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| Pegasus in Downton Berkeley |
As regular readers of this blog (I’m looking at you Norbury Doppelganger of Putney, Vermont) know, I am prone to bouts of melancholia. One such period of gloom visited me yesterday during which I found myself making a careful study of the floor while emitting deep sighs and awaiting death’s sweet release. The missus suggested that I get out of the house, perhaps for a walk. This seemed a gargantuan task for someone immobilized by the blues. However when I recalled that it was the last of the month and that I had a twenty per cent off coupon for a beloved local bookstore — Pegasus by name — I had a raison d'etre to leave the premises. I even took a bit of cheer at the notion of finding a book I might like (as if I can walk into a bookstore WITHOUT finding a book I might like). Furthermore I hated the idea of a discount coupon going to waste.
I put on my tuxedo and headed for the door (that’s a lie, I merely changed from track pants to slacks and put on shoes). Into my back pocket I stuck the aforementioned coupon, plus my frequent buyer card and a ten dollar credit I’d earned by frequently buying.
The weather was a bit warmer than I like but given that Berkeley is not on full boil like so much of the rest of the world, I couldn’t complain. The morbidity of my previous thinking was gone and I enjoyed the ensuing stroll, my mind flitting from one mostly unimportant topic to the next.
When I got to Shattuck Avenue, which is what I guess passes for Berkeley’s main drag, I noted three women standing outside of a car. Their backs were to me as they brushed one another’s hair. I also could not help but observe that their skirts were very and I do mean very short and that a surprising amount of their buttock’s were on display. Certainly more than one is used to seeing in public. When the trio turned around it was evident that whatever their exact sexual identities they’d all likely been born with male genitalia. Somehow this made their risqué outfits seem less surprising though I don’t know why and don’t care to explore the topic at this time. I will say that I grew up with and have always maintained a very liberal attitude towards how people want to dress, how they identify themselves and who they sleep with or more to the point, fuck. I wear three rubber wristbands (Suomi, Finland for my people, Black Lives Matter for my African-American brothers and sisters and the rainbow for my LGBTQ brothers and sisters).
I carried on.
In the bookstore — Pegasus is an excellent bookstore, independent and staffed by knowledgable, charming people (as will become clearer anon) — I proceeded to browse. I am nothing if not a world class bookstore browser. I could give a seminar on the topic. There’s something special about browsing when you have nothing in mind to buy. You are open to discovery. I tingle to think of it even now. What book will I take home and what world will it open up to me?
Eventually I settled upon two books by the same author, Russell Banks. They were The Sweet Hereafter and The Darling (I have previously read three other books by Banks). Happy day, I’d found two books. Take that depression. I was in fine mettle now. As I strode to the counter with my selections I reached into my back pocket for the discount coupon, the frequent buyer card and the card with my $10 credit.
Gone.
I immediately searched the store in hopes that they had fallen out while I was in mid-browse. No such luck. I was gutted but determined to not give up the search.
I explained my dilemma to the gentleman behind the counter and asked if he’d hold the books while I re-traced my steps in hopes of finding the missing papers. I then walked all the way back home searching the ground the whole way like a latter day Lewis or Clark or for that matter Sacagawea. I did not find the Northwest Passage and I did not find the lost papers.
When I got home my lovely wife said that she remembered seeing me put the papers in my pocket. I took a much-needed sip of water and re-traced my steps back to Pegasus. I’m a persistent son of a bitch and not prone to giving up easily, if at all. I saw neither hide nor hair of any of the lost papers. Melancholia descended and wrapped its tentacles around me. It wasn’t the loss of the discount, or the loss of the $10 in store credit, it was the idea that I couldn’t manage to hold on to three lousy pieces of paper and this sad fact had ruined my outing, my day, my life. To quote the Bard: "When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions." I was again besieged by an army of woes.
Back at the bookstore I resigned myself to paying full price. I told the gent behind the counter my sad tale. In retrospect I’m not sure why, although one can often take comfort in sharing a misfortune with another human being. He listened.
Yes the clouds had descended around my brain but moments later the sun broke through them.
The kindly bookstore clerk (actually he looked more the proprietor or manager, surely a person of great influence) said he’d give me the twenty per cent off just the same and the ten dollars off to boot. I was dumbstruck. It was to me at the time an act of great kindness. Never mind the money saved, that was never the point, it was his trust in me that my story was genuine and that my pain was real. He could have listened sympathetically, offered a platitude and charged me the regular prices for the two books and I’d have no complaints and thought nothing of it. He was not saving me money, he was saving my spirits. I walked home feeling like the world was not such an awful place, people could be kind and understanding to strangers and this was no time for me to be wracked with depression. I also contemplated the wonders of independent business that are not ruled by corporate dictates but by the hearts of the people who work there.
The rest of my day was perfectly fine and the good feeling has carried over into today.
Ya know what? People can be pretty damn cool.
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