Spanish Olives

We set up shop long ago to sell all the random goodies that are commonly acquired, at the last moment, by a consumer that gets a craving, is a bad planner or/and has a bad memory. I mean it is a convenience store and while people are willing to pay a little bit more for convenience, we don’t charge as much of a little bit as we could.

We also offer goodies that move little but add a cosmopolitan flare, such as Indian curry sauce and Spanish olives, it’s a lot of stuff sophisticated for a little store that borders the desert with a population that is dying by way of attrition; last count think we had 4,800 inhabitants. Who knows what it is now but we know its less.

There is something beautiful in being the resident of a dying town; the world is growing all the time more and more but not us, we are dying. There was a time when our little town equaled more than ten thousand but something happened, we gave up, we begun to curl up and die without much complaining.

Our town’s major went to work or to sleep, either wouldn’t make a difference upon our banishing town. There are no development projects on the way, our inability to manage a bureaucracy has long disconnected us from federal government funding or subsidies. Yes, the nation’s government has written us off, as proven by the national census which never made it into our town.

We still sell the exotic Spanish olives, oh maybe I won’t tell you who buys them, green subdued olives, look so damn pretty on our shelves, why Mona, my wife, once posed a picture next to them, and I must say she looked more proud then than when we did get marry.

Morning crept in at around nine, or ten, it was a typical hour for opening our doors. There was no rain that day, hadn’t been any rain around for months, still it was a valid observation that we would regularly make; so we wouldn’t forget that rain did not harbor an indifference towards us like the federal government. You wouldn’t imagine gerrymandering battles over our town, but you had to believe that the rain cared more about us than the Sahara.

Opened the doors that day, not much lighting inside the store, struck a fine contrast with a sunny, ebulliently blue sky, no clouds, no birds, no planes, a flamed out moon oversaw the routine, opened those doors and in came this little boy that must have been eagerly waiting outside. He was all of about nine years old, innocent face, shy like a tomato, and he lit Mona’s eyes more than those green olives.

We did not have any children of our own, I never wanted any, scary to have to care and fear for progeny; truth is I am lazy, lazy like my town, would take a world to move me and the world does not bother; Mona always said she could go either way, with me pushing one way her neutrality became a “no” vote. I felt a bit guilty when I saw her eyes spring to life like that; long ago she had said that I had a choice and she didn’t. There aren’t any winners with such decisions and now living in our dying town proved how deadly our choices had been.

Little boy had beautiful blond hair, an undefined smiled, a soulful inner-voice, and we just watched him shop the shelves, his hands picked up a can of mushrooms, he looked confused by it; like “what could it be?” He seemed unable to read though he attentively stared at the label, then placed it back down on top of the other cans, making great effort to make sure they did not fall. He glanced at the vegetables without much care, passed our meager meat section and paused in front of the pastries. There he seemed less confused, he eyed intently and his hand just seemed eager to grab at one and just eat it. Mona interrupted his concentration by reassuringly holding his shoulder and saying: “Here you want it? It’s yours.” And she gave him the pastry which he reluctantly accepted without denial, and Mona and I watched him consume it, and it was such a joy to be sharing with him, and Mona was so wrapped up by his noble expression; then the moment came to end and Mona and I were introduced to the mortality of his magic. In minutes his parents would rush to pick up their neatly dressed little boy and offer to pay for the pastry which we, having enjoyed it more would refuse.

But the boy in silence stood there, walked a bit around the place. Our eyes attentively following him, Mona could resist no more, breaking the intensity she asked: “Where are your parents?” The boy backed a little at the question but responded with a question: “My parents?” Mona and I looked at each other, thinking the same silent thing, we know every little boy in this town, and maybe other silent things too. I walked over to the door and searched for cars, there were none.
Billy, we named him Billy, stayed with us. Don’t know where his parents are, too lazy to make a search for them. Mona sure is glowing, and he does not seem to mind how quiet we all are, but oh he loves those Spanish olives.

RC