Last Night I Shopped for Love.

Oct 06, 2008 00:46

Last Night I Shopped for Love.

The stores we come to love the most are the stores that we don't see at first sight.  Not a lot of people know about Cubao Ex, behind Gateway, and its slew of antique shops and graphic design shops.  Even fewer know about Som’s, the almost-authentic and cheaply-priced Thai restaurant behind Rockwell.  The best stores are the ones we stumble upon and cherish, and they become little secrets we keep from the rest of the world.

It's a wonder I didn’t know about Awesome Pete’s Love Store, when I have been passing by Sapphire Avenue everyday.   It’s just right there, around the corner.

Awesome Pete’s store sells love.  It says so right on the widow - “We sell love.  Prices negotiable.”  Curious, I stepped right in, not knowing what to expect.

The store itself was dingy: the door creaked as I opened it;  dusty viridian drapes covered the walls.  A single skylight was obscured by a build up of dirt.  Nevertheless, I didn’t care.  I was too bewildered to notice the aesthetics.  Although, in hindsight, for a store that sold love, I would have expected something cheerier.  Something like a cross between the video for Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds and Mr. Magoo’s Wonder Emporium.

Awesome Pete ran his own store, and I don’t blame him for not having any employees.  After all, how would he realistically entice people to work for his shop?  Place ads in the newspapers?  “Love Store looking for new employees”?  That would be one ticket to criminal indictment for public indecency.

“So what’s the catch?” I said, doing away with the pleasantries.

“Nothing,” he said.  “We sell love.”  Funny how he uses we, when he was the only other person there.

“This isn’t, like… a brothel, isn’t it?” I said.

He let out a chuckle, as if he’d heard that question several times already.

“No, we don’t sell girls.”

Awesome Pete - if that was his real name - certainly didn’t look like a girl-trader anyway.  He had a receding hairline, although his hair was still surprisingly thick and curly wherever he still had it.  He partially covered his balding forehead with a Flower-Power bandanna, with a prominent peace sign.  He sure acted the part of the owner of a love store.

“So, what do you sell?  Mills and Boone novels?  Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks DVDs?  Post-Chicago Peter Cetera CDs?” I asked.  The question was obtuse though, as I saw no commodity of any sort on the bare, wooden counter.

Pete shook his head.  “None of those, I’m afraid.  Although I happened to like Peter Cetera before he went solo,” he said.

I put brushed my fingers through my hair, pulling them ever so slightly.  That was my way of coping with stress in law school, and it came in handy for this frustrating situation.

I repeated my initial query.  “What do you sell then?”

He just smiled.  “Where’s Annie?” he said, as he changed the subject.

My eyes involuntarily squinted and my body jerked back.  How does he know Annie?, I thought.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.  “No, I’m not a stalker.”  Again, he chuckled.

He continued: “I used to see you with her everyday, as you pass by Sapphire.  You always rushed through the sidewalks without noticing my store.”

I thought, guilty as charged.  I never noticed the store until now.

“Running a love store is not easy,” Pete said.  “I spend most of my time watching people.  People like you and Annie.”  He paused.  I knew what was coming next.  “I haven’t seen you with her the past two, three months though.”

“I know,” I said.

I took a hundred peso bill out of the old leather wallet Annie gave me, which is now barely held together by three stitches.  I handed it to Pete.

“I’d like to buy love,” I said.  Pete took the bill and pocketed it - he didn’t even have a cash register.

“Keep the change,” I said.

I walked out of the store, without anything on hand.  But I knew I’d be back there someday.

I knew that one day soon - or maybe a bit longer than that - I’d be clutching Mills and Boone pocketbooks again, or listening to sappy Peter Cetera songs.

Or smiling-crying at the rooftop scene in Sleepless in Seattle, wishing I was Tom Hanks.

That one day, I’ll go back to ignoring Pete’s little store.

I knew, at that point, that I wasn't buying love.

I was buying hope.

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