Mary And The Giant

5

At eight-thirty the next morning Mary A

"Let me talk to Edna," Mary A

"What? Who do you want?"

When she had got hold of Mrs. Bolden, Mary A

"I see," Mrs. Bolden said, in a neutral voice that showed neither doubt nor belief, only an acceptance of the inevitable. "Well, there's not much we can do about it. Will you be back on your feet tomorrow?"

"I'll keep you posted," Mary A

She left the creamery. High heels tapping against the pavement, she walked quickly up the sidewalk, conscious of her appearance, aware of the texture and style of her hair, her careful makeup, the scent of her perfume. She had spent two hours grooming herself, and she had eaten only a piece of toast with applesauce and a cup of coffee. She was on edge, but not apprehensive.

The new little record shop had been the Floral Arts Gift Shop. Carpenters were working busily in the newly decorated store, installing overhead recessed lighting and laying carpets. An electrician had parked his truck and was lugging phonographs inside. Cartons of records were piled everywhere; in the rear a pair of workmen were tacking squares of soundproofing to the ceiling of the half-completed booths. The work in progress was directed by a middle-aged man in a tweed suit.

She crossed the street and walked slowly back, trying to make out the figure that loomed over the carpenters. Waving a silverhandled stick, the man paced back and forth, giving instructions, laying down the law. He walked as if the ground came into existence at his feet. He was creating the store from the puddle of fabrics, boards, wiring, tiles. It was interesting to see this big man building. Was he Joseph R. Schilling? She gave up her prowling and approached the store. It was not yet nine.

Passing through the entrance was a sudden leaving of the emptiness of the street; she found herself in the midst of activity. Large and important objects had been collected here; she felt the tightness, the reassuring pressure that meant so much to her. While she was inspecting a newly built counter, the tweed-suited man glanced up and saw her.

"Are you Mr. Schilling?" she asked, a little awed. "That's right."

All around them carpenters were hammering; it was noisier than California Readymade. She took a deep, pleased breath of the smell of sawdust, the stiff unfolding of new carpets. "I want to talk to you," she said. Her wonder grew. "Is this your store? What's all the glass for?" Workmen were carrying panes to the rear.

"For record booths," he answered. "Come in the office. Where we can talk better."

Reluctantly, she forgot the work in progress and trailed after him, down a hall past a flight of basement steps and into a side room. He closed the door and turned to face her.

...

It had been Joseph Schilling's first impulse to send the girl off. Obviously she was too young, not more than twenty. But he was intrigued. The girl was unusually attractive.

What he saw was a small, rather bony girl, with brown hair and pale, almost straw-colored eyes. Her neck fascinated him. It was long and smooth, a Modigliani neck. Her ears were tiny and did not flare in the slightest. She wore gold hooped earrings. Her skin was fair and unblemished and faintly ta

"You're looking for a job?" he asked. "How old are you?"

"Twenty," she answered.

Schilling rubbed his ear and pondered. "What sort of experience have you had?"

"I worked eight months for a finance company as a receptionist, so I'm used to meeting the public. And then I worked over a year taking dictation. I'm a trained typist."

"That's of no value to me."

"Don't be silly. Is your business only going to be on a cash basis? You're not going to open charge accounts?"

"My bookkeeping will be done from outside," he said. "Is this your idea of the way to ask for a job?"

"I'm not asking for a job. I'm looking for a job."

Schilling reflected, but the distinction was lost on him. "What do you know about music?"

"I know everything there is to know."

"You mean popular music. What would you say if I asked you who Dietrich Buxtehude was? Do you recognize the name?"

"No," she said simply.

"Then you don't know anything about music. You're wasting my time. All you know is the Top Ten tunes."

"You're not going to be able to sell hit tunes," the girl said. "Not in this town."

Surprised, Schilling said: "Why not?"

"Hank is one of the smartest pop buyers in the business. People come down here from San Francisco, looking for tunes backordered all the way to L.A."

"And they find them?"

"Most of the time. Nobody can catch them all."

"How do you know so much about the record business?"

For an instant the girl smiled. "Do you think I know a lot about the record business?"

"You act as if you do. You pretend you do."

"I used to go with a boy who did Hank's stock work. And I like folk music and bop."

Stepping to the back of the office, Schilling got out a cigar, cut off the end, and lit up.

"What's the matter?" the girl asked.

"I'm not sure how good you'd be behind a counter. You'd try to tell people what they ought to like."

"Would I?" The girl reflected and then shrugged her shoulders. "Well, it's up to them. I could help them. Sometimes they want help."

"What's your name?"

"Mary A

He liked the sound of it. "I'm Joseph Schilling."

The girl nodded. "That's what I thought."

"The ad," he said, "gave only a phone number. But you found your way here. Had you noticed my store?"

"Yes," she said. There was tension surrounding her. He understood that this was of great importance.

"You were born here?" he asked. "It's a nice town; I like it. Of course, it's not large. It's not active."

"It's dead." Her face lifted, and he was confronted with her judgment. "Be realistic."

"Well," he said, "maybe it's dead to you; you're tired of it."

"I'm not tired of it. I just don't believe in it."

"There's a lot here to believe in; go sit in the park."

"And do what?"

"And listen!" he said with vigor. "Come out and hear ... it's all around you. Sights to see, sounds, rich smells."

"What do you pay a month?" she asked.

"Two-fifty to start." Now he was a

"In California a woman can't work more than a five-day week. What about later? What does the salary go up to?"

"Two-seventy-five. If things work out."

"And if they don't? I have a pretty good job right now."

Schilling paced around the office, smoking and trying to recall when and if a situation of this sort had come up before. He was disturbed ... the girl's intensity affected him. But he was too old to treat the world as ominous, and he enjoyed too many small things. He liked to eat good food; he loved music and beauty and-if it was really fu