Mary And The Giant

"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 Anne Reynolds."

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 annoyed. "Back to the practical?" It didn't fit his impression of her, and he thought now that it wasn't really practical: she was trying to find a reference point. Somehow he had upset her. "That's for a five-day week. It isn't bad."

"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 funny-a dirty joke. It pleased him to be alive, and this girl saw life as a threat. But his interest in her had grown.

She might well be the girl he wanted. She was alert; she would be an efficient worker. And she was pretty; if he could get her to relax she would freshen up the store.

"You'd like to work in a record store?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "It would be interesting."

"By fall you'd know the ropes." He could see that she learned rapidly. "We might work out a trial basis. I'd have to see ... after all, you're the first girl I've talked to." From the hall came the jangle of the phone, and he smiled. "That must be another job applicant."

The girl said nothing. But she seemed even more absorbed in her worry; she was like certain little concerned animals he had seen, those that huddled silently for hours.

"I tell you what," Schilling said, and even in his own ears his voice sounded rough and clumsy. "Let's go across the street and get something to eat. I haven't had breakfast. Is that restaurant all right?"

"The Blue Lamb?" Mary Anne moved to the door. "All right, I suppose. Expensive. I don't know if they're open this early."

"We'll see," Schilling declared, following her up the hall. A light-headedness seized him, a sense of adventure. "If not, then we can go somewhere else. I can't hire you without knowing more about you."

In the main part of the store the carpenters were hammering and pounding above the jangle of the phone. The electrician, surrounded by turntables and speaker systems, was trying vainly to hear the response of his amplifiers. Schilling caught up with the girl and took hold of her arm.

"Be careful," he warned her genially. "Watch out for that tangle of phono lead."

Her arm was firm within his fingers. He was conscious of her clothing, the dry rustling of the green knit suit. Walking beside her, he could catch the faint edge of her perfume. She was really surprisingly small. She plodded along, eyes on the floor; all the way to the street she failed to speak. He could tell she was deep in thought.

When they had reached the sidewalk, the girl halted. Awkwardly, Schilling released her arm. "Well?" he asked, as they faced each other in the bright morning glare. The sunlight smelled of moisture and freshness; he took a deep breath of it and found it better than cigar smoke. "What do you think? How will it look?"

"It's a nice little store."

"You think it'll be a financial success?" Schilling stepped agilely aside for workmen carrying in a cash register and carton of paper tapes.

"Probably."