addiction

FRIDAY

I'm thinking about quitting my job. Not because I don't like it, but because nothing interesting happens. I sit behind this counter all day. We're lucky if we get five people in here to buy something. Most of our customers are simply here to drop things off.

I'm not even sure how I would label this place I work at. I tell everyone it's an art store, but I don't think that quite covers it. Essentially, it's a place where people come to drop off their art, and people come in to see which pieces they'd like to buy. That said, the guidelines on what classifies as art are very ambiguous. My boss is extremely open-minded. If someone says it's art, he'll take it. He believes art is subjective, it can be found in everything. Maybe he's right. It just becomes hard to believe when someone brings in a fourteen year old toaster they're trying to get rid of and calls it art. Personally, I feel it's more of a thrift store.

Every time the door opens, a frigid chill blows into the room from the cool, autumn air outside. I don't mind. My boss keeps it rather cold in here to preserve the art, so I'm used to it. I don't always follow his logic, but he pays me every two weeks, so I don't complain.

I pick up my book and kick my feet up onto the counter, leaning back in my chair. I assume it's going to be a long day.

After a while, the bell on the door rings and the temperature falls at least twelve degrees. I register the fact that someone has come in, but I'm so engrossed in this book that I can't seem to look up. I have to finish this page.

I feel a presence in front of me and someone clears their throat. I place my thumb at the end of the paragraph to hold my place and look up at them. A young man with soft, brown eyes and a head of black, coarse curls smiles down at me.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, his voice slow and deep. "Do you have a restroom in here?"

I remove my feet from the counter and stand up. "In the back and to your right. It's cleaner than all of this, I promise." I say, gesturing to the various piles of junk—I mean, art—that have accumulated all over the place.

The boy nods to me and I smile as he turns to walk away, looking back down at my book.

Einstein says common sense is just habit of thought. It's how we're used to thinking about things, but a lot of the time it just gets in the way.

"In the way of what?" Sal asks.

"In the way of—"

"What is this place?" A voice pulls me from my book. Why? It was getting good. Occasionally, I like to pick up some of the books, music, or other articles people have left around here and check them out myself. Most of the time they're all awful, but this book seems to be among the few treasures I've actually discovered here.

I look up and find the boy with brown eyes has returned. That was fast. Wait, did he even go to the bathroom? I wish he could just pause for a moment until I've finished this chapter. I smile up at him regardless, quietly scolding him in my mind.

"Can't you tell?" I gesture around the room. "We sell art."

"Art?" He furrows his eyebrows, looking around with confusion. I expected that. "This all looks like trash to me. What do you classify as art?"

"Everything."

"This flower pot?" He says, picking it up off a stained, wooden table with chipped mahogany legs. "Is this art too?"

"I guess. People just bring by whatever they want." I walk out from behind the counter, tracing my fingers along the many artifacts that have been brought here. I pause, picking up an old Incubus, Light Grenades album—with no CD inside. "You'd be surprised at the things people come in and buy."