Woolworth’s

Night. We were standing in front of a Woolworth’s. We hadn’t been inside one for years. A month’s page from a calendar hung from a string in front of the store. It looked just like a month from my homemade calendars. A tiny piece of newsprint was stapled to one corner of the calendar. I moved closer and saw that it was a short obituary notice. And I remembered that this was the Woolworth’s where an employee had been shot to death.

To the side of the calendar was a kiosk with copies of The New York Times Magazine, a special issue devoted to the employee who had been killed. These were free for the taking. There was also a tiny book of poetry by the employee, resembling the tiny books that used to be for sale at supermarket checkouts — 100 Uses for Vinegar, stuff like that. On the back of the poetry book was the price: 25¢. But these little books, too, were free for the taking. I took one magazine and one book.

When we entered Woolworth’s we saw an aisle that had been blocked off with pieces of china on the floor. Someone was cleaning or reorganizing the aisle’s shelving. I realized that though the magazine and book were free, we had to pay for the items in our shopping cart, which included a set of Venetian blinds.

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