she suggests that you get some petty cash and buy a bottle of suntan lotion and some not-too-uncool-but-cheap sunglasses to go with the display.
You return to find Sunny arranging the books on a couple of beach towels that she has also brought along.
You remind her that she’ll be in trouble if she gets sand in the books’ bindings.
Or at least if they were library books she would be.
She makes a face. You make a face back.
You know from humiliating childhood experience leading to lifelong fear of the species
Librarianimus horribilus.
Also lions, tigers, bears.
Cro Mags?
You will not think about those jerks, those hall jockeys, those losers who somehow manage to make your life miserable.
School is out. For the summer.
You have no fear.
No fear. Ducky fears no Cro Mag. Nor Neanderthal either. (Neither?)
Movie advertisement:
Ducky is John Wayne. And the Duke fears NO MAN.
But did John “the Duke” Wayne fear women? Did he …
Another customer.
MOMENTS LATER
Another customer who politely declines your offer of assistance.
You try not to feel REJECTED.
Okay, just kidding. Customer rejection happens not to be a problem for…
What is Sunny making those faces for? Why is she pointing at that customer? Yeah, the baggy clothes are a bit fashion-over but …
A John Wayne Moment
You look up. See the guy slide a very large art book into the inner pocket of his coat.
You blink. Not a Duke blink, a Duck blink.
You do NOT BELIEVE YOUR EYES.
The guy starts to walk oh-so-casually to the door.
Sunny slides in front. “Did you find everything you needed?” she asks.
Her eyes are sending you SIGNALS.
Dial 911?
No.
Call the police the regular way?
No.
“No,” says the shoplifter. He steps to one side.
Sunny steps to the same side.
He steps to the other side.
Sunny steps to the other side.
A shoplifter dance.
You recover your (dim) wits and race (casually, sweating, dry-mouthed) to join the party. “Hey,”
you say.
(Hey? Hey? The Duke, wherever he is, is NOT impressed.)
“I think you might have forgotten to pay for something.”
The guy, now that you notice, is big. As in MUCH TALLER THAN YOU.
He’s also armed with a large, heavy art book.
You brace yourself for the possible direct delivery of art appreciation to your skull. You smile.
Sunny opens her mouth. You glance at her and beam the following universal signal to her: BE
PREPARED. FOR ANYTHING.
Does she understand it?
She frowns slightly, closes her mouth. Her look says, YOUR TURN.
“What?” says the guy. “What are you talking about?” He is pretty convincing. You are amazed at how convincing he is. You want to believe him.
And then he does the most amazingly GUILTY thing in the world. He puts his hand over the inside pocket where the book is stashed (or books — at that moment, you don’t know how many he’s got kangarooed away in hidden pouches).
You look at his hand.
You look up at him.
You fold your arms and raise one eyebrow.
You admit, here only, that you’ve practiced this look on occasion. Privately. But you have never, ever said, “Bond. James Bond” while doing it.
Ever.
You stare at Mr. Pocket Book. He stares at you.
It gets way too quiet. A little pulse is jumping at one corner of his mouth. He needs a shave.
But not much. His face is mostly fuzzy and you realize that he is younger than you thought he was.
Then Sunny says, “It happens more than you’d think. Book people are so absentminded. And they leave things here all the time too. Car keys. Gloves. We have quite a lost-and-found collection. … Anyway, if you’ll step to the register, I’ll be glad to ring up your choices for you.”
Pocket Book looks at you.
You drop the eyebrow and give him an encouraging nod.
“Right,” he says.
You step aside and motion toward the register. Sunny stays beside him and you step in to guard the rear as she moves around to ring up his purchases.
“Check?” he croaks. “Is a check
You return to find Sunny arranging the books on a couple of beach towels that she has also brought along.
You remind her that she’ll be in trouble if she gets sand in the books’ bindings.
Or at least if they were library books she would be.
She makes a face. You make a face back.
You know from humiliating childhood experience leading to lifelong fear of the species
Librarianimus horribilus.
Also lions, tigers, bears.
Cro Mags?
You will not think about those jerks, those hall jockeys, those losers who somehow manage to make your life miserable.
School is out. For the summer.
You have no fear.
No fear. Ducky fears no Cro Mag. Nor Neanderthal either. (Neither?)
Movie advertisement:
Ducky is John Wayne. And the Duke fears NO MAN.
But did John “the Duke” Wayne fear women? Did he …
Another customer.
MOMENTS LATER
Another customer who politely declines your offer of assistance.
You try not to feel REJECTED.
Okay, just kidding. Customer rejection happens not to be a problem for…
What is Sunny making those faces for? Why is she pointing at that customer? Yeah, the baggy clothes are a bit fashion-over but …
A John Wayne Moment
You look up. See the guy slide a very large art book into the inner pocket of his coat.
You blink. Not a Duke blink, a Duck blink.
You do NOT BELIEVE YOUR EYES.
The guy starts to walk oh-so-casually to the door.
Sunny slides in front. “Did you find everything you needed?” she asks.
Her eyes are sending you SIGNALS.
Dial 911?
No.
Call the police the regular way?
No.
“No,” says the shoplifter. He steps to one side.
Sunny steps to the same side.
He steps to the other side.
Sunny steps to the other side.
A shoplifter dance.
You recover your (dim) wits and race (casually, sweating, dry-mouthed) to join the party. “Hey,”
you say.
(Hey? Hey? The Duke, wherever he is, is NOT impressed.)
“I think you might have forgotten to pay for something.”
The guy, now that you notice, is big. As in MUCH TALLER THAN YOU.
He’s also armed with a large, heavy art book.
You brace yourself for the possible direct delivery of art appreciation to your skull. You smile.
Sunny opens her mouth. You glance at her and beam the following universal signal to her: BE
PREPARED. FOR ANYTHING.
Does she understand it?
She frowns slightly, closes her mouth. Her look says, YOUR TURN.
“What?” says the guy. “What are you talking about?” He is pretty convincing. You are amazed at how convincing he is. You want to believe him.
And then he does the most amazingly GUILTY thing in the world. He puts his hand over the inside pocket where the book is stashed (or books — at that moment, you don’t know how many he’s got kangarooed away in hidden pouches).
You look at his hand.
You look up at him.
You fold your arms and raise one eyebrow.
You admit, here only, that you’ve practiced this look on occasion. Privately. But you have never, ever said, “Bond. James Bond” while doing it.
Ever.
You stare at Mr. Pocket Book. He stares at you.
It gets way too quiet. A little pulse is jumping at one corner of his mouth. He needs a shave.
But not much. His face is mostly fuzzy and you realize that he is younger than you thought he was.
Then Sunny says, “It happens more than you’d think. Book people are so absentminded. And they leave things here all the time too. Car keys. Gloves. We have quite a lost-and-found collection. … Anyway, if you’ll step to the register, I’ll be glad to ring up your choices for you.”
Pocket Book looks at you.
You drop the eyebrow and give him an encouraging nod.
“Right,” he says.
You step aside and motion toward the register. Sunny stays beside him and you step in to guard the rear as she moves around to ring up his purchases.
“Check?” he croaks. “Is a check
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