Untamed

by Steven Harris

  On our way back, I take a closer glimpse at the stores against the main road. The stores consist of restaurants, pastry shops, clothing boutiques, and even hair salons. However, this town has a different style than others. The stores aren’t covered in fancy signs and bright colors like those you’d typically see in a city. The store faces are painted in warm, humble, colors.

  In addition, the signs hanging over the stores appear to be homemade. I also realize that every store has a picture of that lion posted on their window. One would assume this character serves as some kind of gimmick for the town. As we travel along, I see a wooden sign hanging off a storefront.

  It reads “Linda's Antiques” in white cursive letters. The building itself is small and painted a dark green.

  "I saw an antique shop back there," I inform her.

  “Wanna check it out?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  She turns the car around and kills the engine in front of the small establishment.

  "It doesn’t look like much. I guess it’s worth a peek," she tells me.

  Two minutes later, we enter the store with the sound of ringing chimes above our heads. The inside smells like a mix between lemon air-freshener, mothballs, and something musty. The shop is just a large dimly lit room with a bathroom behind the counter. An older woman with glasses is reading a magazine at the register.

  She looks up, places her magazine on the counter, and smiles hard at us.

  "Welcome," the woman says in a friendly tone.

  "Hello," my mom replies.

  "Do you need help finding anything in particular?"

  "No, we’re just looking around,” my mother replies.

  "If you have any questions just ask me," the woman says nicely and continues reading her magazine.

  I roll myself towards the dolls resting disorderly on the floor. Most of their eyes are missing and their dresses are horribly ragged. I move along and spot some books stacked high in a cardboard box. I search through them with the hopes of finding some interesting titles.

  “Look at this, Iva,” my mom grasps my attention behind me.

  She has her back turn to me as if she’s trying to conceal something. She shifts to me swiftly, revealing these glasses with long coils and eyes attached to them.

  “Funny right?” she asks.

  “Mom, please stop, I‘m laughing so hard it hurts,” I reply tonelessly.

  Humble as ever, she places the glasses back on the shelf.

  “I remember when you used to laugh at all of my jokes,” she informs me.

  “You're right, but then I turned five,” I add while studying a soldier figurine. “If it makes you feel better, I did laugh.”

  “No you didn’t,” she replies.

  “I totally did. You just had to listen very, very, closely.”

  Sparking no interest in me, I place the figurine where it belong and continue through the store. I then see an acoustic guitar sitting on the table. Like a child, I can’t help but run my fingers across the wires gently, creating a mild tune with every popping string.

  “See something you like?” she asks.

  "Not really. I guess we can leave," I reply.

  “Are you sure? You just got here.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  My mom grabs the handles of my wheelchair and prepares to push me forward.

  "Thank you," my mom says to the woman at the counter.

  The woman shifts away from her reading material and smiles at us.

  "Thank you for stopping by," she says and then switches back to reading again.

  While my mom pushes me towards the door, I discover something appealing on a bookshelf. It’s a small red box.

  "Hold on. What’s that?"

  My mother follows my finger.

  "I don't know," she responds.

  "Excuse me," I grasp the lady’s attention at the register. "What’s that?"

  The hippie woman follows my finger to the rectangular box resting on a bookshelf.

  "That’s, uh..,” She utters.

  She walks over to the bookshelf, stands on the tips of her toes, and then grabs it. She blows onto the surface of the box, scattering dust particles into the air.

  "I found it when I was gardening one day. I can't tell you what it is because I don't know what it is. It could be centuries old, maybe more. You’re the first to ask about it. It’s been sitting up there since I opened 5 years ago.”

  "How much is it?" I ask.

  The woman shrugs her shoulders and ponders.

  "Uh...three bucks," she says.

  "May I see it?" I ask with my hands presented.

  "Sure.”

  She hands me the box, which is much heavier than it appears. The dimensions of the box are four inches wide by nine inches long with a height of three inches. I use my hand the brush off some hardened dirt.

  “It's warm,” I think out loud.

  "It’s always like that," the woman clarifies.

  “What’s keeping it warm?” I ask curiously.

  “No clue. Pretty strange, isn't it?”

  I raise the box next to my ear and proceed to shake it, yet I hear nothing rattling on the inside.

  "You want it Iva?" my mom asks.

  "Yes," I reply, still studying the box diligently. "I'll take it.”

  She reaches into her purse, pulls out three dollars, and hands it to the woman.

  "It was a pleasure doing business with you. Thank you and stop by some other time.”

  "Thanks a bunch,” my mom finishes.