Random Ramblings

The Little Shop of Hoarders

Farewell, little shop.

You were never mine, but that couldn't stop me from pretending.

Each day I would say hello to your mannequins, my footsteps echoing in your empty rooms.

I love to breathe you in. Your exotic perfumes, your musty corners, the lingering scents of old clothes.

I've grown familiar with your creaky boards, yet I'm always surprised when I stumble over your warped spot.

Just before opening is my favorite time. I savor your stillness just before the speaker kicks on and the doorbell starts ringing. I listen to your music: The footsteps above dance a stucco, humming engines whiz by, horns honk, sirens whistle, people mumble, and I am your audience.

You are the beating heart of this city, pumping with nervous energy.

Then the lights flicker on, and you come to life.

Do you know how many times people have told me, "I love your store!" "Thank you," I always respond sheepishly. "But it's not mine." Nick insisted I was wrong. "You work here, so it counts." Not to me, I could never rightfully claim your vibrant displays or your eccentric style.

Perhaps that is why I sometimes felt discomfort behind your counters, I'm but an imposter, taking credit for accomplishments I've never achieved.

At other times my unease was when people knew I didn't belong. "Where's the owner?" I would shrug or play it off with a joke, but their smile never fully matched their eyes. They weren't happy to see me.

But as time grew on, people began to recognize me and warm up to my strange presence. You began show me you weren't a merely place of commerce, but a lively community - one tightly knitted group which I was soon being woven into. The feeling was alien, like an ill-fitting shirt. I've never had something like this, always drifting on the outskirts of groups but too shy to let myself be drawn in. By the time the attention is on me, I'm already gone.

It was with great dread that I soon sensed an unknown shift in the winds, raising the hairs on my neck.

For the first time ever, there were visitors in search of me. "You know I'll be here," I'd joke. Well, that was more of a reality than I'd expected. Too much of my identity was being attached to your hoarder's haven, so much so that I was afraid it would leave a mark.

But the worst thing of all: I was feeling happy. I found myself looking forward to these weekends, eagerly awaiting the chance to turn the key and unlock your doors, entering into a whimsical time capsule.

I've never been good at dropping my defenses. Fight or flight are the only responses I know for these kinds of situations. How could I ever fight you? All I can do is escape before I let you peel back my remaining layers and expose my vulnerability. Run, little rabbit, run. The tiger is coming.

Can you forgive me for turning off your signs and not being there to light them? Would you understand if I didn't drive by your street?

I don't know where these feet will take me, but maybe one day they will haunt your doorstep once again.