A cheery bell over the door jingled in tandem with the brightly colored seashells clacking together as Larry entered the little shop. He took a moment to survey the area. Old habits die hard, and there are some habits I never want to put to sleep.
Antique cash register, cheap bric-a-brac– made in China, no doubt – in a seaside motif, t-shirts silk-screened in cheesy designs, but behind the counter, just as venerable as that cash register, lovingly displayed, were several complete sets of type – huh, at least a half dozen different fonts – and an old-fashioned printing press. Not a mimeograph, like they used to use when Larry was in grade school, but a bona fide printing press.
"May I help you, sir?" an old man, at least as well-preserved as the press, asked as he came from the back of the shop through a curtain of delicate pink shells.
Larry grinned widely, showing lots of even, white teeth. He'd paid a lot for that smile; he might as well use it. Removing his black sunglasses, he folded them, grinning all the while, and slid them into the inside pocket of his sport coat. He nodded toward the press.
"That is quite the work of art you have there."
The old man nodded and smiled fondly as he followed Larry's gaze. "She is indeed, sir." He returned his attention to Larry, his expression quizzical.
Stepping up to the counter, he read the plaque nailed to the wall beside the type display and said, "Mr. Gephart, I need you to print up some business cards for me. Nothing too fancy, but still with a touch of elegance."
Nodding, Josiah Gephart slid an order form across the counter to Larry and offered him a pencil from a souvenir mug – Greetings from Miami – beside the register.
"Oh, we won't be needing that, Mr. Gephart. I want you to set the type and print them up right now." His grin never faltered; if anything, it grew.
"But, sir, I have several orders ahead of you…" he began, his smile fading as Larry leaned toward him, resting his arms on the countertop. He spread out a fan of twenty dollar bills, all crisp and clean.
"It won't take long."
"How…" Staring at the cash on his counter, Josiah swallowed hard, cleared his throat – damn, I hope I don't get that phlegmy when I get old – and started again. "How many cards do you need?"
Pursing his lips, Larry straightened, tapping his index finger against his mouth as he pretended to think. "Oh, I think… fifty should do it. Can you do fifty?" The cards he wanted were quite specialized, and he wouldn't be handing them out to just anyone.
Josiah frowned. "Only fifty?" His tone was confused.
Larry pushed the twenties – ten of them – toward Josiah. "Only fifty."
Shaking himself and looking warily at Larry's toothsome grin, Josiah swept up the cash and walked over to the sets of type on the wall, taking one of them down carefully. He brought it over to Larry for approval.
"Excellent choice, Josiah." He beamed, certain that Josiah Gephart understood him well.
The old man wiped down the surface of the press and began to prepare it to accept type. "What would you like your cards to say?" He spoke over his shoulder, not meeting Larry's eyes again.
"In larger type, my name. Larry Sizemore. Beneath that, smaller, my phone number. 888-555-9119. And last, a sentence. Nonnullus populus ago, nonnullus populus intereo. Do you need me to spell that for you?"
Josiah turned, his eyes wide. For a moment, the old man's hands trembled, but he quickly got them under control and returned to his work. "No, Mr. Sizemore. I know the Latin."
"Do you? Outstanding." Yes, indeed. Old Josiah understood him well.
After all, it was true.
Some people live, some people die.