Eyes in a drawer

Wilbur stood behind the glass sales counter in Paulson’s antique. He’d planted his hands on either side of the ancient cash register and stared out at the glass storefront. He’d run the store for many years. Since his late wife’s father passed it to him. "Look the customer in the eyes when making a sale," he’d say. “The eyes are windows to the soul.” Wilbur always thought it to be a strange saying. He never cared about a customer’s soul. He was after cold hard currency. Shelly and he, God rest her soul, saved a small fortune over the years. Sure, they’d bent a rule or two. Maybe they’d bullshitted a few customers along the way. If the adage is true, and they often are. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. There’s nothing in that tidbit saying you need to burst the customer’s bubble. In fact, if he wants to believe that the chest of drawers you just sold him came from the colonial era, what’s the harm? More importantly, never burst your own bubble. A sale, is a sale. In the grand scheme of things, a thousand dollars beats twenty any day.
Prior to Shelly’s old man putting the store keys in his hand, he gave Wilbur this advice. Rules, if you will. Three rules, to be exact. Never close the store early. Check the lights twice at closing. In Wilbur's view, the last rule was crucial. Wait for a buyer before making a buy. He’d taken that rule to a whole new level. Years back, a man came to him wanting an antique curio cabinet. Said it would be a gift for his wife. Wilbur told the guy he’d send one of his men to round one up. He found one for next to nothing at a thrift store on the outskirts of town. With a few tweaks, he made the sale a couple of days later. Made a hell of a profit too, six hundred to be exact.
The first rule he bent, if not broke, often. Shelly and he were making money hand over fist when they started doing things their way. They’d gotten so good at selling cheap crap as fine vintage furniture, he didn’t see the point in working late. An early Friday opened an opportunity for some well-deserved fishing. Even better, early Thursdays made four-day weekends. He and the little lady could ride to the bluff. Enjoy a quiet weekend in the trailer home they bought for vacations.
Earlier today, Thelma Parker walked in, dragging the most hideous nightstand Wilbur had ever seen. Dingy grey with a pale oak top. There were rings on it from drinks long gone. It boasted a single drawer, minus a handle or drawer pull.
He felt pity for the newly widowed banker. Her husband Ralph had been a fine man. He and Wilbur played poker at Jack Stone’s house every Wednesday night until his doctor found a mass in his lower intestines. Eight months later, Wilbur sat alone at his graveside service. “You know, Thel. Those things usually come in pairs”.
“I know that”, she said and waved a dismissive hand at him. She heaved the monstrosity through the heavy glass door and plopped down on it. From the second he saw the nightstand it struck him. It was grotesque and somehow beautiful. He sold a lifetime's worth of furniture in just thirty years. And not just cheap trash either. Despite his shortcomings, Wilbur knew the good stuff when he saw it. This thing hardly fits the bill of quality bedroom furniture. But he was drawn to it, captivated by it even.
“The city dump is about five miles closer to you than I am. You could’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble,” he said. She regarded him with a worried expression.
“Please take it, Wilbur. I know it’s not the prettiest, but I can’t see myself trashing it. It has life in it, real life.”
“It may have life in it, love, but I’m in the business of profit.” He didn’t want to show it. No businessman worth his weight showed their cards, but he’d already devised a strategy to get it.
He missed the chance to sell to her before she left. She rose and walked towards the door. No warning at all.
“Take it or trash it, Wilbur. But I can’t — I just — can’t.”. Thelma Parker rushed out of the building.
He’d spent the better part of the day staring out of the building, trying to avoid the near-terrifying monstrosity in the corner. Struggling against the gargoyle tucked away at the edge of the store. Gargoyle being a strange word for it. He’d lost track of which one was watching over the other. It pulled him with sickening malign gravity. If he could, he’d pull the wretched thing out back and burn it. Rid the world of it. There was just one problem.
He loved it…
And a soothing voice in his head reassured him. Don’t be foolish, open the drawer, put things right. You’ll see Wilbur, ole boy. You’ll see. He let go of the pretense that he was acting crazy. Simple curiosity, he thought, no harm in that. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His lungs filled with air that reeked of cheap furniture oil. Wilbur left the sales counter and walked across the floor.
The lack of a drawer pull was an obstacle far from insurmountable. He reached underneath, applied a little pressure, and pulled. The slide squeaked in its wooden grove as it opened. It gave more resistance than he expected. When the drawer front cleared its top, he used his hands to clamp and pull the rest of the way. What he saw froze him. It froze him the way a person freezes when they see a child walk onto a busy highway. Like a car crash, too fascinating to ignore. He stared down in utter disbelief. A pair of human eyes lay in the drawer. They stared up at Wilbur unblinking and not moving. A thought came to him. One that was as foreign as it was unwelcome. Windows to the soul. Now where did that come from, he thought. My soul? The drawer’s soul? For god’s sake, who’s… The world went black.


Ralph Parker blew a plume of cigar smoke and dropped a hand full of poker chips on the table. “Say, Wilbur, I saw Shelly at the gas station today. She was upset. Said the doctor found some kind of growth in your guts. You ok pal?” Wilbur drew a card from the pile, “Those doctors worry over everything. We’ll know more in a week or two. I’m sure it’s nothing.”