-Seasonal Affective Disorder: Sold-
My town may as well be named Foreclosure.
After a mostly fruitless mall experience last weekend, I tried my own main street, expecting that the cold air between merchants might stimulate the buying impulses and finish off my list.
My god, I think half as many shops are open as there were when I moved here nine months ago.
Dizzy with pity, I sat on the base of the Civil War statue until some inspiration should strike me, or some bird droppings.
Santa passed by on a firetruck. He was on his way to a candy cane shed where he asks children what they want for Christmas, then charges their parents $10 for three 4x6 photos of the experience.
A crazy woman huffed out of the creative health clinic. Every time she encountered non-caucasian people she would spin on her heel and march in the opposite direction singing top forty hits (I think?) until she realized that two separate parties of minorities were converging from both directions. She fled back into the clinic, all the worse for wear.
I didn't need a third reason to shove off, so I took a peek inside a store closing that very day. It sold a variety of items for the home and garden, some practical, some merely decorative, all very cheap. With less than an hour of sales to go, the shop's remaining goods weren't very. My pity purchase - two birdfeeders for two dollars - probably backfired.
The owner recognized me, and knew what I do for a living. She wouldn't quit trying to sell me the crappy paperbacks in her dwindling possession until my resolve tightened enough to leave without buying any more detritus. My third reason had arrived.
The mood is considerably brighter in the record shop a few blocks away. They're doing well despite their small selection and lackluster signage, and they listen compassionately to my description of the desperate home and garden scene down the street.
We're still here, the matriarch said. And we have no plans to move.
After a mostly fruitless mall experience last weekend, I tried my own main street, expecting that the cold air between merchants might stimulate the buying impulses and finish off my list.
My god, I think half as many shops are open as there were when I moved here nine months ago.
Dizzy with pity, I sat on the base of the Civil War statue until some inspiration should strike me, or some bird droppings.
Santa passed by on a firetruck. He was on his way to a candy cane shed where he asks children what they want for Christmas, then charges their parents $10 for three 4x6 photos of the experience.
A crazy woman huffed out of the creative health clinic. Every time she encountered non-caucasian people she would spin on her heel and march in the opposite direction singing top forty hits (I think?) until she realized that two separate parties of minorities were converging from both directions. She fled back into the clinic, all the worse for wear.
I didn't need a third reason to shove off, so I took a peek inside a store closing that very day. It sold a variety of items for the home and garden, some practical, some merely decorative, all very cheap. With less than an hour of sales to go, the shop's remaining goods weren't very. My pity purchase - two birdfeeders for two dollars - probably backfired.
The owner recognized me, and knew what I do for a living. She wouldn't quit trying to sell me the crappy paperbacks in her dwindling possession until my resolve tightened enough to leave without buying any more detritus. My third reason had arrived.
The mood is considerably brighter in the record shop a few blocks away. They're doing well despite their small selection and lackluster signage, and they listen compassionately to my description of the desperate home and garden scene down the street.
We're still here, the matriarch said. And we have no plans to move.
posted by Benedict | 2:55 PM
3 Comments:
How does it make any sense that stores in a small town close due to lack of sales, but stores in bigger cities, that seem to lack the necessary amount of commerce to remain open, still do? I'm baffled every time I walk Carson Street and see all the businesses there that somehow remain open with the astronomical rent and nonexistent customers. How does that work?
My favorite line in this post: "until some inspiration should strike me, or some bird dropping."
Kingmob: Maybe those businesses are fronts for something else. I don't know, but I'm just saying.
Yellocello: poop humor? You'll get your fill of that soon enough, don't you doubt.
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