The man who always says,‘How you going?’

 

George Dyachenko (2)

I saw him this morning when I was setting up the shop for the day. He is someone I know by his voice. And his dog. There used to be a group of dog lovers here. They met at the bakery and talked all morning. He would laugh. His laugh bounced out out over the road like some mad buoyant pack of tennis balls, and all the dogs would swing their heads around sharply to look at him, and then turn back to watch the traffic with their eyes half closed again.

I heard him over the road this morning, still with his beautiful dog. He said, ‘How you going?’, to the people sitting on the grass, waiting for buses. His voice is the same. He still says the same things, simple and strong, and happy like chutney that is home made. I heard people answer him, nodding, saying things back to him, and he laughed the same way, leaning back and lobbing it straight upwards into the pine trees and making the cockatoos rustle and look down with jealous eyes.

The people on the grass are all grinning, looking up at him. One man says, ‘Yeah mate, I reckon that too.’

Then the bus comes and I can’t see them anymore, and I have to go inside where all the books and stories about people are, and record another story about another person.

Artwork by George Dyachenko

Lemonade, dancing, a hot day

Denis Gonchar (2).jpg

 

Outside, on the footpath, (a hot day), is a child with a can of lemonade and a family. He is spinning around the post just outside my door, slender and agile, spilling none.

He turns and dips around his mother. She’s standing in the shade, using her phone. She says: Please concentrate on what you are meant to be doing. And he, in acknowledgment, turns faster, round and round, spilling none.

There’s a sibling sitting in the front seat of the car, door open, hot seats, sticky with his own drink and watching on. The dancer dips and hoots, making outrageous angles with his head and elbows.

Spins…

…around the post, around his mother, dances madly for his brother. The brother nods.

Back to the post, a cool metallic partner that supports his smooth zigzag to the ground and back up into the heat. Spills nothing. It’s time to go.

Mum says, ‘Use the bin,’ and he does, smoothly.

They leave.

 

Artwork by Denis Gonchar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve got two impatient men out here

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A lady visited the shop this morning and stayed mostly with the biographies. She circled around briefly, noting this and that, nodding and looking, but always returned to the biographies. She said, ‘I love them.’

Then she said, ‘I’d stay longer, but I’ve two impatient men out there.’ She wagged her head from side to side and raised her eyes to the roof. She remained looking thoughtfully upward, as though seeing some solution up there.

Then she looked back into the biographies. There was a tap on the window and an urgent face appeared.

She said, ‘Oh damn them.’

She opened the door an inch and stared out, and they stared back. She said, ‘I just told her in there that I’ve got two impatient men out here.’

They jumped back in alarm. One said, ‘Well that’s not true is it. We just want a cup of tea. You go back in there to your books and fancies. Can’t she Frank! Why can’t she do that!

But Frank was not helpful. He had turned away. A cup of tea! He disappeared from view.

She joined them outside, sighing, suffering, and I heard her say, ‘Well, my goodness”, as they continued down the street.

 

 

 

 

Dutch

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A group of people came in off the train. There were about fourteen of them, all friends and all speaking English and what I thought was German, but turned out to be Dutch.

They loved the books. They moved from room to room. They knelt to read the children’s books to each other, in Dutch and in English, a working counterpoint that swam in bright notes all over the shop.

The husbands were shouted at. They were too slow. One man wanted a certain picture book with a kangaroo on the front. They stood in a circle around the book, tapping the pictures, talking about the kangaroos and the fairy penguins. Then he couldn’t find his wallet, or his phone. He was shouted at again. The words were beautiful, effective, unfamiliar. The wives waved bags in the air and made shushing sounds. They made sounds of impatience. They made sounds of derision. Fluent cascades of words and argument clattered about everywhere, Patricia Cornwell, Agatha Christie, Asterix were all examined. A John Grisham book was thumped back into the shelf.

No, no, no, no! A husband offered a possibility. But, no!

Two husbands went outside and stood with their shoulders raised against the shop. A wife tapped the glass, and they swayed but did not turn around. They looked across the road.

There were so many conversations. So many books. So many opinions. Somebody brought some books to the counter and said, ‘We’re from Holland!’

Then it was time to go. The husbands were shouted for, ‘The train, the train.’

When the last person had gone, it was quiet.

 

Painting by Kenne Gregoire

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Road Rage

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It’s hot this morning. Everyone is moving slowly, respecting the heat; we aren’t used to it yet.

There are some people with an elegant dog on a lead outside my shop, and they are trying to get to the bakery. But a passing car has stopped at the intersection, and as the walkers approach, two dogs in the back seat of the car look out and go stiff with rage. The back window can only fit one head, but both dogs mash themselves into the window seat. First they are motionless, eyeing the footpath dog with shock and fury. The footpath dog has reared up, ears stiff, scenting battle and possible glory. He lunges suddenly and twists his owners into a sudden plait of legs, shopping bags and disappointment. The traffic has stopped. The intersection is blocked. The car inches forward, the back window framing the dogs as they scream, strange squashed barks. The footpath dog splashes urine, (a warning?) the owners are outraged, yanking and hissing, and nobody can escape. Tensions climb. Footpath Dog is now dancing a slow mad polka on his hind legs, the owners pulling him into my doorway. The car dogs are braying their contempt at this pathetic dance. One of my hanging balloons comes down in the hot wind and Footpath Dog bounces into the air, quivering and upset, he loses ground.  But the traffic is moving, at last, at last, and the car dogs are swept around the corner, their heads blowing like flags, still shouting abuse. The Footpath Dog subsides, sighing and disappointed.  The owners go trembling toward the bakery.

Artwork Road Rage by Mike Holzer

This bookshop is crazy

Glueck/ Geahnt hatte er es schon lange

Two young people, a couple, consulted their phones, looked at lists, and asked me to help them find the books they wanted. They wanted Sigmund Freud, Hilary Mantel, and Gone with the Wind. They made a stack with The Penguin History of the World on the bottom and their wild evening party plans on the top.

‘Tonight’, they kept saying to each other.

But they didn’t leave; they kept looking, unable to stop thinking. ‘Man, this place is crazy, we should go, do y’have Jonathan Swift?

Later, at dusty three o’clock, an old man told me that we have to get kids off computers. ‘They don’t read, they don’t want to learn… always doing things they shouldn’t. What about those game stations and drugs? How do you keep your shop going?

He turned around and turned around and found his wife in her bright orange coat reading Bring Up the Bodies, and said, ‘Come on, we’re going home.’

 

Artwork by Gerhard Gluck

Dark outside, not cold

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Dark outside, not cold. We’ve had rain and all night the garden was drinking. This morning, it just lay there.

Robert came into the shop this morning, furious because his friend had a joint when he was 16 years old,  and now at 60, can’t get a job. He said the government has ruined this country. I am glad he came in. I always feel better, adjusted and balanced, whenever Robert visits. It is a calibration of sorts. I forget what is valuable. Now I remember again.

A lady bought The Blind Assassin, Caleb’s Crossing, The Awakening, and Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit.

A man told be about Charlie Chaplin. His wife said, ‘Come along, that’s enough of Charlie Chaplin.’

I was advised to read History of the Rain. I ordered a 1902, first edition copy of Ethel Turner’s Little Mother Meg. This is for Lily, an eleven year old collector with a discerning eye for vintage. Scott raced past but didn’t come in, although he grinned evilly through the door. Someone hit their head on one of my hanging balloons and said, ‘Damn these decorations. Where’s the bakery?’

The sun’s out. The next person will tell me about it.

The next person is Robert, back again and who never notices the weather anyway, so I get to tell him about it. He says he’s waiting for the government to start taxing us for it!