The Purchase 

The shop’s name was the first thing that stood out to me: “Memories In A Bottle”; a rusty metal sign hanging above the door, dissolving around the edges, the gold French Script lettering faded but still visible…such a strange name. The shop front itself was nothing special, the grimy windows displayed a number of different colour liquids from purple, pink, indigo, deep blues, bright reds, pale yellows and a sunset orange. I came across the premise by accident, while taking a short cut through a small alleyway, while on my way to work, late for the first time in seven years.

I work for a logistics company: “Freight’s On Us’, in invoicing, receiving and dispatching to be more precise. A less high pressure job you’ll never find, boring as hell, but pretty much like my life when all is said and done. My name is George by the way, I’m approaching forty, my hair is receding, I’m single, never married, although I have a part time girlfriend called, Melissa, I have a small apartment in the city and live with a cat named, Marcella. I’ve never travelled and there is not a lot of excitement in my life, but that’s okay as I have never really craved it.

The bell above the door rang sharp and clear as I enter the store.

Why I went in, and not onto work, I don’t know, something attracted me, some unknown force.

“Welcome”, spoke a friendly voice from behind the counter. The elderly shopkeeper introduces herself as Miss Kracknall. Her demeanour was polite and I instantly felt at ease in her presence. But it is her eyes that capture you, a piercing pale grey that seem to know everything about you, as if able to pierce through skin and flesh and see what’s inside your very soul.  “Please, feel free to look around,” she offers invitingly. But there wasn’t a whole lot to see except for more bottles, the wall behind the counter was over flowing with all the colours of the rainbow, sparkling brightly in the gloomy interior.

“What is it you sell here, exactly?” I venture.

“The name of my establishment says it all.”

“What, memories?”

‘Whatever your heart desires.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Customers always have their doubts. But I offer a thirty day money back policy,” she says in earnest.

“You want me to believe that you actually sell memories in a bottle?”

“Why yes, all kinds, all types, from all ages. I am very good at my work; I’ve been doing it for a very, very long time.”

Her claims were ridiculous – madness - insane, and yet I believe her. I got the distinct impression that I was looking at someone very old, even ancient, a witch, a Sharman, a voodoo doctor, perhaps all three…or maybe just a charlatan. The fact that she resembles someone’s grandmother merely added to the uneasiness, yet I was compelled to know more.

“How does someone acquire these memories?”

“Purchase a bottle and then…bottoms up.”

“You drink them?”

“Oh yes, and then you’ll relive them, for a time, but the memories will always stay with you.”

“What you’re saying is crazy.”

“And yet here you are,” she replies knowingly. “What do you seek? Perhaps the memories of a Roman centurion, a pirate, a great lover, or perhaps Joe Blow? I cater for all needs.”

“And how did you acquire them?”

“Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that, a pinch of spice, some salt, manna from the universe and hey presto.”

“How much?”

“A $1.99.”

“A 1.99,” I respond in disbelief.

“I’m having a sale.”

“I’m not sure.” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation, let alone actually contemplating buying one.

“Since you’re undecided, why not simply chose one randomly, a lucky dip if you like…live a little. Have just a sip,” she adds mischievously. “Bring it back if you’re unsatisfied.”

I hesitate. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. I look carefully at the collection before my eyes, wondering which one to choose. After several minutes I finally decided upon a bright red one, red being my favourite colour after all.

“A wise selection,” she says as I hand over the $1.99. She gives me back the bottle wrapped in a colourful gift bag. She bids me farewell and tells me that she looks forward to hearing what I thought of her product. I nod, but as I am leaving she offers a warning. “Other people’s memories can be addictive.”

I left the shop thinking what a fool I was and what a complete waste of a $1.99.

To be continued.

Copyright Peter Jessop © 2016