The Last Collection by Seymour Blicker Page A

wouldn’t have sold it. I liked keeping it around the store. A lot of people wanted to buy it from me but I wouldn’t sell it. I kept telling them it’s not for sale and they went away. There’s no way I could have sold that case. If we get another one, I’ll never sell that either except to you.”
    Kerner was gripping the edge of the showcase. The clerk’s voice was an unintelligible drone in his head. The clerk backed away slowly. “Maybe we have another one in the storeroom,” he said, now a good twenty-five feet away from Kerner.
    Kerner’s head snapped up. “You think you do?” he asked, feeling the nausea ease up slightly.
    â€œWe might, unless the boss took that one home for himself. He really liked that item,” the clerk said, still backing away.
    â€œWhat the hell is he doing buying from his own store?” Kerner shouted, feeling a tightness spreading throughout his body. “Who the hell does he think he is! The merchandise is for the customers, not for him. What kind of a lousy store is this anyway?” As he finished, Kerner was aware of customers staring at him from all parts of the store. They all seemed to be looking at him strangely but he didn’t care. He could see the clerk now sprinting away towards the back of the store, throwing quick frightened glances as he ran.
    Suddenly a man whom he recognized to be the store manager approached. “Yes, hello there. Is there some problem, sir?” the manager asked.
    â€œThey sold the lousy attaché case,” Kerner said, his voice cracking.
    â€œWhich one was that?” the manager asked sympathetically, bending over towards Kerner.
    â€œThe nice one. The alligator-skin one.”
    â€œOh, yes. Well, just let me check and see if we don’t have one in the back.”
    â€œDon’t waste your time,” Kerner said in a choked voice. “Your stupid boss took it home.”
    The manager blinked almost imperceptibly. “We just might have one left. I’ll go and check.”
    Kerner nodded sullenly as the manager turned and walked off.
    He looked around, his eyes wandering from shelf to shelf. He walked over to the section where the men’s sweaters were displayed. At the far end of the shelf he spied a beige cashmere one. He moved quickly over to it and picked it up. He ran his hand along the soft material and began to smile. He held the sweater up in front of him to better observe its colouration. He had never seen such a subtle tone of beige, he thought. It was truly beautiful. He looked at the label. Made in Italy especially for Carlisle’s, it read.
    He picked up the price tag. One hundred and ten dollars. He nodded slowly to himself. It wasn’t unreasonable. He slung it across his arm and suddenly realized that his symptoms were gone. He felt all better. . . .
    One hundred and ten dollars. Very reasonable, he thought. Eminently reasonable. He felt great. His face was now one huge grin of pleasure. He was still smiling when the manager returned to tell him that the last attaché case had been sold.
    Kerner’s stream-of-consciousness recounting of his story was suddenly interrupted by Dr. Lehman.
    â€œMr. Kerner,” he said quietly.
    Kerner looked up at the doctor who was now slowly rising above the desk in his chair.
    â€œYou’re completely bananas.”
    â€œI know there is something wrong with me,” Kerner said, blushing now with embarrassment.
    â€œWrong with you!” the doctor half-screamed, giving himself three quick turns in his chair. “You are so fucked up, my friend, that I cannot even begin to comprehend the scope of it all.”
    Kerner was about to protest but, before he could say a word, the doctor continued.
    â€œBut don’t worry about it. Like I said the other day, we will effect a cure.”
    â€œDo you really think there’s some hope?”
    â€œLook, my friend, if I could cure the