The End Salesman

John stood before the store window looking up at the vintage style sign in big bold letters:

Desmond Thinie
End Salesman
Est. 1666

He lifted his small hat that had seen better days and scratched his head. In the shop window was nothing but a red velvet curtain blocking the view into the establishment and a podium with an empty book on it.

John could swear this shop was not here yesterday. In fact, he was absolutely sure this building wasn't here either. Turning around he wanted to see if anyone else noticed this peculiar thing. But how could they? Their face buried in their mobile phones, thumbs trapped in the everlasting motion of scrolling. It sometimes fascinated him how people avoided bumping into poles, trash cans, and each other. It was like a sixth sense developed for the sole purpose of being able to walk around focusing on the myriad of stimuli coming from the tiny screen and being able to navigate at the same time.

He glanced at the shop again twitching his mouth. Something was not right. He tried to stop someone and ask if they remember this shop, but people just avoided him. Like a pole, or a trashcan. He felt invisible. Just like at work. Just like most of the time in his life.

A glance at the mirror image again, taking the time to study himself. His faded suit gave him a sort of camouflage against the concrete colored wall on the other side of the road. Like when weather reporters accidentally wear the same color as the background. John touched his chin and noted a shaving would be in order.

He walked away from the shop window. Maybe he wasn't paying enough attention lately. John was under a lot of stress from work and ... and the cancer. Sure, they said it was in an early stage, and it could be cured. Still, it was cancer none the less.

He looked at his watch. It had stopped. The darn batteries were getting weaker and weaker every year. Maybe they have some in there? The chance was low, but his curiosity multiplied it enough for him to make the move.

With that thought, he turned around and entered the shop. As he opened the old wooden door, a little bell chimed above his head. The inside of the shop was like a bookstore. Different colored books were placed on dusty shelves in order from the floor to the ceiling. The oak colored shelves had intricate carvings on them. It seemed like writing, but John didn't recognize the language or the characters.

The bell chimed again as the door closed with a short click.

"Good day to you, sir. How can I be of assistance today?"

"I'm looking for batteries for my watch," as he turned toward the sound, he saw a tall man, with a pencil mustache behind the counter. His black hair was waxed into curves as it was combed towards the back of his head.

"I'm afraid we don't have any, sir," he said, pulling an eyebrow up, "are you sure that is the only thing you are looking for?" As he finished the sentence his fingers ran over the thin mustache.

"Why?"

"Well, sir, quite frankly," he started, then walked out behind the counter, "customers coming here usually have a very specific thing on their mind."

The man was gesturing with his hand inviting John to continue, but he was still confused.

"Well, until today I didn't even notice your shop, to be honest," he chuckled, "I have a lot on my mind lately."

"Such as, sir?"

John measured the tall man again. He had a sinister vibe coming from him, but at the same time, he was the most polite shop attendant he'd ever talked to. Even the bartender at the pub he usually went to didn't ask him any questions. Ever.