White Linen and a Wheeled Suitcase

"You've been here, right? You're an original?" "Excuse me?" A tiny woman stands in front of me, wearing an outfit of white linen. The kind that's sort of see through, and when there's no discernible panty line, I become uncomfortable. She has salt and pepper hair in a fashionable, severe style. She is pretty, well made-up, pointy in features, caucasian and with a hint of the artsyness that says "I'm not a native New Yorker, but I pretend to be." "The store, I mean. This store used to be up the block, right? You're not new to the neighborhood." "Right." "Oh good. I just came from that little... mini-mall. And, well," her voice dropped. "It's kind of tacky. You know? All those shops are so, just..." her pointy face scrunched up like she was being asked to taste dog shit. I like the tiny stores and stands that occupy the ground floor of the building next door. They house an array of local artisans and junky antique places. It's not exactly classy, but I think it's better than, oh, say, a Gap or another overpriced boutique with a name like Bella Sparrow or Pearl Tweets. "It's like a, like a... souk," she said and by the way she said it, I assumed that was another word for cesspool. "A what?" "Souk."

"Soot?"

"Souk."

"Sook?"

"Yes." "I don't know what that is." I don't. "A souk?" She seems surprised that I, who had been admitted into her little world, do not know what a "souk" is. Doesn't everyone know what a souk is? "It's um, like a market. In Turkish... Arabic. In all different kinds of Arabic... I think, they have souk in the, um, different Arabic languages. It's, you know, one of those... markets." I get an image in my head of a combination of something mysterious like I imagine the Casbah to be and one of those really awful flea markets in the deep south where they sell Confederate flag beach towels and mud flap girl jewelry. This is not what the stores next door are like and I assume that mud flap girls do not exist in the Muslim world, so I decide this woman doesn't know what she was talking about. "Yeah the whole neighborhood is so... different now. Gentrified. Not like when I worked around here, three years ago. I like Barts. When Barts was here. You remember Barts?" "No. I've only been working here six months. But yes, the neighborhood has changed." "Oh yeah. I used to work here. It's veeeerrrry different now," she sniffed. She wandered around with her wheeled suitcase, her earrings clinking. "It's good the old timers are still here though,"she says. "Lovely store." "Thanks," I say and smile. "Everything changes, I guess," she sighs. "Yes, it does." I reply. She sighs again. "Barts was a better use of the space." "Ok." I say.

She pokes around some more, picking up a $200 serving platter, examining a $210 corkscrew. She is muttering her appreciation under her breath as she moves from object to object. Abruptly, she walks to the door and pushes it open. "Keep up the good fight!" she says as she leaves and pumps her fist in the air. I have no idea what that means.