Row after row, creating a labyrinth full of things as deadly as the minotaur, things like monotony. Carpets. Carpets and John. John had been selling carpets at Boise Carpet Emporium in Caldwell, Idaho for twelve years. He knew everything there was to know about carpets: how they were made, usually by machines. How to use them, to lay them down on floors. How to clean them, with a vacuum. He knew everything about carpets and how to navigate the labyrinth with eyes closed.
Outside, a common place for John to sneak a peek at, was a gray parking lot. It was raining lightly, enough to make a whooshing sound that grew quickly, peaked and then slowly faded out each time a car drove by the front of the store. There were only windows in the front of the store. The labyrinth was tightest in the front of the store. It was closer to the light, and the closing in of the walls, and the threat of minotaurs and being forever confined to a life selling carpets wasn’t so consuming closer to the light. So pile after pile and roll after roll were organized close to the windows, minimizing legitimate excuses to venture to the fluorescent back of the store.
John shuffled back and forth in front of the door, listening to the occasional whoosh of cars on the wet road outside as they approached, passed and sped off. They always seemed to speed off. He kicked at nothing on the ground like a boy would idly kick a rock across the ground. Nobody had come into the store yet. It was only 9:30, open for less than two hours. People didn’t come into the store much. Nowadays, John received orders on the computer system, the computer was a creamy tan, not far off from the color of the hearing aids worn by a notable percentage of the people that did actually come into the store. The computer told him which carpet to get, and he would wander around until he found it. He would then roll it up and slide it into a large cardboard tube, print a label, stick it on, and leave it in the back of the store. The large cardboard tubes were always gone in the morning. “How fortunate for them,” John would unconsciously mumble about once a week as he unlocked the store in the morning and noticed the pile he had made the day before was missing.
Presently, the sound of a car approaching grew louder, but instead of reaching a maximum volume before quieting down to nothing again, the sound became a car and pulled into a parking spot directly in front of the glass double doors. John looked at the car blankly and waited for someone to get out. After a minute, someone did, a man with brown hair, just a touch of gray, cropped just about his shoulders and wearing a red flannel shirt got out and strode into the store with an air of something John didn’t fully recognize. It was confidence.
“Good morning,” was all John had prepared himself to say, so he said it, and the man returned his greeting with a smile and a nod. John stood back for a few minutes, watching the man walk from stack of carpets to stack of carpets, until he could no longer deny that the man seemed to be looking for something in particular and was forced, against his will, to wander over and offer some assistance.
“Good morning,” John said as he approached, realizing he had already said that. He hunched his shoulders. “Can I help you find anything?”
The man turned to him and smiled. He was standing straight up and appeared to John to be very tall, though in reality they were nearly identical in height. Something about him intimidated John, and the mere fact that John felt intimidated by him was in itself intimidating because the man’s countenance radiated nothing but warmth. And confidence.
“Yes, actually, thank you for asking,” the man said, and his voice was kind. “I operate some vacation cabins up in the mountains, it’s a little passion project,” the man smiled again, as if thinking about how pleasant it was to be in the mountains, which is what he was thinking about. He quickly came back to the present, but his smile never left.
“I recently built a couple new ones and am searching for some carpets that go with the rustic, outdoors theme I am furnishing the cabins with. Do you have anything that might fit that description?” the man asked.
John was picturing cabins in the mountains. Though the mountains could be seen from any and every spot in the greater Boise area, it had been a very long time since John had gone anywhere other than Boise Carpet Emporium, and was struggling to imagine something as pleasant as a weekend away in a rustic mountain retreat. He wanted to see it but quickly wrote it off as overly fanciful.
“We have some carpets in earth tones in that pile,” John pointed at a stack against a wall, “and I have seen some with patterns of trees and animals in that stack there,” he pointed to a stack, “and that one there,” he pointed to another stack. He finished speaking and stood awkwardly for a moment before mumbling something about not being afraid to ask if there were further questions, then quickly turned tail and walked quickly back to his desk near the front doors. He sat and watched the man walk amongst the stacks of carpets, wishing he would pick one already, buy it and leave. The man made him uneasy. John didn’t like the way he felt guilty for unclear reasons. It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar sensation to John, but it was altogether unpleasant.
The man browsed the stacks John had pointed out rather quickly and then left without saying anything, got in his car and was backing up as soon as the door was closed. John was suddenly sad to see him go and wished he had had the idea to open rustic cabins in the mountains, but that sounded hard so he stayed seated at the desk in the Boise Carpet Emporium.
Many more cars passed, a quiet hissing sound slowly crescendoing until a single moment of comparative excitement when a vehicle actually passes within view, and then passes from view and quickly dies into silence. When another of these cars, highlights of John’s day, approached and did not pass but rather pulled into the same spot the owner of the cabins had vacated earlier in the day, John’s mild and resigned expression changed not a bit.
A few moments later, a tall woman walked in. She had blonde waves lapping halfway down her back and wore a bright red overcoat that terminated at her knees and long, tight boots met the coat there. She took off a pair of sunglasses as she entered, despite the rain, and looked around as one may look at a group of young children who appeared both adorable and slightly pitiable in their innocence.
“Good morn.., afternoon,” John said as the woman entered the store, stumbling over his words while speaking to only the second person of the day. The woman turned toward him and smiled and returned his greeting with a warm “good afternoon” that made the rainy day not seem quite as gray. She continued to look at John and it wasn’t until the moment became uncomfortable that John remembered it was obligatory for him to ask her if she needed help finding anything.
“Is there anything I can help you find today?” John asked, unawares communicating his lack of inspiration.
“There is actually!” the woman replied with more than a little manufactured cordiality and a wide smile to go with it, and yet she seemed as happy and genuine as could be. This made John feel guilty again. “I’m looking for some area rugs with bright colors and fun patterns. I’m a realtor up in the North End and I have a few open houses soon that I’d like to spice up. It might be over the top, but that’s how I like to do it I suppose,” the woman explained with a shake of her long blonde waves. John nodded his head and again pointed to a few stacks he had seen carpets matching the general description of what the woman was looking for. She went and quickly inspected the stacks before leaving just as quickly and quietly as the man who owned the cabins in the mountains, her chipper demeanor disappearing as soon as John had not exited from behind his desk.
After twelve years, John felt a familiar indifference as the lady walked out. A few more cars came and went by the front of the store without stopping. By the time four more had passed, it was five o’clock and time for John to lock up and go home. He wondered what the homes that the relator was selling looked like, and how he could someday go home to a nice place on the North End instead of his old one bedroom apartment just around the corner from Boise Carpet Emporium in the industrial part of town.
“Oh well, that’s probably not for me,” John said as he began his short walk home in the rain.
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Please tell me this easy-to-visualize story will not end here!