The proprietor of the antique shop was an old man, stoop-shouldered and slow-moving who, when he spoke, did so in a kind of high-pitched vibrato. Beneath the harmless exterior, however, must have lurked some malice, for all about the shop hung signs threatening potential shoplifters. Some were rather straightforward – “Shoplifters Will Be Prosecuted” or “Smile You Are Being Videotaped” – but others were more menacing, if not without a touch of humor. For instance, this one: “Win a Free Ride in a Police Car Just by SHOPLIFTING From of This Store.” Or, in bold red typeface beside an image of handcuffs: “Bracelets complementary with each theft.” The most barbaric of the bunch hung beside an autographed photograph of one of those television judges who are not really judges but by whose decrees and resolutions individuals who appear on the show are contractually bound to abide, and read as follows:

In addition to innumerable knickknacks and whatnots, the shop housed a good deal of solid wood furniture dating to different historical periods, as well as an old farm tractor which, since it could not possibly have fit through the door, must have been there when the shop was built, in such manner that the shop must have been built around it, unless it was moved in piece by piece and reassembled to, in that case, who knows what end?

It was along these lines that I said to the proprietor, placing upon the counter the little treasure I had found (a pewter tray with wooden handles that I planned to add to my growing collection of pewter trays with wooden handles): “I have deduced from the signage that you’re quite concerned about shoplifting and yet, all things considered, do you really think anyone would be capable of lifting a shop as heavy as this one? To me, such a feat seems merely impossible.”

The ancient proprietor reached for the newspapers he kept on hand for wrapping little treasures such as the one I’d found and, beginning to wrap, said: “Don’t be so sure of yourself, young fellow. Have you ever heard of Andre the Giant?”

“The wrestler?” I inquired.

“Now that you mention it,” said the old man, “he may well have gone on to be a wrestler later in life, in fact I believe he did, but when I knew him best, it was, needless to say, as a friend of Beckett.”

“The author?” I asked, knowing – as many people do – about the unlikely friendship between Beckett, the author, and a youthful Andre the Giant.

The old man must have known about it as well, for he conceded that that as a young milksop Andre was friends with that Beckett, as well. “Nonetheless,” he clarified, “when I knew him personally it was, of course, as a friend of Beckett the developer of the industry standard annually-updated pricing guides for trading cards.”

“Ah,” I said. “Baseball cards.”

“Not precisely,” said the old man. “There was, of course, the Beckett who developed the industry standard pricing guide for baseball and other sports cards, but that Beckett was a second cousin, if I’m not mistaken, of the Beckett to whom I’m referring, who developed the industry-standard pricing guide for those war-era cards emblazoned with images of ladies with their fannies out that were very popular with soldiers during the long, lonely weeks they were known to spend in the trenches. They were even known to trade these cards for cigarettes and the like, of course only once they’d finished with them themselves, and provided they were not soiled. Well, then the war ended, and home they went to their wives and lovers and the cards were either lost or left behind, though it wasn’t long before they began to wish they’d kept them. I’ll explain what I mean. On the one hand, a picture of a lady with her fanny out can’t do for you what a real woman can, but on the other hand, after a couple of weeks, you realize that a real woman also can’t do for you what a picture of a lady with her fanny out can. The problem is that we think of the pleasures of one as replacing those of the other, when in fact they provide us with different pleasures altogether. In any event, it was because of this inversion of the supply and demand ratio subsequent to the war years that their value on the open market became an area of interest, and therein provided a market for Beckett’s card-pricing services.”

“Well,” I said. “Point being, you think Andre the Giant would have been capable of lifting this entire shop.”

“No, no,” said the old man, who in the process of wrapping my little tray in newspaper had also wrapped himself up to the wrists in cellophane tape. “Andre the Giant was a powerful man, but of all the people I have ever known, it is Beckett, God rest his soul, who in my estimation would have been strong enough, had he so desired, to lift this shop.”

“And yet he dedicated himself to pricing trading cards emblazoned with the images of women with their fannies out,” I said with skepticism. “Whatever fortune he made by way of this service, I’m sure he could have made twice that as the star attraction in a traveling carnival.”

At that, the old man, now wrapped to the elbows in tape, chuckled a bit. “To the contrary,” he said. “The Beckett of whom you speak was as feeble as a jellyfish. In this instance, I am indeed referring to the author, who despite his rather decrepit appearance was, in our day, as strong as an ox and then some. And don’t mistake what I’ve said for hyperbole. I once saw the man wrestle a brahman ox into submission, and if I’m not mistaken, he was furthermore quite drunk at the time.”

“If you knew Beckett,” I observed, “then you must have lived in Paris.”

“Yes,” spluttered the old man through the several layers of tape now wound about his head and face like gossamer. “Paris, Maine, a small town built atop a Paleozoic bed from which he and I, each in dire financial straits for different reasons, spent the same several months harvesting semi-precious gems for a dime a day in wages and three hot meals.”

“Smokey quartz?” I asked.

The old man tried to shake his head, but the tape restrained him.

“Garnet?”

The old man tried to nod, but once again, the tape restrained him.

Eli S. Evans has recent or forthcoming work in a gazillion places, but don't get the wrong idea: his work has been rejected by probably a gazillion gazillion. A chapbook with Analog Submission Press (A Partial List of Things I Thought Might Kill Me Before I Started Taking a Daily Dose of Benzodiazepines) was published in August 2020 and a small book of small stories, Obscure & Irregular can be purchased from Moon Rabbit Books & Ephemera.