Most anyone who was familiar with this street would
have recognized the weathered man standing outside the little shop of curios,
though it was doubtful any of them knew his name. He could often be seen
standing uncomfortably in front of a little curio shop, gazing at the items
displayed in the window when he thought nobody was paying any attention to him.
He appeared somewhat old but sturdy, as though the demanding work he had done
his whole life had both aged him yet kept him healthy and free from the vices
that idleness often attracts. His clothing was of the coarse and sturdy
variety, typical of a man who earns his living by the sweat of his brow and the
toil of his body. His face was weathered like a tree trunk, adding texture and
lines to a face that had already been good at hiding whatever thoughts or
emotions were occurring behind it. But it was perhaps in his hands that the
tale of his life could best be read. They were thick tools for heavy work,
looking almost more like work gloves than hands. So much did they bear the mark
of his toils that they almost looked like root vegetable fresh-dug from the
earth. He appeared out of place in this neighborhood of sophisticated city
dwellers, but not enough so to call attention to himself. Although rough, there
was nothing threatening about him; indeed, he emanated a gentleness that belied
his tough exterior. There was a meekness in the way he kept to himself, a
self-consciousness in the way he avoided bumping into any of the constant flow
of people who walked past this busy street.
His existence had been one of hard work, struggling
with nature for his meager wages. The work was brutish, leaving his body
covered in dirt and dust and his mind numb from drudgery. But when he had a day
off, he would often walk into town to drive the numbness from his mind, making
sure that he was well washed and wearing his finest clothes, which really
weren’t very fine. He had contemplated buying the type of clothes he saw those
in the city wear, but he had no idea how to go about choosing such items. And
besides, he knew that such clothing would only accentuate his other
differences, the browned skin, the calloused hands and the dirt under his nails
and in the grooves of his skin that could never be completely removed.
Here in the city, people lived differently than the
others who shared his life. There words were fairer, flowed more smoothly.
Their clothing was more for show than for work, and their manners more refined.
He would often be content to sit on a bench and watch the people in their day
to day business, moving effortlessly and knowingly through complicated social
interactions. They possessed an understanding of society and how to gracefully
move within it that he had never had a way of learning. But for him the heart
of the city was the little shop that displayed intricate and delicate items for
purchase. They spoke to him of lives lived without hardship, where things were
made not merely for their usefulness but because they were beautiful. Most of
the items there were made to be displayed, to be placed upon a mantel or in a
curio cabinet, only to be looked at. Things made of crystal and intricately
crafted fine metals, gold gilded porcelain and statuettes made of marble, jade,
pearl and rarer material still from all parts of the globe. These items
represented to him places that he could never hope to visit, experiences he
would never have, people he would never be or even know. Such things would be
quite out of place in his humble little cabin. Everything he possessed had been
made of rough-hewn wood, blackened iron and unadorned pottery.
And yet. To own just one of these items, to possess
something that stood apart from the base tools and utensils of his existence.
Such a thing would be worth coming home to at night, worth the effort and
struggle that was his life. He needed something in his life that could be
adored, that spoke to him of something beyond need, something that existed
without regard for mere function.
So he stared through the window, with each visit
seeing something new displayed along with items he had wondered at before. When
someone appeared to be walking towards the shop, he would start slowly in
motion, walking a short while only to stop and stare again from a distance. He
was afraid of what people might think of him if they caught him staring into
the window, afraid they would mock the unsophisticated man who thought he was
something he was not.
He would watch those who strolled so
un-self-consciously into the store as if they were born for such things, as if
it never occurred to them that such things might be too lofty or unobtainable
for them. It must be admitted that the man felt a trace of jealousy when
watching such people enter the shop and make purchases so casually, leaving the
store with precious items that he had gazed at so lovingly through the shop’s
window.
And then on one of his trips to the little shop he
beheld an item more beautiful than any he had seen before: a heart-shaped
crystal hung from a fine lace in the upper corner of the window. Though
unadorned with gold or silver, its simple radiance caught the light of the
noon-day sun and sparkled it back at him from its many finely cut facets. As it
twirled ever so slowly upon the lace that held it, its myriad details would
throw off various colors of the spectra, eclipsing the beauty of the other items
around it. Upon seeing this crystal heart, he came to cherish it more than
anything he had ever seen. His trips
into town became more frequent, his time spent gazing in the window of the
little shop less spent concerned with what passerby might think. The idea came
into his mind like a flash, that this precious item would be his. It horrified
him to think that he might one day come to stare into this window only to find
that some other person had taken it for their own. He had little money on him that
day, but walked back that evening to the little shack he called home with the
intent of returning the next day.
The pay he received for his labor was meager, but
his needs had been more meager still. With little needed to satisfy his wants,
he had managed to save what he believed to be a considerable amount over the
many years. He would take it, all of it, and go back into town tomorrow. It
would be enough, he was sure. Pretty sure, at least. All that evening his mind
vacillated between thoughts of the crystal heart, of how happy he would be to bring
it back home with him, how horrible it would be if someone else had bought it
in the meantime. Perhaps they would not sell it to him, perhaps his life
savings would not be enough for such an embodiment of beauty. And so one moment
he would be thinking of where he would put the crystal heart in his small home,
and the next moment he would be contemplating life if he should never see it
again. He slept little that night.
He was up early the next morning, even for him. It
was far too early to wander into town, far earlier than the little store
opened. But he spent the time preparing
himself, wanting to make himself as presentable as he knew how to be. He
scrubbed his fingernails with an old brush until his fingers nearly bled, trying
to get the last of the darkness out from under them.
When he could stand it no longer, he made his way
into town, trying to walk slowly so that he would not be there too early. But
when he arrived, the store was not yet open. He rushed to the window as quickly
as he could without appearing obvious to the few people that were on the street
at such an early hour. The heart was still there. The knowledge lifted his
heart even as it did nothing to calm him. He stood staring into the window
until he became aware of the shopkeeper who walked to the door and opened it,
glancing at him as she passed. The sudden recognition that he had been caught
looking in the window made him flush with embarrassment that bordered on
terror. He had been caught looking in the window of the shop, caught believing
that he was worthy of such items. He walked away, his desire for the heart
frustrated by his fear of not being worthy. He walked on, cursing himself,
cursing life, cursing the fact that he was not one of those who could
effortlessly walk into such a place of beauty.
He walked on until he realized the shop would soon be opening, and that
the heart may reach the attentions of others who might also wish to have it for
their own. He forced himself to walk around the block so that he would not call
undue attention to himself, but he walked so quickly that people looked at him
wonderingly. He reached the shop window and stared in the upper corner,
thrilled at the sight of the crystal heart once again. And once again, he felt
the utter inability to force himself into the shop, felt the complete lack of knowledge
regarding how to go about such a transaction. He glanced about him in his
practiced manner, making sure he was not standing out. As he did so, he noticed
someone walk into the shop. Dread filled him again, at the thought that he had
waited too long and might forever miss his opportunity. But if he had been
afraid to walk into the store before, he was terrified at the idea of going in
there when others were inside. He waited for the person who had entered to come
back out, only to see two more people enter. The two exited shortly, but in the
meantime, still another person had entered to look at what lay inside. It
seemed an eternity of people walking in and out of the store until he was sure
that it was now empty. And the heart was still there.
He could delay no longer. It was a greater act of
courage than any he had performed in his life, but he forced himself to walk to
the door and pull it open. He had never experienced such agony in his life,
terrified that he would not have enough, or that they would simply refuse to
sell it to such as him.
Inside the store, he found the shelving to be
entirely too close together, the aisles insufficiently wide. He walked slowly, cautiously, terrified
that he might knock one of the items off the shelves. His shoulders seemed to
him to be impossibly wide, his gait unsteady like a drunk’s. The shopkeeper
stood at the counter near the door, but he avoided looking at her. She was a
shape at the edge of his vision upon which he placed an imagined look of scorn.
He concentrated on navigating the too-small aisle, ignoring whatever finery lay
on them except to make sure not to knock into any of them.
Turning left, he now walked back up another aisle,
approached the window. There was the crystal heart, slowly, barely, turning on
the delicate lace that held it suspended. He looked at it and through his fear it
lured him on. The sun shone through it, the first rays of the morning sun as
mere playthings that it tossed about playfully.
He approached it as though it were a holy relic, hardly daring to raise
his eyes to gaze upon it.
He knew he must now claim it as his own, knew that
if he backed away in fear today that he would never have the courage, it would
be lost to him forever. Rather than ask the shopkeeper to take it down for him,
he decided to do it himself. His self consciousness around people had only
intensified now that he carried within him his secret desire. Reaching up, he
slid the lace from the hook it was suspended by with more care than he had ever
given to any task he had ever done. He felt the weight of the crystal heart hanging
from the lace now, discovered it to be lighter than he could have
imagined. Feeling its lightness, he
imagined that it must also be more fragile than he had believed. He became
terrified of the idea of it hanging loosely from the lace lest it sway and
smash into something as he walked his way towards the counter. Holding the lace
with one hand, he cupped the heart with the other. Feeling it to be reasonably
secure, he released the lace and with that hand also protected the delicate
ornament from any conceivable harm. Holding it now in both hands, he gazed at
the heart that was now all but his. So great was his fear of letting it fall
from his hands, he began to imagine that the sweat that now appeared upon his
palms would cause it to slide from his grasp. With an involuntary reaction to
an imagined movement of the heart, he gripped it more tightly than he intended.
In that moment, he could feel the heart shatter from the pressure he applied on
it. He looked in agony as the precious object of his affection broke apart into
tiny splinters that sunk like teeth deep into his skin. Tears of pain welled up
in his eyes, but it was not the cuts in his hands that were to blame. He let
loose an uncontrollable sob, which caused the shopkeeper to become aware of
him, which in turn led him to remember her presence. He managed to put aside
his grief, set the pieces of crystal down as delicately as he could upon the
shelving that stood behind the window. He walked as quickly as he could toward
the exit without causing further damage. He stuffed his bleeding hand deep into
the front pocket of his work pants, pulled out his money, his life savings.
Without daring to look at the shopkeeper, he placed the money on the counter,
left the shop, and never came near the little store again.
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