So, A Man Walks Into A Shop

There are, I know full well, people who can walk into a store, spend several minutes poking around the various corners and crannies and then willfully and with malice aforethought actually leave without buying anything. I envy such people. I personally cannot set foot across the threshold of an establishment without inevitably committing myself to shelling out on some damn thing or other, regardless of practical need or utility.

By example, two months ago I stepped into the doorway of a used bookseller in a vain attempt to light my cigarette out of the wind, and twenty minutes later found myself in possession of a copy of “Early American Beverages,” complete with recipes—it was the recipes that hooked me, you know. I saw myself tinkering in the kitchen, brewing up caldrons of White Mead Wine and Whipt Syllabub, pressing friends and acquaintances to try my latest recreation. “Of course you simply cannot find proper Loaf Sugar these days,” I'd confide, “So one must improvise. But I think you'll find it an acceptable simulation.” I haven't, of course, done any of this; if the truth were told, I haven't so much as opened the damned thing since I got it home from the shop.

And of course, I can't just buy anything. I mean you can't spend the better part of an hour frowning over bicentennial commemorative spoons, a device to extract cotton balls from pill bottles, a telephone in the shape of Munch's The Scream and so on only to march up to the counter, grab a packet of mints and say, “Ah! Here we are! The very thing!” Oh, no. That would be letting them down. I couldn't bear to think a shopkeeper disapproved of my purchase. I have this recurring fantasy of walking into a shop full of old knick-knacks and gewgaws, and finding the one item on the shelves that would make the man behind the counter swoon at my astonishing good taste and savvy. “Why,” he'd say, “You've chosen the 1948 model clockwork musical toothpaste dispenser! Oh, sir! For years—decades, nay—I have watched lesser souls pass it by, and my heart has ached. Now, at last, a kindred spirit! Take my hand, sir, and let me call you brother!” It hasn't happened yet, but if it does I'll let you know.

Anyway, the point is, once I set foot in a store, I'm more or less trapped. Take the other day. I was out taking my mottled rat terrier Robespierre (after the famous diver) out for her evening constitutional. We'd had the bit with the high speed long-distance snuffle, the bit with the plastic bag, and were now to the bit where she pulled free and bolted off into the darkness, leash dragging forlornly behind. I'm not bothered by this; she always gets home before I do in any case. I had stopped at a street corner to refresh myself and incidentally work out my bearings, when I noticed a curious shop across the street.

It was a grim affair, the windows covered in old Works Progress posters and handbills for long extinct bands. Only the faintest slivers of light that pushed through the grime of the glass gave testament to its occupation. On the opposite window was stenciled in chipped and faded lettering, the following legend:

Ingleby and Jaype, ltd
“The Old Firm”

Jokes, Riddles, Anecdotes, Cracks (wise and otherwise), repartee, witticisms, and jests for all occasions.

Well, it wouldn't hurt if I just looked.

I don't know what I had been expecting—practical jokes, perhaps; wax lips and so forth—but whatever it was, it certainly wasn't what I found as I stepped inside. Arrayed on the shelves in neat rows were, well, jokes. I saw some limericks, a wide variety of shaggy dog stories; one display case had nothing but jokes about elephants. The section on light bulbs was enormous.

I was just examining the condition of a rather old relic of my youth involving two kangaroos and a Hassidic Rabbi (he has to be Hassidic, you see, otherwise it quite spoils the joke) when a soft rustle of chimes announced the emergence of the proprietor via an old beaded curtain at the back.

“You've got a good eye, my friend,” he announced jovially, poking around my shoulder. “That's a classic bit of stuff. An evergreen. Very popular in the borscht belt.”

I, not wanting to look ignorant, turned the thing over, gave it what I hoped was an appraising stare. “You don't think it's a little...worn?” I asked.

“Broken in,” he said. “Comfortable. You could dine out for weeks on it.”

I put it back. “I rather suspect someone already has.” I looked around, taking stock. Now that I took the time to look around, it seemed to me most of the merchandise was of a similar vein. “I, er, don't really know if it's me, though.”

The proprietor reached across the aisle. “How about this one?” he said. “One owner. Used to belong to a Methodist deacon who only told it on Sundays, and generally got the punchline wrong in any case.”

“I really don't think—”

“Not snappy enough, I know. Try these one-liners. Just got 'em in from Japan. Amazing what they can do; they make 'em so tiny!”

“No, I was really just loo—”

The proprietor stopped, a gleam in his eye. “Ahhh,” he said. “I know what you want. It's all right, I'll take care of ya.” He moved back to the beaded curtain and held it open. “Right through here.”

Well, I hesitated to say the least. The man took my arm, though, and led me through to a sordid, ill-lit back room. Here, skulking on unpainted shelves was as dismal an array of blue humor as you could ever hope to avoid. Now, please don't get me wrong: I enjoy a bit of ribaldry as much as anyone. But, these! If it wasn't honeymoon couples it was traveling salesmen. If it wasn't salesmen it was nuns and priests. And the limericks—oh, dear lord, the limericks!—I shudder even to recall.

Gingerly, I took an item off the shelf, completely at random. Under my host's chortling gaze, I gave it as cursory an inspection as politeness allowed. It seemed to involve a housekeeper with a poor grasp of English and a pet monkey. The payoff had been clumsily taped over; it was just as well, really.

I stumbled back to the main room, the proprietor running along behind me, waving his hands in abject apology. “Oh, sir I am sorry! I should have seen you were too refined for that sort of dreck! I'd not have 'em in the store, except you've got to make a living these days. You wouldn't believe the types we get in here. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.”

I managed to stammer out an acquiescence, and he led me to the counter. “Look, I really am just completely embarrassed. I hope you don't think too poorly of me. Here, let me make it up to you. I've got these fine old bon mots—very nice, very wry—absolute classics. Let me wrap up some of these for you at cost. What do you say?”

In the end, I came away with a couple of humorous anecdotes suitable for mixed company as well as a job lot of imported puns which he was letting go for a song. They'd been brought in from Hungary at considerable cost, but unfortunately had not survived the translations intact. “They just need a little work,” he had declared. “Fifteen minutes with a dictionary and you'll never know the difference.”

Now then, stop me if you've heard this one...