Author's Note: It would help enormously if you picture this story as the first ep in a rather dry British sit-com, I think.
The store on Hennesy Street was small and nondescript. The window sign identified it simply as Retro. Passersby would have no idea what it sold until they poked their noses inside and were often dumbstruck by the stacks of books, CDs, VHS tapes, DVDs and even older forms of media shoved into boxes and bins. Old comics lurked in spinner wracks tucked away in corners, and books, ranging from literary classics to bargain bin trash, weighed down shelves constructed from cinderblocks and pine two by fours.
By the front door was an overstuffed easy chair that had seen better days. Next to it was a side table occupied by an ancient cigar box and an ancient lamp with a fringed lampshade.
The easy chair was occupied by an older man with a bald head and an impressively ample middle aged spread. He wore a dark green polo shirt, two sizes too large for him, black slacks and dark green slippers. In one hand, he held a glass of dark red wine. The other cradled an open book on his lap.
There was no one else in the shop, and the sign on the door was still turned to 'Closed.' Despite this, the door swung open, and a thin, pale young man stepped into the shop with a frown.
"Brian, what are you doing?" the newcomer asked, frowning at the fellow in the chair. "You're sign still says 'closed.' It's half past ten!"
"Oh?" Brian Pool, the owner and proprietor of Retro, glanced up from his book to peer at the sign in question. He reached out and turned it to 'Open.' "There, Francis. Happy?"
Francis rolled his eyes and perched on a table groaning under the weight of ancient VHS tapes. "It's your shop, Bri. You can run it into the ground if you like, but I'm not going to haul your ashes out of the fire this time."
Brian frowned. "I think you're mixing your metaphors."
Francis scowled. "Don't change the subject. What's going on? Why weren't you open?"
"No stock," said Brian, blankly. This, despite the abundance of merchandise surrounding him.
"Brian."
"Francis, what are you doing here?" asked Brian, draining his wine glass and glowering at the younger man. "Shouldn't you be next door at the Nut Hut, filling bags with walnuts or whatever?"
"Mom asked me to check on you," said Francis, matter-of-factly. "She's worried."
"She's not worried, Francis, she's nosy," said Brian, producing a bottle of wine from the floor by his chair. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it in the general direction of the distant wall. It pinged cheerfully off a vintage Ion Giant action figure and fell to the floor among several of its forgotten brethren. Brian refilled his wine glass and swirled the liquid around. "You need to stop encouraging her bad behavior, little brother."
"I hate it when you call me that," protested Francis.
"It's what you are," said Brian, blankly. "My little brother. Born ten years after me."
"But still your brother," pointed out Francis. "No matter how much you might wish it were otherwise, Brian. Now, why weren't you open. The truth this time, if you please."
"Because I sold the signed Charles Dickens the other day and don't need to be open today," said Brian, matter-of-factly. He took a long sip of his wine, swallowed and sighed in contentment. "There. Satisfied?"
Francis stared at him. "How much did you make?"
"Enough not to have to open today," said Brian, and reached out and flipped the sign on the door back to 'Closed' just as an elderly couple hesitantly approached the door. They stopped, flummoxed, then continued down the street.
Francis pinched the bridge of his nose. "Brian. Seriously. How much?"
"That, is none of your business," said Brian. "Now, scram. I've got a very busy day of loafing about ahead of me and you're interferring." He waved Francis at the door. "Scoot!"
"Fine," said Francis. He stood, hands raised in surrender. "I give up. But call mom, so she'll stop calling me to see if I know what's wrong with you." He rolled his eyes again. "I wouldn't even know where to begin to answer that."
Brian raised his wine glass in a silent toast as Francis left the shop, the little bell over the door jingling merrily as he exited. Brian reached over and turned the lock, then sank back down into his chair and returned to his book.
* * *
Katherine Marie Bonza sat at her kitchen table, a lit cigarette clutched in her right hand, her dark eyes burning with irritation as she listened to Francis recount his meeting with Brian. Katherine was in her sixties, but worked every day not to show it. Her hair was cut into a short bob and dyed a savage shade of red. It contrasted weirdly with her ash white eyebrows. Her face was smooth and unblemished thanks to a combination of nightly facial treatments and about ten carefully applied layers of cosmetics. Her clothing was fashionably timeless, tailored to fit her trim figure, and consisted entirely of solid colors. No ditzy prints and definitely nothing with a floral pattern someone granny might fancy. She wore a diamond ring on her little finger, and white gold hoops in her ears. Her nails were manicured, her belly was taught and her mind was as sharp as a steel trap. No one would have guessed she had given birth to two sons.
"So Brian is loafing around because he's made a bit of money," said Katherine, succinctly summing up the situation.
Seated across from her, Francis nodded. "That's the gist of it, mom."
Katherine's nostrils flared and she took a deep breath before mindfully exhaling. "I swear, Francis, your brother is going to put me in an early grave."
"You know you shouldn't let him get to you, mom."
"How can I not? Brian might be a complete prick, but he's still my son. I am, ultimately, responsible for him until one of us kicks the bucket." Katherine's eyes darkened. "Preferably him."
Francis drew a shocked breath. "Mom, you don't mean that!"
"No," admitted Katherine. "Not really." Not much, she added under her breath. No matter how much easier Brian's absence would improve her daily life.
"At least you know he's doing all right," said Francis. "He wouldn't tell me how much he got for the Dickens, but . . . ."
"Probably about half of what it was actually worth," said Katherine, flatly. She took a long drag off her cigarette, then crushed it out on the kitchen table. "Your brother never did understand the value of things. The proper value. He got that from Richard, his layabout of a father."
Francis winced a little. He hated it when his mom started talking about Brian's father, because that would inevitably lead to her going on a diatribe about Francis's father. And Francis quite liked his father. He went over to his house every Sunday for supper with his father, his stepmother and his half-siblings. It was the highlight of his week, and would remain so as long as his mother never found out about it.
"Well," said Francis, rising from the table. "I just wanted to drop by and let you know that Brian is okay, mom."
"Leaving so soon?" Katherine affected a hurt expression, but rose with him and began to subtly herd Francis toward the front door. "There's no need to run off, you know."
"Oh, I've got to," said Francis, smiling weakly. "I'm meeting Persephone for dinner."
Katherine nodded her head in approval. She quite liked Francis's fiance. Persephone Flowers reminded Katherine of a younger version of herself. A watered-down version, mind you, but still....
"Well, give Persephone my regards," said Katherine, opening the door and gently pushing Francis outside. "Tell her to call me later this week. I've got the number of that wedding caterer she asked about."
"Will do, mom." Francis leaned in and gave his mother an awkward kiss on the cheek. His mother tasted vaguely of chemicals. "Love you."
"Love you too," said Katherine, glancing in the hallway mirror to check her makeup.
"I'll. . . ." But before Francis could finish his sentence, his mother had closed the door, cutting him off. He sighed in something akin to relief and hurried away.
* * * *
The next afternoon, Brian looked up with a resigned expression as his brother and his mother stepped into Retro. Katherine glanced around the cluttered shop with visible distaste, keeping her hands and arms tucked in as if afraid casual contact with the past might poison her. Nevertheless, she turned toward Brian and asked, quite bluntly, "So, how much did you get for that signed Dickens, Brian?"
Brian shot Francis an irritated look. The younger man, standing behind their mother, silently shrugged.
"Like I told Francis yesterday, mom, that's none of your business," said Brian, firmly.
Katherine's eyes narrowed and she loomed over her son. "Don't take that tone of voice with me, young man! I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it as well!"
"Sorry," muttered Brian.
"Now," said Katherine, stepping back and shuddering as the sleeve of her white pantsuit brushed a box of Danielle Steele novels. The white fabric came away stained with soot. "Who did you sell it to?"
"Jusst a collector," said Brian, shrugging. "He paid in cash."
Katherine's brow furrowed with suspicioun. "Cash? Really?"
"Really," said Brian. "He was very pleased. Said he might come back and look at some other stuff in the future."
"Is that so?" Katherine's tone screamed disbelief.
"Yes," said Brian.
"And you believe him?" asked Katherine.
"Yes," said Brian, a bit more forcefully.
"Why?" demanded Katherine.
A voice emerged from behind one of the cinderblock and pine bookshelves. "Because he's got no reason not to believe me."
The man who stepped out from behind the bookcase was tall and broad-shouldered, with leathery skin that spoke of decades spent outdoors in the sun and wind. He had sharp blue eyes and a neatly trimmed silver-white beard. He wore a plaid shirt and faded denim jeans. His smile was wide and bright, his eyes the exact same color as Brian's.
Katherine stared. Beneath her makeup, her face turned completely white with shock, but no one could tell. "Richard?" she gasped.
Richard Pool turned that megawatt smile on Katherine. "Hello, Katy. Been a while."
Katherine stared at her ex-husband for a moment, before her eyes rolled back in her head. She would have fallen to the floor if Francis had rushed forward and caught her under the arms. As such, she just sagged in his grip like an elegant sack of Russet potatoes.
copyright 2025 George R. Shirer
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