I should know, I guess; I mean, it’s my store and everything. Not that all the stuff in here has a lot of resonance for me, obviously; probably 90% of the stuff that actually sells was created way after my teenage years, even. But there are individual pieces that it would take a lot more than the generally accepted market value to get me to let go of, that’s for sure. And not just the Boba Fett in an unopened box type stuff, either. There are plenty of run-of-the-mill figures with half the color worn off their faces that I keep in the glass display cases up front as well, because they are my fetishes, the plastic totems marking my membership in the global tribe of childhood worshipers.
So I’m left with interactions like the one I had about a week ago, on a day much like this one. It was about 20 minutes until our posted closing time, and the tinkle of the door bell was a welcome addition to the increasingly restless mouse clicks that had been the only sound in the shop for at least half an hour.
“Hi…PowerPuff girls figures?”
I pointed with my left hand, flashing the lack of a ring quite consciously. Chris and I disagreed about that minor piece of deception, sometimes heatedly, but I figured that I could use all the business I could get, and if I could keep someone hanging around even a little longer or more often by seeming available, I wasn’t in a position to have any qualms about it.
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