An imprecise recounting of events at the gallery in the style of Mark Twain

Met Claude and Dick at the shop. For some reason they had decided to be “on time," arriving before 10:30 AM, rather than observing “dinner party rules” and showing up 25 minutes late, i.e. the convention I follow for most appointments. However, I was not disposed to fault them for boorishness. I had been busy chatting with an old chum I had not seen since college. She was on the prowl for a good man, and her other candidates had died or their wives had not.

We took down the glass patio furniture counter and emptied the storage room. By “we” I of course mean “they,” since I had to take a break from what had been an exceedingly arduous drive to the gallery. My companion on the trip would not shut up, blathering incessantly about his various plans, how he was always right and other people were always wrong, and how if he were not here, everything would fall apart. I think you know the type I mean. By “companion” I am referring to my own mind.

At one point I asked the twins to pause their recreational box moving and help with a legitimate task: assembling my desk. I was able to direct their efforts from a nearby chair. Now while I do my utmost to avoid speaking ill of my fellow man, I am obliged to share that these two do not work well with others. They were unable to comprehend even the simplest and clearest requests, which necessitated the raising of my voice. The furtive glances between them did not go unnoticed. I am sharing this in case you have the misfortune of asking either of these malcontent grousers to handle a modicum of your labor.

Once I had finished loading the truck by proxy of the aforementioned grumblers, said grumblers departed.

“Time to fix the gallery!” I thought. "The well-meaning boobs who run this operation do not understand the Business as I do." I proceeded to strip the walls and move everything into storage to create a minimalist SoHo atmosphere. Now, in the vacancy, customers would be undistracted and free to focus on their purchases. As proof of the genius of the idea, several eager buyers entered and stopped in their tracks, wearing stunned expressions of the "kicked by a mule" variety, then departed suddenly. (No doubt their newly-clarified noggins had reminded them of a purchase they had neglected to make at another store. I could see a powerful validation of the concept in their rapid exeunt.)

Unfortunately, a glance over to the improperly managed storage room revealed it to be overflowing with wreckage and chaos. Experienced businessmen understand that a tranquil mind is a prerequisite for a salesman to sell, and this situation imposed itself upon my serenity unacceptably. I left a note in the log book: "Clean up Storage Rm, Heathens!"

Seeking calm, I allocated funds from the petty cash box up front and headed next door for a lunch in the relaxed, health-affirming style of the French. (Those who know me even briefly learn of my dislike for haste, for Efficiency risks Expediency.)

I returned at 2:10 to unlock the door and welcome the waiting throngs. “Throng” is apparently a Balinese word for “furniture buyer,” because the few present all headed to the Asian Import shop next door, and nary a soul entered our little establishment.

At 2:20 two women made their entrance. Both were blessed with many of the finer gifts of womanhood. I carefully noted these gifts with an artist’s eye, in keeping with the spirit of the gallery, then greeted them with a kindly leer and friendly furrowed brow. Alas, attentive customer service is no longer appreciated in this day and age, for they quickly turned and scurried out.

I realized my oversight: I had neglected to remove the hand-painted grandfather clock from the space. Surely it had spooked them. I tossed the malefactor into the storage room. And not to worry, the sound of breaking glass gave comfort that its landing had been cushioned.

No more customers arrived, so I closed the shop at 2:30.