Hazy Flashback
1954, a dusty, musty and over crowded New England five and dime stood right outside the traffic circle in the center of town. The cars sped by, as they visited the post office, or city hall, where a brand new floor had been laid in marble and the walls had gotten a fresh coat of paint for the summer. People stopped across the street from the store, Albertson?s, after Mr. Mark Albertson, to eat at a lovely little diner, fitted cleverly out of a train car that used to pass through the city. The kids would stop into Joe?s Diner for Malts, and on the way out, stop at Albertson?s for smokes, candy, and whatever else they could think to grab. A cooler of cold pop stood by the door, a stop made by most who came in.
Mark Albertson was a strange man, tall as a reed and thin as one too. So tall infact that he could stock the shelves of his store from floor to ceiling, and because he could, he did. Everything you could think of could be found there. The shelves of his store were too close together in a row of too thin aisles, and you couldn?t turn without grabbing a hold of something that you were about to knock down. Steadying the product was something he was keen at. Making sure that every inch of useable space was filled with treasures.
There was a craft section full of yarns, and beads, wooden and plastic, applique, embroidery items. Large spinning displays with wire hooks hung innumerable items there, a single spin and you could find all you needed to darn socks, make a plaque and create your very own dolly. Next section was toys and puzzles. This section was a pride of Mark?s and he kept it stocked to the gills. There wasn?t room to add another thing, and many would have to be pried free if someone wished to purchase them. Pegboard with wooden toys and pop guns hung in the center of the aisle. The kids would stand around and try and figure out how to get the most from their pocket money and it would tickle Mark to his core to watch them. Fingers used to count out and subtract the price of one thing and what it left to buy another. Often times the numbers didn?t match up, but Mr. Albertson was known to let that slip.
The rest of the store was a haphazard plethora of everything you could imagine, from hats, to scarves, jewelry, fashion accessories, house coats, aprons, little knickknacks, anything you could imagine, housewares were shoved onto to shelves next to dusty preowned and refurbished appliances. Nothing worth having was worth throwing away he thought and that is how he had come to take the mannequin from the womans fashion store that had closed next door to his shop.
The mannequin was dressed in a red gingham halter dress, hair in rolling banana curls in a fiery red and pinned out of her face with a matching strip of fabric fashioned into a headband. She was propped in a corner, always watching, having a decent view of the counter, and the cashier behind it. Pouty red lips were always turned up in a smirk and she was almost flirty with the man who had saved her from the boredom of women's fashion. She now stood between a rack of fashion earrings and a shelf covered in motor oil. Every so often the boys would come and lift her skirt, but Mannique was a lady, and she wore a slip, and bloomers under the ruffles of the dress. Sorry lads, she just wasn?t that kind of girl!
Years went by without a word from her brave and valiant savior, if only he would come and adjust her positioning, perhaps change her clothing. As the years went on, the dust that settled over the store, settled over Mannique as well, and her brilliant glass emerald eyes seemed almost dull and listless instead of live and brilliant. Why would he pry her from the gates of hell just to leave her leaning in a corner angry and unloved? Who could do such an awful thing to such a sweet mannequin? Nothing can last forever surely but this was too short and simple of a life for the poor thing.
1954, a dusty, musty and over crowded New England five and dime stood right outside the traffic circle in the center of town. The cars sped by, as they visited the post office, or city hall, where a brand new floor had been laid in marble and the walls had gotten a fresh coat of paint for the summer. People stopped across the street from the store, Albertson?s, after Mr. Mark Albertson, to eat at a lovely little diner, fitted cleverly out of a train car that used to pass through the city. The kids would stop into Joe?s Diner for Malts, and on the way out, stop at Albertson?s for smokes, candy, and whatever else they could think to grab. A cooler of cold pop stood by the door, a stop made by most who came in.
Mark Albertson was a strange man, tall as a reed and thin as one too. So tall infact that he could stock the shelves of his store from floor to ceiling, and because he could, he did. Everything you could think of could be found there. The shelves of his store were too close together in a row of too thin aisles, and you couldn?t turn without grabbing a hold of something that you were about to knock down. Steadying the product was something he was keen at. Making sure that every inch of useable space was filled with treasures.
There was a craft section full of yarns, and beads, wooden and plastic, applique, embroidery items. Large spinning displays with wire hooks hung innumerable items there, a single spin and you could find all you needed to darn socks, make a plaque and create your very own dolly. Next section was toys and puzzles. This section was a pride of Mark?s and he kept it stocked to the gills. There wasn?t room to add another thing, and many would have to be pried free if someone wished to purchase them. Pegboard with wooden toys and pop guns hung in the center of the aisle. The kids would stand around and try and figure out how to get the most from their pocket money and it would tickle Mark to his core to watch them. Fingers used to count out and subtract the price of one thing and what it left to buy another. Often times the numbers didn?t match up, but Mr. Albertson was known to let that slip.
The rest of the store was a haphazard plethora of everything you could imagine, from hats, to scarves, jewelry, fashion accessories, house coats, aprons, little knickknacks, anything you could imagine, housewares were shoved onto to shelves next to dusty preowned and refurbished appliances. Nothing worth having was worth throwing away he thought and that is how he had come to take the mannequin from the womans fashion store that had closed next door to his shop.
The mannequin was dressed in a red gingham halter dress, hair in rolling banana curls in a fiery red and pinned out of her face with a matching strip of fabric fashioned into a headband. She was propped in a corner, always watching, having a decent view of the counter, and the cashier behind it. Pouty red lips were always turned up in a smirk and she was almost flirty with the man who had saved her from the boredom of women's fashion. She now stood between a rack of fashion earrings and a shelf covered in motor oil. Every so often the boys would come and lift her skirt, but Mannique was a lady, and she wore a slip, and bloomers under the ruffles of the dress. Sorry lads, she just wasn?t that kind of girl!
Years went by without a word from her brave and valiant savior, if only he would come and adjust her positioning, perhaps change her clothing. As the years went on, the dust that settled over the store, settled over Mannique as well, and her brilliant glass emerald eyes seemed almost dull and listless instead of live and brilliant. Why would he pry her from the gates of hell just to leave her leaning in a corner angry and unloved? Who could do such an awful thing to such a sweet mannequin? Nothing can last forever surely but this was too short and simple of a life for the poor thing.