It was a cool morning when I pulled my 2024 Jeep Rubicon into the parking lot of Ye Treasures of Olde. This antique shop was the third I had visited that Saturday. The first two had offered many a nostalgic item across their expansive square footage but failed to have in their inventory the one item I had been searching for.
That object I could surely have purchased through any number of online shops. Truth be told I had looked at too many websites to count in my search. Each carrying their own version but never providing any real description or specifications that would lead me to think it was "the one." It is for this reason I have always tried to steer away from online shopping. The reality is that a picture is just that, an image. One can never know for sure the texture, or, in the case of the item I was looking for, its sturdiness. Even brick and mortar stores like Wal-Mart and Target had their own versions. Count beauty supply staples such as Ulta in that boat, as well. Most of the ones they carried, however, were plastic or too short. Some even had part of the handle protruding from the larger, flat end of the item, rending it unusable for my purpose.
Thankfully, living in a small town on the outskirts of suburbia we have our fair share of antique stores. As antiquing became the "it" thing to do the shops just seemed to spring up overnight over the past few years. Many of these I would not consider, for lack of a better term, "worth the time" to visit, however. In fact, over the years I had only been to one before embarking out this morning. It was at The Barn Antiques last year that I found an old-timey picture frame for my sister. Heather is quite the fanatic for all-things rustic and the frame I was looking for was a present in honor of her earning her Master's Degree.
This morning I had made my way out past the high school football field for the second time to the area we locals call "Antique City" where there are seven or eight antique shops sprinkled around other little mom-and-pop shops. I quickly made my second career visit to The Barn Antiques, followed by a forgettable jaunt into Nothing's New. While their name certainly was accurate in describing their wares it too did not offer any semblance of what I was looking for. After leaving Nothing's New I decided to try the last shop on the long stretch of road that ran the length of "Antique City."
As I sat in my deep blue Jeep I sighed, staring at the aged windows on the store front of Ye Treasures of Olde. Turning the engine off I sighed, knowing that it is better to be pessimistic than optimistic when considering the chances of finding what I was looking for. For their part, the words spelled out across the windows did offer a small offering of hope. "Wooden Antiques and More" they read. The magical word "Wooden" giving that slight thought of "just maybe" as I got out of my Jeep and walked towards the door.
Opening the door a small bell sounded and I saw row after row of antiques going well back towards the back of the shop. To say these were aisles would not be accurate as it appeared each row was just a winding walkway with no discernable order to the countless items thrown across each shelf.
The bell, surely there to alert the shopkeep of when someone enters and leaves, was hanging just low enough to catch the top of the door as it opened. Its effectiveness was apparent when I heard a voice say "Welcome to Ye Treasures of Olde" from behind a tall shelf along the right side of the store.
Walking around a corner table and weaving between two shelfing units taller than me, I saw a middle-aged woman, probably in her mid-50's, standing behind a counter. The counter, which served as the point of sale, had one of the oldest cash registers I can ever remember seeing. The woman had golden brown hair, and was wearing a purple dress with small sunflowers scattered about the fabric. Her beautiful figure was enhanced by the snugness of her dress while her face shined a radiant smile.
"Thank you," I replied.
"Have you even been to my shop before," she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
"No, this is my first time. I don't make my way out here that often," I responded.
"You mean out to "Antique City?" she chuckled while a small giggle escaped from her lips.
I laughed back at her, "Something like that. I mean, I just never really had a reason to look for antiques before."
"Oh, does that mean you are here today looking for something specific?" she asked with a helpful grin.
I gulped and sheepishly lied that I was just there to browse. "Well," she winked her left eye towards me, "for someone who just said he doesn't shop in antique stores you sure made a point to come to one today. But browse away. My name is Maureen so if you need any help just let me now," she said warmly.
After thanking Maureen with the obligatory "Thank you, I will" response I turned from the counter and began walking the store. Step by step I made my way down each path twisting my body and ducking at times to make my way through spaces that probably were not meant to be walked through. It seemed like forever but in the end it wound up taking around 25 minutes to comb almost the entirety of the store. Sure, I found a lot of items that were really cool, such as an old board game from the 1930s I had never heard of. One area of the store even had shelf after shelf of glasses and plates that looked like they came directly off a Victorian dining table. But as I slowly walked through the last area of the store I had not looked through I felt as though I would be leaving empty-handed.
Pointing my head towards a table full of wooden tchotchke's I saw something that caught my eye. I fixated on a long wooden handle stickup up from a large wooden bowl-type barrel. I reached out with my right hand and slowly pulled it out. My eyes lit up as I looked over the item with delight. With a total length of around 12" the handle itself was about 8" with the remaining 4" an oval at the other end, about 3.25" wide. One side of this larger end was full of thick, but not too rough, bristles, while the other side was flat and smooth to the touch. The wooden bathbrush felt heavy in my hand and with one single smack of the flat end into my palm I knew this was the one. Holding it in my hand firmly I checked its price. The white tag was looped through the hole on the end of the handle. In red marker the price was marked as 13.99.
Goosebumps came over me as I turned my head in each direction not knowing which way it was to the cash register where I last saw Maureen. I had a hard time containing my excitement as I finally found the register area.
Turning my attention to paying for the item I slowly approached the register counter where Maureen was now sitting on a stool with a glass of red wine in her hand. I embarrassingly held the brush behind my back.
"What was that sound I heard a few minutes ago?" Maureen asking quizzically while setting the wine glass on the table next to her stool.
A sudden fear came over me. Had she heard me a few minutes before giving my palm a smack? Trying to cover my tracks I lied again, "I didn't hear anything. It's been very quiet since I came in."
Maureen looked at me and then around the room, "You didn't hear it? It sounded like a smack or something." She paused, and then continued, "Well, never mind. Did you find anything to your liking?"
I squeaked out, "I think so," as I reached the brush from behind my back and placed it on the counter.
"Oh my, what do we have here?" She asked while standing up. "A wooden bathbrush? You know," she said with a suddenly stern demeanor while picking up the brush, "the sound I heard a few minutes ago I can make with this brush." With those words Maureen brought the brush into her palm hard. The sound resonated through the store.
"Are you sure you didn't hear something like this?" she asked while giving her palm another smack of the brush.
I looked at Maureen. In my mind I could tell she knew I was lying. Still, I choked out, "No, nothing at all."
Maureen sat the brush back down on the counter. "I see,' she said softly. "What is your name, young man?"
"Keith," I replied.
"And how old are you, Keith?"
Puzzled, I replied that I was 22, but would be 23 in a few months.
Maureen smiled. The look on her face showed that she was thinking hard and long about something, as if she was sizing me up, even.
Maureen broke the silence. "You know what I think, Keith?"
I nervously shook my head no, wondering where she was going with this.
"I think," Maureen said as she picked the brush back up, tapping it in her palm again and again, "that you knew exactly what you were looking for today. This brush, or one like it. And when you found it you smacked it into your palm like I just did."
I stood there motionless, not able to move.
"And," she continued, "I think I know why."
Looking at the brush being moved around by her hands I could barely muster, "Why is that?"
Because," she said strictly, "you know what this brush is good for, just as I do."
Gulping a few times, my lips parched, I weakly asked, "What is it good for?"
Grinning wide while shooting daggers through her squinted eyes, Maureen replied, "Spanking bad boys like you on their bare bottom."
The butterflies flew into my stomach as I felt weak in the knees. I stuttered out, "What do you mean like me?"
Maureen looked at me without smiling, "Boys who lie. You have lied to me twice since you came into my store, Keith, haven't you? Once when you said you were just here to browse, and the second when you said you didn't hear that noise," she said tapping the brush more and more into her palm.
"And do you know what else I think, Keith?" She said whimsically, "I think you fantasize about this brush, don't you? Going over the knee with your bottom bare for a good, hard, spanking with it. That is why you came here. To find the perfect brush. And once you found it you smacked it in your hand...to test it to make sure it was just right. Isn't that right, Keith? Or are going to lie for a third time by denying it?"
Maureen looked at me. I could not believe what I just heard. She knew, but how was I going to deny it? I wasn't thinking clearly as I blurted out, "That's crazy, Maureen. I mean, come on, really."
Setting the brush down on the counter once again, Maureen hammered out, "Uh, huh, I think you are still fibbing me, Keith."
"That's silly, Maureen, I'm being honest," I pleaded.
Maureen sat in her stool. "I'm not so sure, Keith. So...let's find out."
"What do you mean...how?" I sked confusingly.
You see this clock," she turned her body sideways and pointed to an old analog clock on the the wall behind her, " What time does it say?"
