Page 41 of Whistle
And, while Mr. Comstock had not made a purchase, Edwin knew the hook had been set, that he would be back, if not today then maybe tomorrow. The tingle had been particularly strong with that collection of trains Comstock had been examining. That had often been an issue for Edwin Nabler, maintaining consistent quality. Not everything he sold had the same potency. Oh, all his products looked the same. The paint jobs, the lettering on the sides of the various cars, the authentic logos of the various North American railroads, were all executed perfectly. The train wheels turned freely, the track sections went together snugly. But it was the indefinableresonanceof the trains that most demanded Edwin’s attention.
There was a lot that went into it, and that was why Edwin was in the back of the shop today, looking at what he had accomplished to date and what was left to be done.
It only stood to reason that a toy train shop proprietor would construct his own layout, display, whatever you wanted to call it. Certainly not adiorama. That suggested something small. What Edwin was building was nothing short of grand. A magnificent stage on which his trains were the players. Long stretches of track. Graceful curves. Mountains and valleys and rivers and lakes. Small towns with a post office and a gas station and maybe even a diner just like the one across the street. (Lots of opportunities for whimsy here. For example, Edwin’s eatery was not named after the town, but featured a sign that readsam’n’ella’seats.)
Edwin loved to incorporate everyday items into his display, so-called “found objects.” The arms from a pair of sunglasses could be fashioned into a railing, an antenna, or a streetlamp. A lipstick tube made a perfect culvert or exhaust chimney atop a factory. A Palm Pilot could be turned on its side and made to look like the screen at a drive-in movie theater.
Edwin realized he had been whistling a tune, the words to which would have been familiar to many:
“I’ve beenworkin’ on the railroad, all the livelong day.”
While enough track had been laid down to allow Edwin to run a train continuously while he puttered about—the constantchuffchuffchuffchuffchuffwas a soothing background noise, a Zen-like mantra—only about half of the layout was decorated with scenery. The tracks were affixed with short screws to narrow strips of plywood that ran across an open-grid network. Soon the spaces between these strips would be filled with hills and valleys and streets where the various buildings would be placed.
Edwin was about to configure some supports for a new mountain when he heard the bell above the door in the front part of the shop.
A customer.
Edwin set down his tools, slipped on his vest, and donned hisengineer’s cap. He slid open the door that separated the back room from the main shop, entered, and closed the door behind him.
“Hello!” he said cheerily to the woman who had just arrived. “And how are you this lovely day?”
“Oh, just great,” she said, flashing a smile.
Edwin put her age at late thirties. Brown hair, plumpish, glasses.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” she asked. “The store, I mean?”
“Been here awhile,” Edwin said.
“I saw the trains running in the window and couldn’t resist.” She cast her gaze wide, taking in the various items, then zeroed in on some steam engines in a glass case by the cash register. “These are just so cute,” she said.
Ah, cute,Edwin thought. Women always thought the hobby wascute. Like these fine pieces of miniature machinery were Cabbage Patch Dolls or Beanie Babies. If she reached into her purse and brought out her wallet before departing, she could think these trains were the cutest goddamn things she’d ever seen.
“It’s my son’s birthday tomorrow,” she said. “I already bought him a football, but somehow it doesn’t seem like enough. He’s going to be ten, and that’s one of the special birthdays.”
“Oh, you are right about that. Ten, thirteen, sixteen, those are milestones.” He chuckled. “And so’s thirty, and forty.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Feel free to look around, and if you have any questions, just ask. No hard sell here. If the appeal of my offerings isn’t immediately apparent, nothing I could say will make any difference.”
“Well, isn’tthatrefreshing?” she said.
He smiled. “I’m Edwin Nabler, by the way, but I also answer to Mr. Choo. Just like it says on the sign over the window.”
“Hello,Mr. Choo,” she said, smiling broadly and tipping her head. “I love that. It’s adorable.”
God. Cuteandadorable.
“I’m Christina Pidgeon. If you think I smell like a dinner roll, it’s because I work down the street at Len’s Bakery.” She giggled. “My husband says work makes me smell better than my Calgon bath beads. Just finished for the day and was heading home, when I passed your store and just couldn’t stop myself from coming in.”
“Please. Look around.”
And so she did. Before long, she had discovered the same packaged set that Wendell Comstock had admired.
“I love this. How much is it?”
“I’m afraid that one is spoken for. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s spoken for. There was someone eyeing that this morning and I’d feel terrible if he came back in before closing and wondered where it had gone.”
