Diana Blumenfeld, a youthful sixty-two, her antecedents Ashkenazi Jews and Midwestern Methodists, pulls up in front of Wonderful Books and Things on Fremont Street in Portland, Oregon in her puke green thirty-year-old Toyota station wagon, and the world rejoices when she shuts off her unmuffled engine.
“Bon jour,” says Diana as she enters Wonderful Books and Things, a large airy store with thousands of used books in excellent condition, a few shelves of new books, a tasty selection of Impressionist wall calendars, a modest stock of stationery, postcards, art supplies, and pens, along with knitted caps, hot pads, tie-dyed silk scarves, and 100% cotton hoodies in various colors bearing the name of the store.
“We heard you coming from several blocks away,” says Marlowe Wolf, a beautiful forty-four with wavy brown hair, his antecedents German Jews and French Catholics, his attire a peach dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, brown corduroy trousers, and open-toed sandals.
Marlowe, the primary employee of Wonderful Books and Things, is standing behind the large counter at the back of the store logging a pile of newly acquired used books into the store’s brilliant new computerized cash register. The store’s elderly owner, Janet Cushing, spends most of her time in Mexico and France and only very occasionally comes back to Portland. She calls Marlowe every week and he uses the camera on his phone to show her around the store, which is really Marlowe’s store in every practical sense except for the profits, which are considerable.
Diana, skinny in a flimsy purple paisley dress, her long gray hair in a ponytail, her black-framed glasses lending a serious air to her Bohemian mien, strides up to Marlowe and says with false élan, “Marlowe, Marlowe, Marlowe. How are you on this frigid morning in late October? Excited about Halloween?”
“Tremendously,” he says, his accent mildly German. “My grandmother loves Halloween, loves seeing the kiddies in their costumes. I’ll be carving two big jack-o-lanterns tonight and we always give saltwater taffy. What about you? Dressing as a witch again this year?”
“Always,” she says, her smile becoming a frown. “Um… have you sold any of my caps or hot pads in the last week? I’m doing my usual end-of-the-month scramble for rent money and I was hoping you could advance me twenty dollars.”
“We have sold some of your things in the last week,” says Marlowe, referring to the lovely wool caps and sturdy hot pads Diana knits and sells in a handful of shops around town. “However, I’m sorry to say Janet called yesterday and told me not to advance you more money because you have yet to make back the advances we gave you in September and August. I’m very sorry, Diana.”
“Shit,” she says, bowing her head. “Shit and damn.”
“I agree,” says Marlowe, nodding sympathetically. “Shit and damn.”
“How about I give you a fantastic foot rub?” says Diana, gazing hopefully into Marlowe’s big brown eyes. “I’ll spend ten minutes on each foot. Twenty dollars.”
“Tempting, but no,” says Marlowe, getting out his wallet and extracting a ten-dollar bill. “You owe me lunch.”
Diana takes the money and says with believable sincerity, “I won’t forget.”
“I won’t let you forget,” says Marlowe, winking at her.
“Good. Don’t,” she says, laughing despite her predicament.
A moment later the air is rent by what sounds like machine-gun fire as Diana roars away in quest of more money.
“I don’t know why the police don’t ticket her. Noise she makes is criminal,” says Lester Thomas, a sixty-seven-year-old descendant of Africans and Cajuns and folks from New Orleans. Lester spends many of his mornings sitting on one of the store’s three sofas looking at books, this morning’s prize a big volume of photographs of French actresses from the 1970s.
“I think they don’t ticket her because she only drives where traffic cops are few,” says Marlowe, seeing a blinking light on the store phone indicating an incoming call. “She says if she drives over thirty her car will explode, but she can’t afford to have it fixed, let alone get a new muffler.”
“That’s crazy,” says Lester, glowering. “What’s her problem?”
“Hold that thought,” says Marlowe, answering the phone. “Wonderful Books and Things.” He smiles. “Oh hi Alice.” He listens. “Yes, we have several volumes of Dr. Seuss in stock.” He nods. “We’re open from nine to nine every day except on Monday and Tuesday when we close at six.” He listens. “Yes. Today is Thursday so we’ll be open until nine.”
Marlowe hangs up the phone and says to Lester, “In answer to your question, ‘What’s her problem?’ I would say… have mercy. She and I and you are doing the best we can right now. And right now is all there is really.”
“You’re right,” says Lester, smiling at Marlowe. “Who am I to judge someone I barely know?”
fin
