The other day a man and his wife, who were likely in their late 60s or early 70s, strolled into Twin Rocks Trading Post. The man had a pasty complexion; a wrinkled, bumpy and sparsely tufted top knot; and a raspberry mole in the cleft of his left nostril. Splitting up as soon as they entered through the Kokopelli doors, he veered right and she steered left. Before long, I heard the man making low, distressful . . . grunting noises. I could not immediately determine the source of his problem, but there appeared to be significant emotional suffering going on behind his dark brown eyes. His wife, who looked attentive enough, was either unaware of her husband's plight or was choosing to ignore him altogether. There were two other couples in the store looking over the silver jewelry and Navajo rugs, so I became concerned about the disturbance this man was creating.
Twin Rocks Trading Post
As he walked in front of the full length mirror located at the east end of the store, the man let out another low, mournful sound and I began to think he might be practicing Halloween scare tactics. At that point one of the other couples abruptly left the store, probably because the situation was becoming somewhat uncomfortable. "If he continues to run off customers, I will have to ask his haunted soul to depart," I thought to myself. The other couple, either oblivious to or unaffected by the situation, continued browsing. Watching the old guy closely now, I noticed he was approaching a small counter top mirror. At that point I thought to myself, "I wonder?" As he came upon the mirror, he paused, looked into its reflective surface and perceptively flinched. His hands went to his head and he briskly rubbed it all over, as if trying to rearrange things. Another plaintive sigh emerged. By this time the guy and his hairdo were both wildly askew.
Smiling uncomfortably to myself, I looked around the store to see if anyone else had realized what was going on. Sure enough, the other man was looking at me with questioning eyes. The last outburst had finally captured the attention of the man's wife. Standing there with his bowling ball belly peaking out from his striped red and white rugby shirt, which hung over his manpris and his off-white boat shoes, the man said out loud, "Oh man, I just can't stand to look at myself in the mirror any more." "Then don't," his wife, who was dressed in a surprisingly similar fashion, said in a matter-of-fact voice. They did not seem to care that the rest of us had heard the initial comment or the off-the-cuff response.
Now I knew for sure it was the mirrors scattered about the store that caused the man such grief; or more accurately, what he was seeing therein. Looking for a bit of solace, the man pushed his narrow hips and drooping shoulders through the swinging doors leading into the rug room. As he headed into the museum, because of several mirrored surfaces in there, I knew we were in for yet another outburst. Sure enough, I heard a gasp of grief echoing from the room of simulant surfaces. The man's wife followed him into the back room, gathered up her frail companion and led him outside. "Poor fellow," I thought.
Twin Rock Trading Post Rug Room
As I stood there reflecting on the occurrence, I realized the other man had come up next to me. "I have three suggestions to help that man on his way to feeling better about himself," said the New Yorker. "What might they be," I queried, looking after the departing couple. "Number one: Never wear a costume that makes you and your wife look like the Bobbsey Twins; that's unmanly! Number two: Diet and exercise. That's a beer belly if I ever saw one," he said. "And number three," I questioned. "Get a can of Freon." "Freon!" I exclaimed. "Freon!" he confirmed. "Okay, I'll bite, what does one do with a can of Freon," I asked. "Freeze and flick." he replied. "One can of Freon can help get rid of all manner of warts, skin tags and the like. I keep one at home at all times." "Humph," I said, pulling at a bothersome blotch that had come to roost on my neck. Freon, you say?" "Indeed." came his reply. "You a psychologist or a M.D.," I asked. "No," he replied "a mechanic."
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
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