Heart of Texas

by Kirk Haggerty

  “The swelling will go away in a few days,” said the doctor. “Meanwhile, wear this nose bandage to keep it intact. You can return to your normal activities. Of course, I wouldn’t challenge anybody in a bar fight at this time.”

  I called the potential candidates and asked them to meet me for a tour of the almost-finished bookstore. All of them were excited about the place, even though at this point, the shelves were still empty and the computers for the office and cashier counters were just being installed. They didn’t have a lot of experience, from my point of view, but I hired them anyway, hoping that they were diamonds in the rough, and that Karen would accept the job of assistant manager, with an above-average salary as the carrot on the stick.

  “Daniel, I’ll believe it when I see it,” Karen said to me on the phone.

  “Do you want to see it, then?”

  “No, I’ll wait until opening day.”

  “Karen, I need you as an assistant manager before opening day. If you don’t like it, you can always quit. But please give it a shot. I’m saying this with a big blue nose too. You haven’t even seen it yet, have you?”

  I heard her chuckle. “No, I haven’t seen your nose yet, Daniel. I can imagine that it’s black and blue. Like a boxer.”

  “Please, Karen. Come down to the shop.”

  “When are the books getting delivered?”

  “In two days.”

  “Fine, call me when they arrive and I’ll come and help you shelve them, all right?”

  “All right, but I can’t guarantee that my nose will remain black and blue that long.”

  “We’ll see. See ya, Daniel.”

  Just five days before the grand opening. The computers, bar-code scanners and accounting software were ready for processing, and I was just waiting for the first inventory to arrive from the supplier that mother had organized. Mom had my office designed to look like something from a British spy movie; with green shaded lamps, an oriental rug and a great mahogany desk with a liqueur shelf on the side. All I needed was an intercom button to ask Miss Moneypenny to summon Mr. Bond into the room.

  Karen showed up when the book truck arrived. All four workers were assembled with my mother and me as the truck pulled into a newly paved parking lot. I signed the invoice, received the packing list and we opened the back of the truck and saw pallets of books, ready to be devoured by customers.

  As the young men began to unpack everything, Karen pulled me to the side.

  “Can I see the inside of the shop?” Her eyes were full of curiosity.

  I wanted to see the inside of her blouse, but business before pleasure. I pulled out the key and said, “Of course; you will be astounded what you see.”

  The 'Preis is Right Bookshop' was designed in the Edwardian style of a bygone era, with blue framed windows and an authentic Art Nouveau shop door imported from a London High-Street outlet. That alone was a great first impression for Karen. I opened the door and turned on the lights. Inside were long oak galleries, Tiffany lamps and graceful skylights. As soon as she walked in, Karen noticed there was something special about the place that made you want to stay in here for hours to avoid the Texas heat outside.

  Hand-crafted, polished shelves and racks, in abundance, were waiting for the merchandise to be placed, both hard back and paperback; organized by genres, such as science-fiction, fantasy, romance, Christian, bibles, mystery, children, travel, non-fiction, maps, etc. If one doubted that the age of the book was in decline in the digital era, we had Kindle devices for sale and for test reading in small lounges in all four corners of the shop. There were comfortable sofas and love seats on every level for reading.

  The tempting aroma of espresso would lead the customers to a plush café on the upper floor with authentic cappuccino machines from Italy; even calorie-rich Italian ice-cream was available. In the basement would be rows of comic-books and Japanese manga, but it was the video game shop that would be the hit for youngsters. Here, both kids and adults could play and buy the latest 'rock-em-sock-em' software on big screens, and try out the latest gee-wiz hardware for their Xboxes, Nintendos, PS2s, Gameboys, etc. There was even a corner where stationary, diaries, notebooks, calendars and pens for school kids were sold. In a word, exquisite, there was something for everybody here; a miracle of clever diversity, defying the death of the old-fashioned bookshop in the 21st-Century.

  Karen was like a child in a candy shop. She was spellbound. It was a side I had so far never seen – it was the true Karen. “Daniel, this is amazing. I must give you respect. This was so well planned. I love it.” Behind those nerdy glasses, I could tell that this was the Karen who had the potential to take on anything; as an editor once said about the Nancy Drew mystery books, ‘she's as cool as Mata Hari and as sweet as Betty Crocker.’

  “Thanks, I have to admit that my mother helped out a lot. If it wasn’t for her inspiration and planning, there wouldn’t be a shop today.”

  “Well,” she said.

  “Well, what?”

  “Are you still going to offer me the job as assistant manager?”

  “I never retracted it. Do you want it?”

  “Yes, of course.” She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a warm hug. I thought she would kiss me, but that was still wishful thinking on my part.

  “We’d better help get the books inside,” she said.

  “You bet.”

  Opening day finally arrived. There were reporters and photographers from every part of central Texas, including the Dallas-Fort Worth and Austin areas. A camera crew from a local TV station filmed the ribbon-cutting ceremony, with the mayor of Hamilton alongside us. Nobody had seen such an elaborate book shop before in Texas, at least not outside the modern mega-malls of the big cities. Mother was the one who did the interview for the TV, which was good because I wanted to be as anonymous as possible; she even used her maiden name to identify herself as the owner of the shop.

  I have to say, it’s not easy standing on your feet running a shop all day long, dressed in a suit and tie. The biggest hits were indeed the café upstairs and the video shop in the cellar, just as planned.

  I didn’t see mother for a few hours after the ceremony. By chance I walked into my new office with an espresso when I caught her in there, resting on the sofa.

  “Are you all right, mom?”

  She nodded and remained lying with her eyes closed. “It’s been a long day.”

  “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “No, not at all. Go to your computer and take a gander at how many sales we’ve already generated.”

  I was curious. I went over to my desk and clicked the mouse on my iMac. My eyebrows rose higher than usual as I read the sales. “Are you sure this isn’t a mistake?”

  “It’s all from the bar-code scanners. Looks like we have a winner, son.”

  “It’s just the first day, mom. The honeymoon phase and all that. I’m sure it’ll settle down into lower figures as the weeks pass”

  “Don’t forget the Christmas season. You need to stock up on things soon. If it keeps up at this pace, you’ll need to hire some more workers.”

  I had a gut feeling she was right. “I’ll put an ad in the paper.”

  “Good. Once you get two or three more workers. Karen and I will help you train them, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Home, back to Boston. Your father needs me. I’ve been here long enough.”

  I feared that this would come to pass. Mother had gone above and beyond the call of duty in getting this shop up and ready. There was no way I could have done this without her.

  There was knock on the door, one of the workers poked his head through and said, “Mr. Preis, somebody wants to see you.”

  “I’m coming.” I gave mom a kiss on the forehead and said, “You get some rest.” Before going downstairs I could see the crowds of people rummaging through the rows of stocked bookshelves. It was a dream come true. The press and camera crews were gone,
leaving room for even more customers to roam around and gawk at the beautiful new surroundings.

  Karen was at the main cashier desk with another woman, attending to a line of customers who were buying piles of books and video games. She looked completely in her element, as I had expected.

  Neat the entrance was Mr. Bolo-Tie Hopkins himself. What did he want of all people?

  “Mr. Hopkins, welcome to my shop.” I held out my hand, but he didn’t want to shake it. He took out his cigar and said, “So you found a way to get your stinkin’ little loan after all, Preis. Had to get your mother to do a man’s job.”

  So he came just to rub it in? Or was there something else in his evil, rotten, nasty bag of tricks, like summon Sheriff Buford T. Justice to pull out an arrest warrant for some unknown misdemeanor. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. But if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “Wutz your customers gonna say, boy, when I write an article in the paper, saying that some slick young porn writer from Boston who hates Texans has opened up a bookstore as part of his observation experiment?”

  Where were those NRA gun lovers when you needed them? I had a big, fat, juicy target waiting for them to shoot at. I knew blackmail when I saw it. Shit like this doesn’t scare me – unless surrounded by ten Hell’s Angels hoodlums.

  I turned red and snapped, “You can write anything you damn well please, Mr. Hopkins. It’s just your word against mine. I’m warning you, if you do this, I’ll get a lawyer to slap a libel lawsuit against your big fat Texas ass. Get the hell out of my shop and manage your ‘best little whorehouse in Texas’ somewhere else.”

  Now there were two men with fifty shades of red staring at each other.

  “You’ll pay for this, boy.” With that he turned on his heels and left the shop.

  Yahoo, was my ass in trouble now. Where was that napkin with the number to contact Killer Jack? Or did I discard it after blowing my broken nose with it?

  Chapter Eight

  The shop was an absolute success. Two months passed and customers came in by the hundreds daily, gawking and playing and purchasing our wares. We had to hire another three workers, one of them was a bright 19-year-old named Thomas from Waco. He moved to Hamilton the day after I hired him. I could easily see the ambitions of a manager in him.

  So far the threats of Mr. Bad, Bad Leroy Bo were empty ones, at least for the moment.

  I took mom to the Hamilton airfield where her Piper Cherokee awaited for the hop to Dallas-Fort Worth and the transfer flight to Boston. Since it was now autumn in Texas, the weather had cooled down so much that she had to wear a wool sweater, but she still wore the nice hat to keep the sun off her. I took out her suitcases and escorted her across the tarmac to the aircraft awaited. An attendant ran over and placed her bags into the belly of the plane and locked the hatch in place. I walked her as far as the steps that led inside the craft, which held six passengers.

  “I hope you have a safe trip, mom.” Even I found that such a corny statement to make for a good-bye.

  “I’ll be just fine, son. Don’t worry about me. Just follow everything I typed in the management manual for you. You can always ask Karen for help.”

  “I know. Again, thanks for everything.” I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  She whispered in my ear. “Karen loves you, baby. I can see it in her eyes. Don’t blow it.” The statement stunned me. Of course I had the hots for Karen; well, I had the hots for any young and beautiful gal crossing my path, but I didn’t suspect that Karen liked me at all. So far I’d seen no indication of that. Moms must know best, I guess.

  She turned and boarded the craft. The pilot signaled for me to step away as he closed the door. A moment later the Piper rolled down the airstrip and made its flight into the great blue Texas sky.

  It was now election night and the locals were awaiting the outcome of the day’s voting. I went to the local bar after a long day at the bookstore and watched the live coverage of state-by-state election results. As the evening progressed, the Democrats had more to celebrate than the re-election of President Obama; they got to witness an unusual spectacle of sorts.

  Karl Rove, the mastermind Republican strategist, hated and feared by Democrats, had a meltdown live on Fox News around 11:15 PM. Rove's famous hissy-fit took place when the network called the state of Ohio for Obama, putting the president over the 270 electoral votes needed to win re-election. Rove argued that Fox's analysts had acted prematurely. There was a pained silence in the studio - something that never happens live on TV. The host and blonde bombshell, Megyn Kelly added, "That's awkward."

  To resolve the stand-off, Kelly walked across the studio, cameras trailing her, to the back office to ask the analysts at the Fox "decision desk" how sure they were Obama would win Ohio and the election. The number-crunchers repudiated Rove. One expert said he was '99.9 percent' certain that the president had been re-elected. Another analyst added, "There just aren't enough Republican votes left for Mitt Romney to get there." Interesting to note that Kelly had asked Rove a thought-provoking question, "Is this just math that you do as a Republican to make yourself feel better? Or is this real?"

  I observed how the patrons were responding to all this. Many of them thought the county was going to hell due to high debts and the problems of too many 'social issues' taking the spotlight, such as Obamacare, which was the original reason why I was sent to Texas in the first place. Romney had won Texas but still lost the race to the White House. On the live election map, most of the counties in Texas were red, with a small number of remote blue dots, mostly along the Rio Grande/Mexican border region. It wasn't a total loss for Texas; at least they were happy that Ted Cruz, a tea-party republican, was elected as US senator.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a phone call from Karen.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi. My parents want to make up for your accident and invite you for dinner again tomorrow evening. OK by you?”

  “That’s wonderful, I accept. When should I come by?”

  “5:00 PM and I made sure that Kenny won’t ask you to shoot guns this time.”

  “My nose appreciates that.”

  The Owens outdid dinner again. They served lobster with clam chowder, and for desert a cream pie. It was almost as if they prepared a Boston specialty just for me. I couldn’t have been happier.

  “So tell us, Daniel,” said Mrs. Owens. “What’s the most special thing about Boston to you?”

  I gave it a moment of though and answered, “Many consider Boston a highly cultured city with an intellectual reputation. Mark Twain once wrote of it, In New York they ask "How much money does he have?" In Philadelphia, they ask, "Who were his parents?" In Boston they ask, "How much does he know?"

  “Well,” said Kenny, “how many Boston jokes do you know?”

  “Oh, Kenny,” said Karen.

  “That’s fine, I got one.” I had to run through my repertoire of New England dirty jokes and find something decent.

  “A young man received a parrot as a gift. The parrot had a bad attitude and an even worse vocabulary. Every word out of the bird's mouth was rude, obnoxious and laced with profanity. He tried and tried to change the bird's attitude by consistently saying polite words, playing soft music and anything else he could think of to clean up the bird's foul language. The man was fed up and he yelled at the parrot. The parrot yelled back. He shook the parrot and the parrot got angrier and even ruder. In desperation, he grabbed the bird and put him in the freezer. For a few minutes the parrot squawked and kicked and screamed.

  “Then there was total quiet. Not a peep was heard for over a minute. Fearing that he'd killed the parrot, he opened the freezer door. The parrot stepped out onto the man’s outstretched arms and said in proper English, ‘I believe I may have offended you with my rude language and actions. I'm sincerely remorseful for my inappropriate transgressions and I fully intend to do everything I can to correct my rude and unforgivable behavior.’

  “The man was
stunned at the change in the bird's attitude. As he was about to ask the parrot what had made such a dramatic change in his behavior; the bird turned and saw the frozen Thanksgiving turkey and asked, ‘May I ask what the turkey did?’"

  The parents laughed while Kenny and Karen had smirks on their faces. Karen laughed too, but I wondered if it wasn’t all that funny.

  “Hey, do a JFK accent,” said Kenny.

  “Na, I don’t like doing those.”

  “Oh come on, man, why not?”

  “I don’t ask you to do a cowboy accent do I?”

  “We don’t talk like dumb cowboys. That’s in movies and stuff.”

  Karen interrupted. “Kenny, if Daniel doesn’t want to do it, please respect that.”

  “Thanks Karen.” I noticed that atmosphere got a little on the tense side. Mr. Owens tried to change it. “Who do you see as a role model, Daniel? Is it JFK?”

  “Well, to be honest, it might sound corny, but I admire Benjamin Franklin.”

  All heads turned to me as if I was from Mars. “Why him?” Owens asked.

  “Because I read about him when I was a boy. His life, work and philosophy fascinated me. I wrote reports about him in school and in college. To me, Franklin represented all that America is supposed to be: thrift, hard work, education, community spirit, self-governing institutions, with values of science and tolerance.”

  “Fascinating,” said Owens.

  “That's what Mr. Spock says all the time in Star Trek,” I said jokingly.

  “You should be a teacher,” said Mrs. Owens.

  “Who knows? Maybe one day I will.”

  Karen’s father continued, “So, Daniel, I figure your family back home is happy about the elections, with Obama winning and all.”

  “I haven’t even asked my folks about that.”

  “Well, do you think the country is better off now than four years ago?” It was the typical Ronal Reagan pitch. I had to tread carefully.