Object Service (The Stone Shop) by Beth Clemens
And he’s awake, a jolt of electricity runs from his cranium and down his spine, forcing his tailbone into a thrust as his body instinctually reattaches to consciousness. The sleep has moved into the inner corners of his eyes; two small piles of rocks that stickily adhere themselves to the lids. Like roots of an elder tree, his neck is twisted to the side, his cheek presses against itself, he peels it back to centre, hears a distinct crack. His lungs wheeze from ‘the lifestyle’. His palms are flat on the frigid wood, his fingers trying their best to feel a sensation underneath them. He scratches the varnish with his index fingernail. It finds the end of a piece of woollen yarn. When he pulls, it keeps producing itself. His bleary eyes can’t see far enough to eye its origin.
A disturbing instinct to leave this room courses through his veins. He stands abruptly, turns on his heels and almost slams the door right off its hinges. Unbeknownst to him, the string winds along the footpath, licking at his heels, quietly pushing him forward.
His clambering legs bring him into the entrance of a lavish store. In parts of central Europe, they refer to this as a “stone shop” because, well, it is built from stones. But he’s not in central Europe. He’s not on the continent. He’s on an island, but he’s on the wrong one. He’s on the metaphorical precipice.
What a brutal drop if he fell, or danced, or was pushed from this ridge. It's all grey-black jagged rock, like onyx; it would cut his shins and elbows on his way down, oh, it would bruise his ribs and obliterate his face. If he survived the journey down, he’d collapse ungracefully into a whirlpool of white angry ocean; those waves are hungry for a body to throw around. The places where ends of land and lips of water make friends are young and unrefined, yearning for fun and debauchery. They are ready to kiss you.
In the stone shop, an employee politely asks him to take a seat, if he pleases, while he waits. The stool is too small; he looms like a giant atop a thimble. He fidgets with a ribbon and a coin in his pocket. His mind’s eye wanders home. Unlike here, the antipodean cliff face is cream, silken limestone. It curves like hips and juts out like cheekbones; it punctures like skin. Wind ruffles the dense feathers of a fat kererū (wood pigeon) perched on the land’s edge. The bird picks at a stick of harekeke (flax) that it has ripped from the earth. It puffs the slate blue and emerald plumage on its chest and turns its beak to face him, sternly.
A string of employees begin presenting items for his approval, disdain or purchase, in a rotating, desperate fashion.
One.
A fluorescent pink, glowing, blown glass rose, revealed only by unravelling the layers of eight hundred thread count sheets it is engulfed in.
Two.
A yellow passport with no country stated on its front, and an indefinite Visa for every country in the world inside.
Three.
A CD with only one track on it, an audio of Lisa Barlow of the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City monologuing about her passionate love for a tree that sits in her front yard, trees in general, and having her feet bare on the ground.
Four.
A lifetime pass to the (questionably functional) wooden ‘Cyclone’ roller coaster in Coney Island, as well as any and all mirror mazes that exist in small town fairs globally.
Five.
A giant crossword with over one thousand clues, both Down and Across, printed onto a large piece of leather onto which the player must emboss their answers.
Six.
A gold, ancient, hardcover book, plainly titled across its front cover: “GOSSIP ENCYCLOPEDIA”, which is relatively self-explanatory. Addendums, loose pieces of paper, are haphazardly glued to the back cover.
The entire service has both an air of fervour and nervousness. The salespeople do their best to convince him that their product is the one he should select. “People literally love this one, this one's my personal favourite, this one famously has a lifetime guarantee, actually, so, this one we make it in-house, yea, it’s artisanal, this one Madonna chose, this one's the final piece we have in stock, mmm, yea.” But the moment one disappears and a new one materialises, he can’t remember what came before. Each dissolves from his memory.
Seven.
A piece of red woollen yarn, long, winding, in fact leading all the way from the mysterious corridor at the back of the boutique, and creeping out the front door.
“Wait. Stop. How much does this cost?” he asks.
“And what is it that you do for work, sir?” one of the store's employees confidently asks, narrowing her eyes.
“I’m a specialist”, he answers.
“A specialist of what?” she replies.
“I’m still ironing out the kinks on that part. Can I take the string?”
The employee shrugs, “That’s what the last person chose, too. Go ahead, follow it. Investigate.”
He folds himself forward, bends over and traces his finger along these crimson fibres, crawling on hands and knees through the dimly lit hallway. In silence, the employees watch on, bearing witness to his yearning movements. His gaze darts around in sharp saccades, scanning for direction. The floor of the passage becomes less luxurious and increasingly daunting.
“How long is this piece of string?” he queries. His facial expression leaves it unclear whether he’ll erupt into laughter or begin to weep. He cranes his neck back in anticipation of an answer, but the staff have all disappeared. Vanished. The shop is empty except for pools of light shining in through a bay window.
“There’s always some secret I’m not in on….”, he mutters to himself.
Thrown back into daylight, behind the stone shop, the twine has unwound into two lengths, along two distinct paths. One is suffocating and fraught, but tempting and ultimately teeming with puzzle pieces longing to be put into their correct place. The other is covered in black sand, granite rough to the touch, but it’s flat and even, simple and fair. Overhead, birds sing and squawk, weaving between one another, brushing wings. He chooses the first path. Fuck it, first thought, best thought.
