So he gave them a set of keys and bought them a MetroPass and stuffed an
old wallet with $200 in twenties and wrote his phone number on the brim
of a little pork pie hat that looked good on their head and turned them
loose on the city.
The shop had all the difficulties of any shop -- snarky customers,
shoplifting teenagers, breakage, idiots with jumpy dogs, never enough
money and never enough time. He loved it. Every stinking minute of
it. He'd never gone to bed happier and never woken up more full of
energy in his life. He was in the world, finally, at last.
Until his brothers arrived.
He took them to the store the first morning, showed them what he'd
wrought with his own two hands. Thought that he'd inspire them to see
what they could do when they entered the world as well, after they'd
gone home and grown up a little. Which they would have to do very soon,
as he reminded them at every chance, unmoved by George's hangdog
expression at the thought.
They'd walked around the shop slowly, picking things up, turning them
over, having hilarious, embarrassing conversations about the likely
purpose of an old Soloflex machine, a grubby pink Epilady leg razor, a
Bakelite coffee carafe.
The arguments went like this:
George: Look, it's a milk container!
Ed: I don't think that that's for milk.
Fred: You should put it down before you drop it, it looks valuable.
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