Bentley Little - The Store

He drove slowly up and down the rows of the parking lot, looking for an open space.

"Just park out by the highway and we'll walk," Ginny said. "You're wasting your time. You're not going to find any spots."

"Yeah, Dad," Shannon echoed. "We're going to be the last ones in there."

"The Store's not going anywhere," he told them. "It'll be here all day."

Nevertheless, he drove to the far end of the lot and into one of two adjacent open parking spaces facing the highway. Samantha and Shannon immediately opened their doors, got out of the car, and hurried toward the flag festooned building. "Later!" Shannon called.

"Don't leave without telling us!" Ginny called after them. She smiled at Bill as she got out of the car. "Exciting day."

"Yeah," he said.

He pushed down the lock button on the car door, slammed it shut, and turned toward The Store. He'd started jogging along the highway again during the past month. He seemed to have been cured of his physical aversion to the construction site, and he'd begun running past the area each morning, curious about the progress of The Store and unable to stay away. He found himself watching the stages of development with a sort of morbid fascination, the same sort he'd felt toward a decomposing dog he and his friends had discovered in a vacant lot near their junior high school. He was disgusted by what he saw but powerless to look away.

Even in _his_ mind, though, The Store was already a part of the town. An unwelcome part, but a part nevertheless. It was difficult for him to remember exactly where the hill had been, what the outcropping of rock looked like. He could see only The Store now.

He wondered if someone somewhere had a photograph of the meadow the way it used to be.

Probably not.

The thought depressed him.

"Come on," Ginny said. "You can't put it off any longer." She moved around her side of the car, took his hand, and together the two of them walked up the row of parked vehicles to The Store.

The day was warm, unusually so for early spring, but the temperature cooled considerably as they stepped into the shadow of the building. Bill looked up as they approached. The structure was massive. He'd known it was big, but it had been impossible to get a true sense of scale from the highway.

Here, however, in front of the building, walking up to it, Bill was daunted by its sheer size. The Store's facade was the length of a football field and nearly three stories high. There were no windows, only several sets of tinted glass doors in the otherwise uniform tan of the giant block building. It looked like a high school gymnasium on steroids. Or a bunker for a race of giants.

Customers and curious browsers streamed from the parking lot, over the bordering sidewalk, through the automatic doors, and he and Ginny joined the crowd.

They walked into The Store.

Inside, the building was not intimidating at all. Rather, it was modern, friendly, and welcoming. The temperature was comfortable, the barely perceptible Muzak pleasant rather than cloying, and the silently circulating air smelled of cocoa and coffee and candy. The high white ceiling was lined with long wide light bars that clearly illuminated the entire store with a cheerful brightness that made the natural sunlight outside seem pale and faded in comparison, and the white tile floor gleamed between endless shelves fully stocked with an amazing array of products.

An old man Bill had seen around town but didn't know smiled at them, welcomed them to The Store, and offered them a shopping cart, which Ginny took.

They walked forward slowly, looking around. A double row of cash register stations were lined up to their left, parallel to the exit doors. Already there were people pushing shopping carts through the checkout lines, taking out checkbooks and credit cards, requesting paper bags instead of plastic from the smiling, clean-cut clerks.

It was hard to believe that such an obviously well-stocked, state-of-the art store would choose to build in Juniper. It was even harder to believe that such a store could make money. It seemed out of place here, incongruous, like a whale in a goldfish tank, and Bill had a tough time understanding why a large corporation like The Store would place an enormous retail outlet in a town this small. The local residents were, for the most part, poor, with little or no discretionary income, and even if The Store paid only minimum wage, the overhead for a place like this had to be at least double the most optimistic sales projections.

He didn't see how The Store could make a profit in Juniper.

"Hey, stranger."

He glanced over to see Ben, notebook in hand, camera slung over his shoulder.

The editor nodded to Ginny. "Hey, Gin."

She smiled. "Front page news, huh?"

"Don't knock it. No news is good news, as they say, and if we're fortunate enough to live in a place where a store opening is a major news event, we're pretty damn lucky."

Ginny touched Bill's arm. "I'm going to look at clothes. You take the cart."

"You don't want to be interviewed for the paper?" Ben said. "I need some reactions from local shoppers."

"Maybe later."

The editor turned toward Bill as she walked away. "Come on. How about you?

You don't want to make me actually work, do you? I figured I could hit up friends for quotes and not have to annoy real people."

"Real people?"

"You know what I mean."

"If you really want a quote from me, I'll give you one. But I don't think it's what you want to hear."

"You think right. The Store's our biggest advertiser now, and word came down from on high that negativity would not be appreciated in Grand Opening coverage."

"Newtin's caving in?" Bill couldn't believe it. The publisher had always told Ben that the content of the paper was up to him, that he would not interfere with the presentation of the news or attempt to influence the paper's editorial slant.

Ben shrugged. "It's a new dawn."

Bill shook his head. "I never would've believed it."

"So you don't want to lie? Give me some fake words of praise and encouragement?"

"Sorry."

"I'd better find some other suckers, then." He nodded. "Later."

"Later." Bill pushed the shopping cart forward. He looked to the right, thought he saw Ginny's head above a blouse rack in the crowded women's clothing section but could not be sure. He continued forward down the center aisle, past rows of housewares, past shelves of cleaning supplies. He stopped by the book and magazine section. He was impressed by The Store's selection, he had to admit. The giant magazine rack contained not only _People_, _Newsweek_, _Time_, _Good Housekeeping_, _Vogue_, and the usual mainstream mass-market periodicals, but such obscure specialized publications as _The Paris Review_, _The New England Journal of Medicine_, and _Orchid World_. There were even copies of _Penthouse_, _Playboy_, and _Playgirl_. A first for this town. The bookshelves next to the magazine rack were stocked with works by King, Koontz, Grisham, and other best-sellers, as well as novels by Wallace Stegner, Rachel Ingalls, and Richard Ford.

Even the music selection was impressive. He moved on to the electronics department and glanced through the CDs, finding everything from currently hot rock and rap groups to such little-known contemporary classical artists as Meredith Monk and the Illustrious Theatre Orchestra.

He had been prepared to hate The Store -- he _wanted_ to hate The Store and he was disappointed that there was really nothing he could find to criticize or disparage. Indeed, he found himself grudgingly, against his will, having fun, enjoying his exploratory trips down the endless aisles. It was not something he would ever admit to aloud, but he actually admired The Store for what it had done here.