The shop was much less inviting than I expected it would be when I Googled “antique shops near me”. The door was of the nondescript, utilitarian, steel variety with iron bars over the windows on each side of it, standing guard. It looked as though the adjoining building had been violently ripped off the side of it at some point, leaving a jagged edge of protruding bricks along the top edge. But this was it; the faded sign extending over the cracked sidewalk below confirmed we had arrived to our destination: Junque Shop Antiques. As my dad and I entered the ramshackle building, I heard the clinking of coffee cups and the deep voices of old men. Somewhere in the little office space at the rear of the building, a TV squawked the play-by-play of that afternoon’s football game. The owners of the old voices were also found at the back of the building; the white man sitting on a stool, the black man making himself some coffee. The small building smelled of stout coffee, dust, and things old. “Who knows? Maybe we’re related,” the white man jested at the black man. “You know, you just might be right,” the black man said, stirring his coffee. “Your family ever have slaves?” “Slaves?” snorted the white man. “My family was so poor we couldn’t afford to pay attention. We didn’t have no slaves!” The black man laughed, taking his styrofoam cup into his hands. “That’s true, that’s true,” he said. “You want half my sandwich?” the white man said to the black man. “Yes, please!” the black man said. “Thanks, man.” The white man turned to us, as he split his sandwich in two. “Can I assist you gentlemen?” he asked. Dad smiled at him. “Just browsing your wares,” he said. “I hope you do more than browse!” the man retorted with a kind, but mischievous grin. We continued to peruse the store. The floor creaked--well, I am left to assume it was the floor, because I could see no floor. It was strewn with a menagerie of things, all covered by a blanket of dust. The walls, too, were plastered with relics of Detroit’s past, most of which had seen better days. An old mantle clock that, along with tarnished trumpets, battered hat boxes, and rusted coffee cans, sat precariously on top of a rickety shelf, a thick layer of dust enveloping it and everything else around it. We browsed the cramped basement, ducking so as not to hit our heads on the low-hanging ceiling. More dust-enveloped relics. A man with a pointed nose and an Indiana Jones-style hat thumbed through a stack of lithographs, searching for a treasure of his own. We trekked back up the narrow stairway and into the cluttered curiosity shop. I looked up, again, to where the mantle clock was sitting. I took it down and wiped off some of the dust, revealing a beautiful walnut case with a small chip out of the front for added character. “What are you asking for this clock?” I asked the white man. “That clock? Well, let’s see. It’s a Seth Thomas, so it’s a good clock. Why don’t you see if it runs.” It did. We haggled, until we found a price we could agree on, and shook hands. The black man continued sipping his coffee and eating his sandwich, watching us seal the deal. We shook hands; he gave us his card; and we left. Is there a better way to spend an afternoon? I think not.
1 Comment
Gretchen Horton
12/31/2018 02:41:09 pm
Stuf is interesting, but people more so. Love your story...
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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