Yes, indeed. Ronald thrived on conversation. He was his best version of himself when engaged in the verbal patter that punctuated his lively existence. It was just the thing to put him back in his right mind. As a child he’d fantasized about being a TV talk show host, the kind who is so interesting and urbane that all his famous guests usually end up asking him the questions. Melinda had once pointed out that his love of postcards was not unrelated to his passion for chitchat, for what was a postcard but one half of a conversation, taken place over days or weeks or months, sometimes across continents or oceans, preserved by enthusiasts like Ronald. Some collectors preferred their pieces unused and like new, but not Ronald. For him the back held as much thrill as the front—what a wonder to eavesdrop on the handwritten voices of the past! Yet there was nothing that could compare to the spontaneous magic of being right in front of your fellow man. The finest breeze-shooters in the business could make an ordinary exchange of hellos look like an athletic feat, and soon enough Ronald would be partaking in a televised bull session of his very own. On Monday Mark and Grant from television’s popular Home Channel were coming to film at the mall, and Ronald just knew he would impress them with his preternatural gift of gab.
He exercised it now as he stopped by Jake Backer’s booth of sports memorabilia in Hall Two. Leaning against a bundle of game-used baseball bats stored in a tin trash can, he said, “Some game the other night, huh?”
“Oh yeah.” Jake tapped the bill of his Kansas City Chiefs cap. “It’s why I’m wearing my victory crown.”
“Football is a fascinating game,” continued Ronald. “May the best team win.”
“Yeah,” said Jake. “The best team won.”
Jake turned his back to Ronald and began flipping through a box of trading cards. Satisfied, Ronald waved goodbye, although Jake couldn’t have seen, and continued on. Yes, Ronald thought to himself, it had been a wonderful talk, a very successful talk, a charged sort of dialogue, few words exchanged but emotions running high—sports talk, manly talk. It was lucky Jake hadn’t called his bluff. Ronald didn’t follow sports and was only guessing that some sort of game had even occurred. But then again, it wasn’t luck at all but really a display of Ronald’s expert confabulation abilities in action. He was just such a likable and easygoing fellow that others couldn’t help but relate to him. Today was already turning into a good one.
The way booth rental at Heart of America worked was you could get fifteen dollars off your rent for each four-hour shift of “walking”—that is, wandering the pathways of the mall while wearing an official Heart of America name badge, helping customers pick out items from the locked cases, carrying their intended purchases to the lobby storage racks for when they were ready to check out, and overall being a friendly representative of the business, as well as watching for shoplifters and tag switchers. Ronald had never witnessed any thievery himself, even though, funnily enough, a number of shoplifters had been captured on the mall’s CCTV cameras during his walks. Keith and Stacey had shown him the tapes, gently reprimanded him for his lack of presentness—that was the way they put it. The way he would put it, proudly, is that he lacked cynicism. He wasn’t out on the antique mall beat with a billy club and a gun in his holster, looking to crack skulls and finger some perps like the cops on prime-time television. He was there to be helpful, and just think how rude he’d come across if he started pointing suspiciously at every customer with bulging pockets or a purse that jingled a little too heavily. Besides, the accused had all seemed like good kids, kind ladies. Probably a few or even most had simply forgotten what they were carrying, had only accidentally walked to their cars and driven off without paying. (Heaven knew it was the sort of thing that could just as easily have happened to Ronald.) When he’d said as much to Keith and Stacey, they didn’t get it. Keith kind of sneered and Stacey said she didn’t share Ronald’s idealism.
But Ronald had no ill feelings toward them. They were fine people and wise business owners, and he sympathized with the tough financial decisions they often had to make, even when they imposed a fifty percent maximum discount per month on booth rental for walking duties. Prior to this, Ronald had walked enough to cover expenses for six months. But nope, he didn’t mind at all. He would walk for free if it came down to it, and he happened to be doing that now, as he’d already reached the limit for the month.
He made his way down Bicentennial Boardwalk, calling a jolly hello to Jimmy Daniels, who held the distinction of being Heart of America’s most profitable dealer for many months running, with a diverse stock that changed entirely on a week-to-week basis. His picture had been pinned on the bulletin board in the lobby for so long the paper was curled and yellow. If only once Ronald’s own picture got to adorn that tinfoil frame. But postcards were not where the money was, and he rarely sold anything more collectible or higher priced than the odds and ends from his ten-for-a-dollar bin.
“Ronald!” Jimmy said, pantomiming a fisherman’s cast and reel.
Ronald eagerly took the bait. “Jimmy, my good man,” he said. “I hate to tell tales out of school, but with the Home Channel’s Mark and Grant show visiting our humble abode next week, I’ve a mind to—”
“Oh sure, man. Think of the exposure. You and me, buddy, we’re gonna clean up,” Jimmy said. “And there’s no better way to celebrate making money than by spending a little. Have I got the find of the century for you.” He moved some 1940s movie posters out of the way—“Hot sellers among aging cineasts and young hipsters alike”—shuffled some metal advertising signs—“Big moneymakers with young husbands, you know, decorating their man caves—I mark these up, like, six times what I pay and I couldn’t hold on to them if I tried”—reached under a shelf holding a bundle of silver-and-turquoise Navajo jewelry—“Slightly imperfect, priced to sell”—until finally he found what he was looking for, a nondescript white box. “You’re the postcard guy, right?”
“That I am,” Ronald said with delight. His reputation preceded him.
“Well.” Jimmy held the box out and then pulled it back. “You know what, on second thought, forget it. You don’t want this. You’re, like, the postcard guy. I’m sure this is just common scraps to you.”
“I do have over ten thousand unique cards in my personal collection, but please, I’m always interested in anything deltiological.”
Jimmy tucked the box under his arm. “Wow, man, wow. Over ten thousand. Wow. Then doubly forget it. This is useless to a master delti—what is it—deltiologist like yourself.”
“No, no,” Ronald said. “I insist. You never know what treasures you’ll find in the unlikeliest of places. And it would haunt me personally if I never considered what you’re offering.”
Jimmy gazed over Ronald’s head for a long, deeply quiet moment—quiet aside from oldies tunes that played on the mall’s speaker system—and held the box gingerly in his hands like a sacred artifact. “Okay, Ron, okay. You’ve convinced me. But I’m gonna warn you that I’m a little weird about this.” Ronald could barely concentrate on what Jimmy was saying. He couldn’t take his eyes off that mysterious box. “This is totally ridiculous of me, I know, and a personal insult to you, but while I can tell you that this box is full of a wide assortment of vintage postcards”—he shook the box, the sound of accumulated paper rectangles so familiar to Ronald that it shuffled eternally in the deepest caverns of his ears—“I can’t, for strange, personal reasons—unreasonable reasons, I readily admit—let you see the postcards inside.”