‘Accents for sale’ the sign reads. Perfect, I think, I’m in the market for some accents. So I walk in.
The shop is really big: slender tables and overstuffed chairs, Venetian glass bowls and miniature Ming vases, gilt-framed paintings and old-fashioned posters, chandeliers and ticking clocks, pewter photo holders and a pair of Chinese dancing figurines, blue Tiffany desk lamps and wooden trays, chicken salt and pepper shakers, ornate mirrors and a prideful lion statue, a rocking horse and globe on a red stand, metal watering cans and a chess game with pieces arranged mid-contest, a round Coca-Cola sign and a golden bird cage, a stone sitting Buddha and clown mask, a copy of The Hobbit and mounted antlers. And that was just my first glance.
I spy the antique cash register and sales person perched behind, round glasses on forehead rubbing his nose. My journey takes more than ten minutes as I squeeze between the stuff and the things, taking care to keep my elbows in. En route, I move the White Queen to 2f and push the Black Knight to the side of the board, give the globe a subtle spin, tap the rocking horse into motion and rub the Buddha belly for good luck. As I approach, the clerk is still absorbed with his nasal massage, eyes closed. I clear my throat.
“I’ll take a Spanish accent, please,” I say, debating whether I can afford a Swedish one as well.