Losing On The Deal

A Mirror, Mirror & Are You Afraid of the Dark? Fanfiction

~1994~

Swallowing back a Russian curse word – which had, admittedly, been resting rather temptingly upon the tip of his tongue – the old man sighed to himself what would become – and already often was – his constant refrain:

"I sometimes ask myself why it should be my constant misfortune to work with numbskulls." Perhaps he had mistreated one in a former life. He peered down through his pince-nez glasses at the order sheet on his desk. "Well, in this case, perhaps it was my own doing. I never ought to have agreed to sell those ridiculous spectacles that absurd Canadian charlatan had in such overabundance. But, really, who could have reasonably suspected the bloody things would catch on?"

Now he had to telephone the dreadful owner of Magic Mansion and try to arrange a shipment deal. All the way here to Wellington. He pinched the glasses off his nose gingerly. Must he, really? Couldn't he simply tell the customer he hadn't any more in stock and wouldn't get any and not to trouble him about those hideous, cheap things again?

His swimming old eyes strayed to a slightly dusty calendar hung upon a not-so-slightly dusty wall.

There were still ten months, nearly a whole year, to go until Jo was meant to arrive for the mirror. Then – after three quarters of a century of waiting – he could change the past and never be an antique dealer at all.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Another sigh.

However, in the meanwhile, he must – he supposed – find a way to fill in the time.

The time he still had too much of and so longed to rewrite.

There was the order sheet.

Beside it, his scrapbook. A much pleasanter way to pass the hours, to be sure, but one could be too obsessive, couldn't one?

The order sheet, he considered, or the scrapbook?

The telephone was in his wrinkled, liver-spotted hand a moment later. He'd decided.

It was ten in the morning here, so it would be around four there.

Perhaps the dreadful little man would not pick up.

"Yes? What?" barked a high voice. "I don't do refunds."

"I'm well aware," said the old man drily. "This is Nicholas, of Respected Elders in Wellington, New Zealand."

"Respected what's it of New Zealand?" Then, "Oh, oh, the shop! The shop! Quite right."

The old man cleared his throat. "Well, Mr. Sardo–"

"It's Sardo," he shrilled. "No mister. Accent on the Doh!"

"As you like," he said, holding the handset a little further away from his ear. "I'm calling in regard to those rainbow glasses..."

"Listen, Nicholas, my dear old chap" – the old man cocked his head in the direction of the handset he still clutched and looked at it askance, brow lifted – "if children come to you crying about paranormal disturbances after making a purchase from your establishment, simply do what I do – flip your sign to closed and pull down the blinds. It works every time. Like magic. Better, even."

"This," said the old man slowly, bringing the phone back to his ear again, "is a regular occurrence for you, is it?"

"Isn't it for everybody?"

"I don't believe it is, Mr. Sardo."

"No mister, accent on the... Oh, never mind! What can I help you with?"

"I would like to discuss purchasing another case of your so-called Super Specs for resale here. That is, if it's quite convenient for you. I shouldn't like to intrude upon your scamming of innocent children, much less your unwitting indoctrination of them into the horrors of the occult."

"Somebody's peaky." Sardo sucked his teeth audibly on the other end. "Well, you are in luck. As it happens. Although the product you're interested in fairly flies off my shelves, I'm willing to part with a case or two... And it's practically a steal at..." – he lowered his voice into an indistinct mumble – "...three hundred dollars."

"Three hundred dollars?" scoffed the old man.

"Two hundred," Sardo blurted hurriedly. "I distinctly said two. One hundred per case. Plus shipping."

"Fifty each – shipping included."

"You must be joking..."

"One hundred, and shipping is taken care of on your end."

"What? All the way to New Zealand? Are you mad, sir?"

"Or I could not buy them at all."

"One hundred! Sold!" cried Sardo. "But I'm losing on the deal!"