My Day Off-A Journal-Part Two

Downtown Mark
 
It is March.  The last Friday of the month.  Which is always My Day Off.  My babysitter and I pretend we do not realize this.
 
A 50 year old man leans over towards me, on the bus.  "What are you writing?" he asks.
"Just my journal," I reply.
"What about?"
I look up at him.  "Where I would be going if I was wearing something different."
He nods.  "Where are you going?"
"Dowtown.  That much I know for sure.   I will figure the rest out when I get there."
"I am going downtown, too.  Got a few things to pick up.  My books.  And my picture is finally ready."
"Oh, I was just at City Lights not too long ago," I smile.
"I love that place.  But that is not where I am going."
He tilts his head and looks in my eyes.
"You want to come with me?"
"You bet," I smile.
 
"This way," he says, pointing down the street when we get off the bus.
As we head off, I look over at him.  "You gotta name?  Wait let me guess."
"Okay," he says.
"Mark!" I exclaim.
"It'll do," he replies.
 
The bookstore is in an older part of downtown.  It is in a century home.  The inside is all wood, with beautiful antique lights and the original fireplace.  Everything is so old, but it is in perfect condition. Everything old looking new.
Creepy.
To be honest, I do not like the store and I was glad when we left.  But I did agree to join him on a bit more of his day.
 
"Is Nirvana still cool," he asks me in the used CD store we go in.
I crinkle my face.  "I do not think so, but who knows?  I am not cool."
He laughs.
"Oh, yes, you are."
"And you are old," I laugh back. 

Everything is African.  The shop is dark and alive.  It is ancient and calm.  Every piece tells a different story and there are so many to look at. 
In the music room, Mark puts a drum on order.
 
We are looking closely at the emeralds the man behind the counter is showing us.  Mark would like to have an emerald earring.  He thinks.
This is a custom shop.  They make anything according to what you want.  The jeweler's eyes shine.
"Do you love your job?" I ask. 
A soft sigh escapes his lips.  "When I am holding the perfect rock in my hand..." he stops, a smile spreading across his face.  He shakes his hand and head.
"I wish I knew the words," he finishes.  "But I am glad you asked."
 
Mark and I are sitting on my favorite planter.  He is just as fascinated by it as I am.  I am drinking coffee and he is drinking green tea.
"I shall call you Queenie," he says to me suddenly.
"I was starting to wonder if you would ever call me anything," I smile. 
 He stands and offers me his hand "It would be an honor if you continued this journey with me.  It is time to pick up my picture."
 
Our new Market is high class.  All the normal stuff is there.  But just better of it.  Chocolate, shrimp, coffee.  
We travel to the core where there is a little table set up.  Two Indian men are sitting behind it.
 I am barely aware of my hand reaching out and scooping up a rock from the table as I look at the other's spread out.  They are breathtaking.  Animals are painted on them and glossed to a high sheen.  The spider is the largest one.  Beautiful things are written on the back.  Protection, creativity, honesty.
I feel the coolness of the rock I am holding in my palm. 
"How much?" I ask the Indian with darker eyes.
"Five dollars," he replies.
I hand it over.  He does not smile, but looks at me.
"Go on," he says.  "What is yours?  Take your look now."
It is a goat.  I turn it over.
SCAVENGER.
I take a deep breath as disappointment washes over me.  This is not something beautiful.  I look back up into the man's dark eyes.
"Oh, no, honey.  It is right.  You are just reading it wrong."
And I suddenly know he is right.
"Queenie, this is Moses.  You two are going to really enjoy our stay here," he turns to look at the man.  "Let's see what your mind created for me.  Where's my picture?"