Widow's Mite

The markets, if you could call them that, were in a state of ramshackle decay. The thoroughfare of shops was once a lovely center of commerce in small-town America, but now was a dusty collection of wooden planks and tattered canvas. Miles away, through the low-hanging clouds, the lights of the colossal towers leered and lorded with pompous stillness.

Vendors declared their inventory was essential to life and superior to their neighbors, even if their products were entirely different. Paupers and beggars sat in alleyways underneath posters of the propaganda declaring their ultimatum of freedom. They fought over scraps of meat leftover from the butcher shop like coyotes. The divisive nature of the world called people to lean on their family, friends, and the ones they loved more than ever, but Emil did it all alone.

Old Man Forrest was the finest tinkerer in the area. Many used his services to repair or inquire about what their goods could go for in today’s market. Only wristwatches received good appraisals, while everything else seemed useless, at least to Old Man Forrest. Currently, he polished his music player that was at the end of its refurbishment. Emil never laid eyes on something so strange. Old Man Forrest flipped a switch, and the large black disc spun. The muffled sound that emerged from the brass horn was a song by an artist named Frank Sinatra. No one besides the tinkerer knew who that singer was, so everyone had to take him at his word.

Emil stood in front of the record player, attempting to decipher the cacophony of sounds. “People used to enjoy this?” he asked Old Man Forrest.

The white-haired, grease-covered elder glared back at Emil over his copper glasses, held together by wire and duct tape. “Just by that question alone, I know that culture died a long time ago, son.”

He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but seeing as he agitated Old Man Forrest, he moved along.

Emil made this walk every day. His mornings consisted of scavenging materials and items of potential value to barter and sell.

A girl sat on the concrete steps that led into the next shop. Emil figured they were around the same age, but it was hard to tell. She kept a harsh gaze forward with no recipient. She never smiled and stayed on the stairs like an apathetic guard dog. A wool blanket draped over her that was littered with holes. He always got tense walking past her. Underneath the radiating waves of contempt coming off her, she appeared quite beautiful to Emil. He resisted the urge to greet her every time he walked by.

Emil peeled the canvas to the side that acted as the front door to Solomon’s Essentials, the most popular shop in the area. Emil rarely got any interest for the findings he brought in, but the ones he did, scored him his largest payday.

The essentials on the shelves consisted of canned food, purified water, pots, pans, and cooking utensils. On the opposite wall, one could argue the items were more essential. Survival equipment from backpacks, fire starter, flashlights, cordage, and handheld weaponry littered the walls. Emil had his eyes set on a small shovel labeled, ‘tactical shovel.’ Solomon claimed it had seven uses. But, as far as Emil was concerned, he only wanted it for its primary use of efficient digging.

“Ah, my favorite customer,” Solomon said, popping out from under the opposite side of the counter. A deep exhale followed from the shop owner that gave Emil mixed signals.

“Is that true?”

“Of course.” Emil had difficulty determining if the man was genuine because reading his face proved difficult. His bushy eyebrows never moved, and his mouth was as still and cracked as concrete. “What do you have for me today?”

Emil whipped his backpack around and unzipped one of the pockets. The object clicked as he placed it on the counter with his fingers still covering it. The slow slide towards Solomon piqued his interest.

The shop owner held the heart-shaped locket in his palm and allowed his bifocals to fall on the tip of his nose. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of these?”

Emil got nothing. He failed to read Solomon’s stone face once again. “What is it exactly?” he asked.

“It’s a locket, boy,” he said.

“Oh… what’s a locket?”

Solomon rotated it so Emil could get a better look. “It’s a piece of jewelry lovers used to give to each other, hence the heart shape. Usually, there would be a chain, and this would be worn as a necklace.”

“I see.”

“But, that’s not all,” Solomon continued. He placed his finger on a small piece that poked out from the side. Emil overlooked it when he first discovered it in a rotten desk drawer. Solomon pressed the button, and the heart opened into two pieces connected by a hinge on the inside. “That’s a shame.”

“What’s a shame?” Emil asked.

Solomon pointed to the middle of the open heart, “Usually there would be a small picture in here of the wearer’s love. Sometimes it would have words as well, but nothing on that end either.”

“Is it valuable?”

“Perhaps to the person this once belonged to, but as a piece of jewelry, no.”

His eyes dropped to the ground, and Emil sighed. “What could I get for it?” By the long stare he got in return, Emil knew it wasn’t much.

Solomon placed the locket back down on the counter and didn’t appear interested. Emil couldn’t determine this was a strategy or not.

“Well, I could give you ten tokens or offer trade.”

“Ten?” he repeated in disappointment. That wouldn’t go far for him. “What do you have for trade?”

“I could offer you two feet of cordage or twenty towelettes.”

Emil leaned in, “Do I smell bad enough to need the towelettes?”

“You could do better.”

His nostrils flared in an attempt to capture his own scent. He grew worried when he couldn’t tell if there was a foul odor. Emil contemplated his decision. The repetitive cycle of the days began to exhaust him. He rubbed his eyes and rested his elbows on the counter. “Ten tokens,” he repeated.

He turned to look through the canvas door. People walked mindlessly, caught in the same cycle. When he saw a couple or a family, Emil grew jealous. In all the awfulness, being alone amongst the gloom is what made it hell. Surviving seemed easy. Enjoyment was more challenging to come by.

Emil allowed a moment to feel sorry for himself before facing Solomon, “All right, I’m going to hold on to this locket.” He reached into his bag and placed five tokens on the counter. “But, I’ll take pencil and paper if you got it.”

“Only got pens,” Solomon said.

“That’s fine.”

The salesman continued to stare. “That’ll be six tokens then.”

He didn’t want to spend all of today’s money at once, but he hoped this would pay off. Emil slid his final token across the counter, and Solomon supplied him with a pen and a short stack of paper.

Feverishly, he wrote. Solomon’s curious eye looked at his paper as he leaned over the counter. Emil shielded his writing with his shoulder and stared back. The glare was enough to make Solomon surrender and take his leave.

He finished writing and placed the locket in the middle of the papers. Emil folded the note tightly around the piece of jewelry and put the cap back on the pen. With his chin up and shoulders back, he walked out of Solomon’s Essentials.

The girl’s black hair fell over the blanket that still covered her. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten the girl. Emil waited until he was in front of her to offer the packet with the locket inside.

He barely managed to keep eye contact with her. She looked at him confused, not knowing what to do. “It’s for you,” he said in a trembling voice. Emil cleared his throat in a poor attempt to hide his nerves.

She accepted his gift, and he walked away with a hurried step. Emil hoped he spelled everything on his note correctly so he wouldn’t look stupid. As he nearly jogged away, he replayed the message over and over again:

This is yours to sell if you wish. It’s worth ten tokens. But, if I manage to find the courage to say hello when I come back tomorrow, all I ask in return is a smile to ease my nerves.