Imaginating

In the lovely neighborhood a few blocks away from my own less-lovely neighborhood, there is a lovely dress shop that sells custom gowns. It is flanked by a bakery and a chocolatier, and on the same block you'll find a small produce market, a flower stand, a coffee shop and a chic little tavern.

I love to walk down this street. I love it in the mornings, when the line for fresh-drip coffee winds around the block and the surplus of customers sit on plastic crates along the sidewalk. I love it in the afternoons when the scent of cookies wafts out the bakery door and little kids are queuing for gelato in the chocolate shop. I love it in the evenings when the open windows of the tavern invite passersby to engage in the dinnertime clamor. And every time I walk down this street, I love to look in the windows of the dress shop and see what the mannequins are wearing. Sometimes I'll stop and stare at the shop window for several minutes, admiring the cut or color of a certain dress. I never go inside, but I always appreciate the window display.

Today when I walked by the shop, the windows were covered in brown paper. A big orange sign was plastered in the center window. The sign said simply:

WE QUIT.

We quit. What a sad (albeit witty) way to call an end to a business. And it struck me what those two words were saying: We have tried to keep this dream of ours alive, but in the current economy, etc., etc. It's not a new story. Several other storefronts in the neighborhood have posted lengthier versions on their own blacked-out windows. It's not a good time for the small business owner.

"I haven't seen a FOR SALE sign in their window," commented Monte when I told him that the store was closing.

"That's because there wasn't one. Literally, it was there yesterday and gone when I walked by today. The sign said 75% OFF, but the windows were covered and the door was locked. It didn't look like they had any stock left to sell."

Monte shook his head. "I wonder what will take its place."

"We should open a store," I said jokingly. "It's great real estate, lots of foot traffic."

"Pff. Are you kidding? I would never open a retail shop. It's a dead industry."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean the future is in e-tail. You can get anything you want online. Think about all the costs associated with a brick and mortar business: rent, taxes, product surplus. It's not worth the investment anymore."

I frowned. "But what will happen to neighborhoods?" I asked.

Monte shrugged. "Restaurants, I guess."

"Restaurants alone do not make a neighborhood." I stared into space for a few moments, thinking.

"Hey," I said to Monte. "If you could open a store and you didn't have to worry about overhead costs or turning a profit, what would you sell?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, if you could run a store that was MONTE'S STORE and sell only things that mattered to you, what would you sell? And they don't have to be things that make sense together. Just things that you love. What would they be?"

"I think you've asked me this before," he said.

"I may have."

He pondered the question for a minute. "I would sell pictures," he stated.

"Pictures? Like photography equipment?"

"No, not equipment. Just pictures."

I grinned. That was exactly what I was talking about: not the things that sell, but the things you love.

"And golf clubs," he added.

I laughed. "Of course."

"What would you sell?" he turned the question back to me.

"What would I sell?" I mused.

Yarn. I would sell yarn. Big colorful balls of it, fluffy skeins piled high in baskets, hand-dyed loops hanging from the wall.

And books. Secondhand books, the kind that have been loved many times over before you find them, and smell of age, with well-worn, oft-thumbed pages. My store would be filled with couches and over-stuffed chairs, and customers could sit and read, or knit, for hours.

And there would be a juice bar, with a counter like you'd find in an olde soda shop, where you could buy green smoothies or fruity concoctions. Or coffee. Because even though I don't drink the stuff I do love the way it smells.

"Hula hoops?" asked Monte, breaking into my reverie.

Yes, hula hoops. And there would be a dance space attached to the shop, with beautiful hardwood floors and a high ceiling. One wall would be mirrored and another wall would be exposed brick, studded with pillar candles on small mantelshelves. I'd have yoga and dance classes all day long.

And I would sell fresh fruit and vegetables, and other farmers market wares. Local honey, freshly baked bread, beautiful flowers. There would be a space, too, for musicians to play as people shopped or browsed.

And just like Monte's store, I would have pictures on the wall. Pictures for show, pictures for sale: beautiful color shots of scenery, stark black and white portraits. And paintings, too. I would showcase my friends' art. I have some very talented friends.

I gave a happy little sigh thinking about ERRIN'S STORE and all the things that I love. What ambiance. Maybe one day, if I ever strike it rich and don't have to worry about turning a profit, I will open a store that exists only for the purpose of serving these pleasures. A place for people who enjoy these same things that I love.

I wouldn't sell dresses. But I would put a mannequin in the window, and I would change her outfit every week. A little eye candy for the people who never come inside but always appreciate the window display.

What would you sell in your store?