Stirred to life by the sound of the cash drawer, I’m not surprised to find myself in the same gray corner. Year to year, as the world shifts from tank tops to skis, I remain… here. Quickly dismissed by every customer despite the loud sale tag, even the old woman who owns the store has forgotten about me. I am merely an old record player who hasn't seen a record since Elvis was “the newest hit”.
I begin to drift off again when I hear the little bell above the door ring. A customer I have never seen before. I first notice her untamed red hair which drowns her small stature. I am doubtful she will focus on anything other than that shiny new shelf right up front, but something compels me to stay alert.
“Can I help you with anything sweetie?” wheezes Linda, but the red-haired girl walks with purpose. Nervously, I realize her white cowgirl boots are headed toward me. I have the urge to clean up and make myself presentable, momentarily forgetting I don’t have legs. The floorboards fall silent as she comes to a stop. Looking down at me, the girl smiles. With a swipe of her hand, the dust that had piled on my turnstile spills across the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot moths fleeing my case in search of a new home. They settle over in the toy section, nesting in the broken flexible flyer sled that hasn't been touched in months. Steadily, the girl picks me up and it seems that I, too, have found a new home.
I begin to drift off again when I hear the little bell above the door ring. A customer I have never seen before. I first notice her untamed red hair which drowns her small stature. I am doubtful she will focus on anything other than that shiny new shelf right up front, but something compels me to stay alert.
“Can I help you with anything sweetie?” wheezes Linda, but the red-haired girl walks with purpose. Nervously, I realize her white cowgirl boots are headed toward me. I have the urge to clean up and make myself presentable, momentarily forgetting I don’t have legs. The floorboards fall silent as she comes to a stop. Looking down at me, the girl smiles. With a swipe of her hand, the dust that had piled on my turnstile spills across the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot moths fleeing my case in search of a new home. They settle over in the toy section, nesting in the broken flexible flyer sled that hasn't been touched in months. Steadily, the girl picks me up and it seems that I, too, have found a new home.
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