The Porcelain Perambulator

A collection of 50 short stories has just been released. The collection is titled, My People, My Stories. They are written by yours truly, Byron Lehman. The stories reach over 30 of his writing career; from my first to my latest. 

I hope you purchase and enjoy.  Here are the links to the Kindle version and paperback. 

    The Porcelain Perambulator

Alex held a small porcelain perambulator between his forefinger and thumb. He twisted it slowly examining the intricacies. His eyes slowly raised and looked around the shop of porcelain figurines of all varieties. The shop had not changed in thirty years. It was full of memories. Only one figurine was of interest to him. The hardwood floor creaked as before and in the identical places. The smell was as he remembered - the faint odor of lilac and cinnamon from a potpourri on a small table next to the door. His attention returned to the perambulator. For a moment he returned to a forgotten time - an innocent and carefree time, a time long ago. A tear of longing formed in his eye. A deep sadness hovered over him like a cloak.

The shopkeeper asked politely, "Can I help you with something today, sir?"

"Yes," Alex said quickly shaking his melancholy and replying adroitly. "I wish to purchase this. No need to wrap it."

The shopkeeper chuckled and leaned forward propping himself with his hands against the counter. Looking over the tops of his spectacles he said, "Oh I'm afraid, sir, that one is not for sale. It is special, but if you're determined to purchase something we have many others I think you will find to your liking."

Alex smiled politely as he instantly took an estimate of the middle-aged shopkeeper with a broom mustache and a worn brown button sweater. "I was quite surprised that I would find this one still here. It has been thirty years and I will pay ten times its value."

"Others have inquired of that one over the years, but it is not for sale at a thousand times its value, sir."

Alex pulled on his French cuffs from beneath the sleeves of his custom-tailored Italian suit. "Is this not a shop and do you not earn a livelihood from selling porcelain."

"Yes, but everything else you may purchase, except the one you hold," the shopkeeper said reaching over and tapping the perambulator with his finger.

Alex pulled it from the shopkeeper's tapping finger. "If you knew how special it is to me you would fix a price and sell it to me. You see thirty years ago my young wife and I bicycled to this town every Saturday. We were poor then. We came to this shop and each time she picked out this very perambulator and admired it. We had no money for it then. It would mean so much to me if you would fix a price and send me on my way."

"Oh yes, I remember you two well. She was pretty, lovely, and kind. One does not easily forget beauty, loveliness, and kindness. Yes, I remember. Every Saturday at nearly two you strolled in to and out of the shop and down the street you continued. You had tea down the way. She was very much in love with you. I could tell. I was a young lad then dusting the shop for my father, who dusted for his father, who dusted for his father."

"I remember your father, a kind man who wore a monocle. I believe the right eye." "Yes, that was him."

"Is he still with us?"

"He tends the shop on Mondays only now."

"If he were here what price would he fix upon it?"

"You should have inquired from him thirty years ago."

"Are you being flippant, sir?"

"Why should I do that, sir? I stated my case and that is the much of it."

"Confound it, man! Sell me the perambulator."

"Sir it is not for sell."

"It is important to me," Alex pleaded.

"When it was important to her you would not even consider buying it. You did not even inquire about its

price then. My father told me he would have given it to the young lady if only you asked, but you had no intention or interest in it, but she did."

"Do you know who I am? I am Alexander Crowley. I have crushed corporations and banks. I've met half the Prime Ministers and heads of state in the civilized world. I could buy this shop. I could buy this town. I could buy you."

"But you can't buy that perambulator. I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. I read the papers and watch TV. Your wife is dead now, isn't she Mr. Crowley? I truly mourn your loss."

"Thank you, sir. Then you know how important this is to me."

"You see sir I won't sell it to you because it is important to you. Thirty years ago you had no intentions of buying it and she knew it. Did the years continue to be selfish Mr. Crowley? You are buying this for yourself Mr. Crowley, not for her. It will now only bring you pleasure. It will only make you feel good. Your opportunity to please her has long passed."

"I gave her everything she wanted," Alex exclaimed angrily.

The shopkeeper retorted, "Except the perambulator, sir. If you had passed first, Mr. Crowley, what do you think Mrs. Crowley would have held most dear?"

Alex held the perambulator tightly in his fist. "Sell it to me you stubborn fool." He slammed his fist to the counter and the perambulator snapped into several pieces. Alex frightfully looked at it as it fell and crumbled from his hand. He was horrified to see blood pool like beads of sweat in his palm. He murmured slowly, "What have I done?"

The shopkeeper looked at him pathetically and handed him a tissue. "I was about to say again Mr. Crowley it is not for sale, but it is yours for the taking."