It's All In How You Look At It

Martha stared at the polished stump of wood sitting just inside her bookstore's front door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that looks like a penis.”

Claudette, the store’s book club president, raised a hand to her mouth. "Oh, gosh—it does.”

Martha paced a careful circle around it. “But he’s a respected author. Why would he send us a statue of…of…that?"

"I wouldn’t call it a statue,” said Martha’s cashier Enid. “More like a sculpture."

June, there for the day’s book signing, peered at the thing over her Sophia Loren glasses. "I don't know if I'd call it a 'sculpture,' either. Looks more like a wood carving of somebody’s woody to me."

Claudette turned pink. "Surely he wouldn’t…."

The offending object skulked in the entryway, looking shameful.

A woman with snowflakes melting on her clothes walked in, holding a little girl's hand. The child wore a puffy pink coat with a furry hood, which she pushed out of her face as she toddled across the welcome rug.

"The delivery service said it was reclaimed wood," Martha did her best to sound reasonable. No sense getting hysterical with customers in the store. "A sinker log, from the bottom of a bayou in Louisiana. I watched a Discovery special about that once." She eyed the protrusion with what she hoped was an appropriately discerning expression. "If they have a defect like a...branch...they can't be used for lumber—" She broke off.

The little girl had stopped walking and pointed a chubby finger at the wooden debacle. “That looks like Poppy’s pee-pee.”

Claudette cringed. "Oh, God."

“Mon dieu!” The child’s mother stood ramrod straight, her eyes wide and cheeks blotched with crimson. “Her pony! Poppy ees her pony! Ees not… oooh, la...c’est pas vrai.”

Martha maneuvered to block the little girl’s view, trying to not look mortified. Claudette sidled over like Cartman from Southpark, fanning her prairie skirt. June joined them, adding her heft to the human barricade erected in defense of toddler innocence.

“Sorry, so sorry—désolé….” The mother cupped her fingers around her daughter’s tiny shoulders and steered her toward the children’s section.

Martha let out the breath she was holding.

“Well.” Enid cleared her throat. “There goes our business license.”

June snorted. “Remember where we are. Big statue of a bull right over there on Wall Street—anatomically correct, mind you—people rub a shine on its balls for good luck and nobody says a word.”

“But that’s a bull,” Claudette wailed. “It’s an animal.”

Martha attempted a smile. There was so much tension in her face that it felt like a jack ‘o lantern grin so she gave up and shrugged instead. “So maybe this is an abstract of an animal, too. Like a pony. About the right size….”

“My nephew brought his kids into the city last year,” Enid said from behind the register. “Took ‘em to see that bull on Wall Street. They all stood in line for an hour to have their picture took with its balls. Kids and everything. Just ain’t no shame in this world these days.”

“You’re not going to hear a peep out of that woman about this,” June said. “She’s too afraid we’re going to report her to child services because her little girl knows what her Pop Pop’s boner looks like.”

“Poppy,” Claudette corrected. “The pony.”

“Whatever.” June rolled her eyes. “In any case, fine art is full of naked people. The finer the art, the more naked the people.”

Enid piped up from behind the register. “Like restaurants. The more you pay for a meal, the less food you get.”

“So how are we supposed know the difference between fine art and pornography?” Martha had always wondered about that. This seemed like a fine time to ask. “What makes something one thing and not the other?”

“I think it’s porn if the man is—” Enid scratched her head. “Shall we say, interested.”

June laughed out loud. "This one must have been downright fascinated. You could use that sucker for a coat rack."

"But the guy writes children’s books," Martha said. "Why would he send us something so...phallic?"

“There’s this kid’s show in Denmark.” Enid propped her elbows on the register. “About a dude with a great big long schlong. He uses it to pick apples and steal ice cream.”

“Oh, yeah!” June’s eyes lit up. “I read about that. It’s red and white striped like a candy cane. Supposed to be magic.”

Martha hid her face behind her hands and shook her head. Did things like this happen to other people? In other stores? She doubted it. Otherwise the world would be fresh out of sanity.

Claudette pursed her lips. “You think he’s a pervert?

June looked at her sideways. “The guy with the long schlong?”

“No.” Claudette shook her head. “The author. The guy who sent this...thing.”

Enid propped both hands on her ample hips. “We should definitely check the sex offender registry.”

"Oh, no." Martha groaned. Outside the store’s large plate-glass front window, a man in a wool overcoat headed in from the street. "He’s here! What am I supposed to tell him?"

June cocked an eyebrow. "How about 'thank you?’ Nice and simple."

Claudette gaped at her. "How do you thank somebody for sending porn?"

The man walked in, carrying a bundle of books under his arm. He shook snow out of his hair and looked at the chunk of wood. He frowned and walked toward it. "Reid Moore, here for the book signing."

Martha opened her mouth and closed it again. Beside her, Claudette shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“I see you got my package,” he said.

June had a sudden coughing fit. She stifled it behind a closed fist.

“This display table.” He grabbed the wooden object by its lone branch and flipped it over. It sat level on its wide base and single decorative leg, looking exactly like a table and nothing at all like a sculpture.

“Oh.” Claudette blinked.

“Yes.” Enid nodded.

June finished coughing and wiped her palms on her skirt. “Indeed.”

Reid Moore took the books from under his arm and spread them on the table's flat top, setting one upright to show the bright blue cartoon beaver on the cover. “I special-ordered it for today. Thought it seemed perfect for the theme.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Martha clasped her hands in front of her and stood tall, like the owner of a respectable bookstore should. “We all thought it was just perfect.”

A version of this story appeared as a blog post on the Steem blockchain in 2017. Author owns copyright.