and set down her book.

"It's that one," she said pointing, "third shelf up from the bottom."  She picked up her book and resumed reading.

The shelf in question was just as crammed with things as the rest of the shop, and, at first, she didn't know which item the clerk meant.

Then she saw it: a small painting on canvas, no more than 10"X10", of a buffalo.  He had been rendered in a number of soft colors: pinks and blues and golds and greens all mixed so he looked as though his fur had been painted in stripes with some sort of fruity, sugary cereal powder.  The buffalo was in profile but his head was turned so that he could look out at the viewer with one wary, patient eye.

Without thinking, she plucked him from the shelf and brought him to the counter.

"How much is this one, please?" she asked the clerk.

"What's his name?" the clerk asked, without looking up from her book.

"I'm sorry?" she said.

"Ugh," the clerk rolled her eyes and put down her book.  "His. Name."

She looked at the painting of the buffalo in her hands; looked deep into that intelligent eye.

"Um...Henry?" she ventured.  The clerk waved her hand like she was waiting for more.  "Henry...but his friends call him Hank," she said, feeling foolish.  The clerk nodded once and took up her book once more.

"He'll cost you your keychain," the clerk said.

With a mounting feeling that this was all some weird dream from which she would soon awaken (or at least an elaborate prank), she pulled out her keys and looked at the keychain.  It was a small pewter disk with a tree carved into it.  Her sister had given it to her when she moved into her first apartment in NYC.  Sad to give it up, but unwilling to leave Hank behind, she removed the keychain and placed it in the clerk's outstretched hand.

"Have a nice day," said the clerk as the keychain disappeared into her pocket.

When the shop door closed behind her there was a sort of whooshing sound, like something being sucked out into the vacuum of space.  She shook herself a little and looked down at the small plastic bag in her hand.  The buffalo painting was inside it, though she couldn't remember the clerk having put him in a bag for her, as well as a receipt which she was certain hadn't been offered.

The receipt read:

(1) Oil buffalo on canvas, correctly identified as Henry (Hank)

Sold to Ms. Georgette (Gette) Kaspar for:

(1) keychain, used daily, 7 years, gift from Ms. Clementine (Tiny) Kaspar

 
             Gette stared at the receipt, then Hank, then the storefront (which now appeared to be closed).

            "What the fuck was that?" she said to no one in particular.