"Can you make us a deal on a stack of trousers?" Russell asks politely.
"Oh, probably," the owner replies. She begins toting up numbers with a stub of pencil. The phone rings. A long conversation about goat breeding ensues.
"Come on, girlfriend," Ronnie says, under his breath.
Twenty minutes creep by. Finally, the owner produces a total. "I knocked some offa each one," she says proudly.
"How much?" Russell asks.
"Some," the owner says stubbornly.
"Can you do us any better?" asks Ronnie.
The owner knocks off another five bucks.
"Well, isn't that stupid," Russell fumes, as he dumps the stack of ManFit pants into the back of the van. "I mean, those damn pants have been paid for a hundred times. Who else is going to buy them?"
They are just pulling out when Russell remembers he should have laid in a supply of black Colonel Sanders ties for an obscure local band. "We're very easy on boys in bands," he says with pride. "We need to help them understand about dressing up. You gotta make a scene. A big old greasy scene."
"The more the years go by, the less men know how to dress up," Ronnie says. "We do what we can. It's a tough cycle to break."
"Tough," Russell agrees. "Very tough."
Talk about tough.
"Now, remember, old Vic is cranky," Russell tells Ronnie. "When people have been in business fifty years, they're going to be weird. Their stuff is their security blanket. Last time I came in here, he accused me of breaking light bulbs and stealing hatbands."
"Yeah," Ronnie says, "but when he dies, who will we have to tell stories about?"
Vic's store has no sign, unless you count a poster for Father's Day, 1941. Inside, though, piled on the splintered wooden floorboards and turn-of-the-century fixtures, are layer upon layer of goods for sale, all faded by sun and coated with dust--and with original price tags intact. Thus, a Power Girdle from the Fifties sells for $1.97, Esther Williams-style bathing suits are $2.97 and children's saddle shoes, never worn, are $2.98.
"But bend them," Ronnie advises. "If you hear crackling, they're just all dried out."
Old Vic, age 78, stands behind a once-busy cash register that still dispenses receipts bearing a WWII-vintage date. He's engrossed in a Donahue episode debating the pros and cons of breast implants. "Cut on the lights where you need to see," he says tersely.
Ronnie and Russell turn themselves loose. Every time they come here, they worry that they've bought the last of the cool old stuff. And every time, they are wrong. On this trip, Russell finds:
Two early-Seventies T-shirts with the legends Vans Forever and Vans Are Neat.
Stretchy sports shirts with long, droopy collars.
Wide-wale cords, circa 1969.
Appalling striped bell-bottoms, same era.
Black steel-toe workboots, still in boxes, alarmingly hip.
A box containing twenty boys' beanies from the Fifties. "Rockin' caps," he pronounces.
And Ronnie finds:
Women's thigh-high fishnet stockings.
Faux pony-fur dickeys.
Old Trusty Long-Wearing Western Dungarees for kids that come complete with coloring books featuring rodeo stars of the early Sixties.
Dueling-missiles-style women's halter tops, Fifties.
Fancy socks, from large to very small. "Ooh, it makes me want to have babies again, honey," he comments.
Up on the second floor, in what remains of a hardware section, Ronnie and Russell each grab a Fisher-Price construction crew set, complete with tiny backhoe and steam shovel. "Christ, they're eighteen years old," Russell says. "That's old enough."
"Plus, I'll like playing with this, I got a feeling," says Ronnie.
"Now, watch old Vic," Russell cautions, as they head over to the cash register to settle up. "He's liable to lay a stack of pants on top of the ones we already picked, and they'll end up with 28-inch inseams, which suck. He's tried it before."
But right now, Vic is busy turning away business. A woman is at the counter; she says she's looking for children's rubber boots.
"No," Vic says, barring her way. "I haven't got anything like that."
In fact, he has several shelves exactly like that, but he's not in much of a selling mood. He can, however, be persuaded to take more than a thousand dollars, cash, from Russell and Ronnie.
"What a strange old guy," they tell each other as they load the van. Then Ronnie goes back into the store to take Vic's picture, because, he says, "if he died and I never saw him again, I'd feel awful."
Russell follows, settling himself on the stairs and engaging Vic in a rambling discussion of real estate values and arson. "Is that right," Russell prompts, every time Vic slows down. "Is that a fact."
Forty-five minutes pass before old Vic runs out of rumination.
"So," Russell concludes, "you took our money again."
"Yes," Vic says, "and I guess I'll do it again.
