Here Comes Chapter Two!

Wednesday, June Eighth

After unintentionally taking the extra scenic route home from his meeting with Tamara yesterday, Alex thought that, perhaps, checking to see what hours Trader Zim kept might be the best next step before he tried heading back there again.

He had anticipated that finding store hours would be a matter of a five second search on Google.  The most reliable source he found, however, was a post on a site about Minnesota oddities.  There were no hours listed.  There were, however, some guidelines for arriving at a time when the shop was likely to be open for business.

It said, “Trader Zim’s is usually open, as long as Zim is awake and feels like having the store open right then.  Unless it’s Tuesday, in which case the store will definitely be closed.  You’ll be as likely to find the store open at two in the morning as you will at two in the afternoon.”

There was also a bit of advice concerning how to handle Zim.

“Zim doesn’t like it if you don’t treat everything in the store with appropriate reverence.  Be tactful.  If he gets irritated enough, he will chase you out of the store.  The good news is, he doesn’t seem to remember faces, so if this happens, you can just go back the next day and try again.”

Alex figured he could handle being tactful.  He hoped this Zim guy was going to feel like his store should be open around when he got there again.

It was ten in the morning, and Alex figured if he left his apartment at eleven, he would roll up to Trader Zim’s at about one in the afternoon. 

And if he was going to leave at eleven, he was going to have to find some pants, and eat something.

For the briefest of moments, Alex felt nostalgic for the months when a co-worker of his had been rooming with him.  His temporary roomie had been a butler earlier in his career, and had appointed himself Alex’s valet and cook.

At the time, it drove Alex crazy, but as he crouched down and rummaged through a pile of clothes looking for something presentable enough to wear, he missed waking up to find his outfit for the day laid out, and breakfast ready.

A couple of minutes later, Alex had located a pair of reasonably clean jeans, and a button up shirt that was freshly laundered, even if it was seriously rumpled.   

He had a quick breakfast (frosted flakes and two cups of coffee), and went down to the garage to start driving.

Roughly an hour and forty five minutes later, Alex saw the billboard for Trader Zim’s.  The improvised signage directing him to the store was just as strange as it had been the day before. 

When he arrived at Trader Zim’s, there was another car, a dingy red Chevy, parked in the same area where he’d parked the day before.  Alex parked next to it, wondering if the car belonged to another customer, or Zim himself.

There was another hand-written sign on the door, written with what looked like black marker on a sheet of yellow legal paper.  It said, “Open, for now.”

That seemed a little ominous, but Alex was mainly glad the place was open and that he hadn’t wasted a drive.  He pushed the door open and went inside.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he was stunned by the sheer quantity and diversity of things strewn about without any apparent order or reason.  On the floor was a mounted moose’s head.  There were what looked like antique knitted sweaters hanging from each of the antlers.  Under a glass coffee table was an assortment of nearly identical Instamatic cameras.  Piled on top of the table were books about automobile repair, for cars that went out of production in the early nineteen sixties.  A chest of drawers nearby had hand-printed labels on each drawer.  There were labels for “buttons”, “bone china” and “socket wrenches.”

Somewhere in the building, Alex heard the sound of two people haggling.  One of the voices was gruff, like its owner had never met a cigarette or glass of whiskey he wasn’t glad to see.  The other voice was indistinct, nearly a whisper.

“Hey man, I’m only interested in genuine articles,” the gruff voice said.  “Don’t waste my time if this isn’t the real deal.”  He sounded affronted.

Alex assumed that was Zim.  The other voice said something in reply, but Alex couldn’t tell what had been said.

“Whoa, whoa,” the gruff voice said. “Take it easy.  We’re both businessmen here.”

Alex scanned the shop, searching for anything that looked “tiki.”  So far, everything he saw seemed to be “North woods” or “Farm”, but there also appeared to be a lot of other rooms waiting to be explored.  Maybe Zim kept the tiki stuff next to the antique beer cans and fishing reels in another room.

“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” the gruff voice said.

A cardboard box full of die cast toys caught Alex’s attention.  He was pretty sure he’d had some of those toy cars when he was a kid.  He did his best to forget that he was stumbling across cherished childhood toys in an antique / junk shop.

“Look, you don’t need to get hot under the collar.  Let’s be reasonable,” the gruff voice said.

Alex wandered into another room.  There was a spinning wheel, a collection of hub caps, and an astonishing assortment of coffee mugs and beer can koozies.  One of the koozies said, If you can’t eat it or drink it, then fuck it!

“Classy,” Alex muttered to himself.  There was a crash from the other room.

“Jesus!” the gruff voice said.

Alex heard quick, heavy footsteps approaching.  There was another crash, closer.

A man in a grey work shirt and blue jeans, with tattoos on both arms, hurried out of one of the rooms.  He noticed Alex as he was rushing past.

“Watch out, he’s in a mood today,” he said, then hurried the rest of the way out of the shop.  Alex heard the screen door slam, and a car starting outside a few moments later.

Another man appeared in the doorway to the room.  He was wearing a bowler hat, aviator goggles, a green t-shirt and a brown leather vest.  He was also holding a (vintage) baseball bat, slung over one shoulder.

“Sorry about that.  Some people have no manners at all,” he said, quietly. 

He set the baseball bat down reverently, in what seemed to Alex to be an entirely random spot.

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for today?” he said.

“Uh,” Alex said.

“Of course, you’re welcome to just browse around too.  I’ve got something here for everybody, I think.  And if I don’t have it today, I’ll probably have it before long,” he said, and chuckled.

“Cool, cool,” Alex said.  “So, uh, are you Zim?”

“That’s Trader Zim.  Shepherd and collector of oddities, curiosities, antiques, random pieces and otherwise useful bits or interesting flotsam,” Zim said.

“Sorry, Trader Zim,” Alex said.  “I’ve been collecting tiki memorabilia.  Have you got anything I might be interested in?”

“Oh, wow.  You know, I just sold a whole bunch of tiki stuff to some restaurant guy.  He said he’s been bringing tiki back.  I asked him where it had gone in the first place.  He didn’t have a good answer for that, I can tell you,” Zim said.  He leaned against the doorframe, and seemed content to just hang out and chat.

“Wow,” Alex said, agreeably.  “So, uh, do you have any stuff left over from that?”

“Hmm,” Zim said.  “You know, I think I’ve got some upstairs.  Follow me, I’ll show you where.”

Trader Zim turned and went back through the doorway he’d been leaning in.  Alex followed him.

The two of them went down a hallway that was crammed as full of random things as the previous rooms had been.  There was just enough room for them to walk down the hall.  Alex felt as if he needed to be careful not to knock anything over.

At the end of the hall, Trader Zim turned and walked through another doorway.  When Alex got there, he saw Trader Zim marching up a flight of dusty stairs.  The stairway was dimly lit by a pair of electric sconces with red, Victorian styled lamp shades.  There were books lined up about halfway across each step, which made it necessary to hug the wall in order to go up the stairs.  Alex wondered what would happen if a fire marshall visited Trader Zim’s shop, but decided asking about a potential safety violation in a house that was practically a monument to improper storage might upset his host.

At the top of the stairs, Trader Zim led Alex through another maze of rooms and displays of random things, before finally stopping at the base of a ladder that looked as though it led to an attic.

“Well, I’ve got these,” Trader Zim said, gesturing to an assortment of model Viking ships and wooden beer mugs.

Alex had been mildly hopeful up until that point.

“Hmm,” Alex said.  “They’re not really very Polynesian.”

Trader Zim raised an eyebrow.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he said.

Alex scrambled to come up with a diplomatic answer, remembering the advice he’d seen about being respectful of the merchandise.

“Well, I mean, these are very nice.  I just don’t think they’ll suit my collection, you see,” Alex said.

Trader Zim picked up one of the dragon boat models and examined it. 

“The Polynesians were sailors, weren’t they?  I thought I’d heard that their navigators were legendary,” he said.

Alex had no idea if they were good navigators or not.  He assumed that to get to their islands, they’d probably needed boats at some point.  That was about the extent of his actual knowledge about Polynesian culture.

“Oh, yeah, great sailors.  For sure,” Alex said.  “And these are great, it’s just that I’m more of a collector of little statues and totems and things.  I’m not so much into model boats.”

“Hmm,” Trader Zim said.  “Seems like someone who is into Polynesian culture would be into boats to me.  This would probably fill that hole in your collection.”

He held the dragon boat out to Alex.  The sail had the silhouette of a horned helmet painted on it.

“Sorry, I’m really not interested,” Alex said.  “Maybe I should come back another day and see what you have gotten then.”

Trader Zim’s lip curled with contempt for a second, but he quickly regained his composure.

“OK, if you say so.  Sorry I couldn’t be more help today,” he said. 

He led Alex back out of the room they were in.  As they continued back to the main room, Alex spotted a little grey statue out of the corner of his eye.  He stopped and turned to look at it.

It was made of grey volcanic stone, about the size of a teddy bear.  It kind of looked like an Easter Island head that was wearing a hat similar to a fez (only without the tassle).

“Hang on, I want to take a look at this,” Alex said, and moved closer to the statue. 

He was pretty confident this was what he was looking for. 

Trader Zim came back and looked at the statue along with Alex.

“That old thing?  Why’s that caught your attention?  Doesn’t look Polynesian to me at all,” Trader Zim said.

Alex wasn’t sure if Trader Zim was pulling his leg or not.  After a brief pause, Alex said, “It’s pretty cool, though.”

“Cooler than the boats I just showed you?  Are you high?” Trader Zim said.  He seemed annoyed.

“Not cooler, just different,” Alex said.  Right now didn’t seem like the best time to be irritating Trader Zim.

“Hmm,” Trader Zim said.

“How much would you want for this?” Alex said.

Trader Zim looked at him, and then back at the statue.

“It’s not for sale,” he said.

Alex couldn’t believe it.

“Not for sale?” Alex said.  “Why not?”

Trader Zim looked at Alex and said, “Because it’s not.  And we’re closed now.  You’re going to need to leave.”

“What?” Alex said.

“We’re closed now.  Get the fuck out!” Trader Zim said.

“But…” Alex started to say.

“Out, out, out!  Get out of my shop!  We’re closed!” Trader Zim said.

He seemed to be getting agitated, and Alex decided it might be wisest to just leave before Trader Zim decided to chase him out with a baseball bat or some other heavy blunt object. 

Alex hustled back to his Mustang.  He saw Trader Zim put a sign up on the front door that said “CLOSED!”

Well, shit, Alex thought.