Semantics
“Define ‘cursed,’” said the thin, amber-eyed merchant with a smile.
The patron, an adolescent boy with half of his face hidden by the brim of his Chicago Cubs cap, was focused on the smartphone in his hands. He seemed out of place in the small shop; he was something new and light in a place that was heavy with antiquity. The merchant wasn’t discomfited at this apathy, though. His smile persisted as he traced the scrimshaw of a small curio that sat close to hand.
“’Cursed’ seems pretty self-explanatory, mister,” the boy replied. His fingers continued to dance over the touchscreen and its gamut of apps.
The merchant’s smile grew wider. “I knew you were a discerning customer the minute you wandered into my booth. And I’m glad for the fact! A merchant’s reputation is equivalent to that of his patrons, you see. How can a man who sells shoddy or ‘cursed’ wares to slack-jawed simpletons rise in this world? I’ll tell you, he can’t, and he won’t!”
“OK, so say I bought this,” the boy said, unconvinced, as he picked up a gnarled monkey’s paw that was adorned with gaudy brass rings and covered in a fine white powder. “You’re telling me that if I bought this weird little monkey hand I wouldn’t wake up with a tail or something? Or an addiction to bananas?” The boy snickered at his own cleverness. “What is this thing even for, anyway?”
The merchant’s jaundiced eyes wizened. “Is your mother at the bar right now, Jimmy?”
The question struck the boy like a blow, causing him to stagger back a step or two, but he quickly put on his best, toughest face. “What the fuck do you know about that, mister? Or anything, huh? And how in the hell do you know my name?”
“Now calm down, young sir.” The man held up both of his long-fingered palms facing outward in appeasement. “You told me your name when I introduced myself to you, right after you entered my humble shop, and I told you my name as well. You haven’t forgotten my name, surely. Have you?”
Jimmy dredged his mind, but whenever he tried to recall the merchant’s name, or even how he found his way in this place, he couldn’t. It wasn’t that the memories weren’t there, they were just slippery; whenever he felt he had the moment he sought in his grasp, it fell back into a fog of forgetfulness.
“No…I haven’t, it’s just…”
“Well, that’s not important right now, young sir. And I’ll even forgive your brief lapse into rudeness and vulgarity. We all have our moments—believe me, I know. But, as I was saying, your dear mother is at the bar drinking and flirting with strange men, as is her wont, and you were on your way to the store to get some milk for your little sister. I’m right, aren’t I? Because, despite your apathetic façade, you really are a good, caring boy, aren’t you, Jimmy?”
The boy was silent as the tears coalesced in the corners of his reddening eyes.
“Yes, I know you are, Jimmy, even if neither your teachers or family see it. But, as I was saying, let’s say you bought this furry little relic and then, as your mother was driving back from Floyd’s or Leo’s or whatever sour-smelling knothole she might be pickling her brain in this evening, she got into a terrible automobile accident. Let’s even say, Fates forbid, that she perished. Now, do you really think she will have died because of this silly little trinket? Or will she have died because she drank herself into a mindless stupor, like she does most every night, and then gotten behind the wheel? Which is easier to believe, Jimmy? Which do you want to believe?”
Jimmy’s throat was dry as a tomb and his words were escaping ghosts that crackled and dissipated upon release. “I don’t want to kill my mother.”
The merchant threw his head back in laughter. “Who’s talking about killing your mother, dear boy? We are talking about perspectives. No, not even something as high-minded as that. We are arguing semantics. Words.”
It seemed to Jimmy that they were arguing about much more than words, but his ability to articulate and reason was being drowned by the secret, dormant emotions now swiftly flowing forward in his mind like a tsunami.
“All you are doing tonight is getting milk for your dear sister and, possibly, a humble item from me. And your mother is drinking herself into oblivion at some back alley pub. Is that murder?” The merchant put both of his long, skeletal hands onto the table and leaned forward. “Is that a curse?”
The boy’s wallet was out of his pocket before the dark-eyed salesman finished his coup de grace.
The merchant tut-tutted at the sight of it. “Put that away, dear boy. You’ll need that cash for your sister’s milk. I’m sure we can work out another form of payment.”
Jimmy smiled through his tears and took the merchant’s outstretched hand.
