Ed Calkins saved the pawn shop’s bundle for last,
after first pulling off the road to adjust John-Peter’s leprechaun, a
pocket-sized creature with a leering face, tiny black eyes glinting below a
pair of bushy red eyebrows, and a thatch of wild red hair sliding out from under
its tall green hat. In the center of its belly, a series of numbers in the
billions spiraled downward. The lull in the action always caused John-Peter to
nod off, but he always reawakened feeling as refreshed as if he’d slept the
night. By waiting until daybreak to deliver the Eircheard’s Emporium, Ed could
be certain that Eircheard himself would have unlocked the front door, prepared
the tea, and, if the wizened shopkeeper was feeling particularly ambitious that
day, prepared a loaf of warm, Irish soda bread--using vinegar instead of
buttermilk and a vegan spread from Brummings in Shelby to top it--out of
respect for John-Peter.
But
no whiff of freshly baked bread greeted John-Peter’s nose that morning, only
the pungent scent of the tobacco that emitted from Eircheard’s clay pipe. When
John-Peter was a small boy, the sight of this leprechaun-like old man
intimidated him and became the source of a recurring nightmare. Since early
childhood, John-Peter had often dreamed of the shop keeper, sitting on a tree
trunk and carving a misshapen piece of wood with a long-handled knife. A series
of incantations followed the store owner’s act of jamming the wood into the
ground. While Eircheard chuckled in glee, John-Peter’s leering face emerged
from the top of the wooden post.
But the Eircheard’s fearsomeness now only
existed in John-Peter’s dreams. Inside the pawn shop, he was simply an old man
making a dime from those wanting a quick buck and parting with their
possessions to obtain it. The one-room, wood shop was not large, but Eircheard
had filled it to bursting with all manner of furniture, knickknacks, clocks,
lamps, signs, clothing, wall hangings, books, record albums, toys, dishes,
household furnishings, and so forth, all stacked haphazardly and without category
consideration.
“No
tin whistles today,” Eircheard said, leaning back in his desk chair, puffing on
his pipe, and gesturing to a side table. “But some fellow brought in a whole
stack of records. All bagpipe music.”
Uncle
Ed made a dour face and recited:
A pygmy did sit in his chair
Luring
the innocent into his lair
He
said, “Why not you stay
And
buy something today?
If
it’s garbage I really don’t care.”
Eircheard
grinned around his pipe and watched Ed weave through the card tables, laden
with assorted figurines, plaques, and jewelry, to flip through the albums.
John-Peter poured a cup of tea, popped his
vitamin, and polished off the remnants of yesterday’s bread while Eircheard
puffed and watched some more. The boy wished he had topped off his jug before
leaving the distribution center. His parched throat screamed for water.
“Saved
the last from yesterday. Had a feeling you gents would stop this morning.”
“Thankee,
Mr. E.”
Eircheard smiled through the black gaps
between his broken teeth. “Anytime.”
Ed
looked up from the stack of records.
“Want
to drive Kellen nuts?”
“I’ll
pass, Uncle Ed.”
Kellen’s
disparaging remarks about classical piano music were the bane of John-Peter’s
life. No need to blare bagpipes, too.
Ed
selected three albums and brought them to the counter. Eircheard rose painfully
to his feet to ring up Ed’s purchases.
“That
will be five dollars even.”
“You
drive a hard bargain.”
“Got
to keep a roof over my head, same as you.”
Ed
picked up the records and turned to John-Peter, who spread margarine on this
third chunk of bread. Three-fourths of the loaf had disappeared into the boy’s
growling stomach. “Let’s drop Munsonville, and get you home.”
“Think
Reece will be mad the country route is late?”
“Not
mad enough to find someone else to take it out.”
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