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IN ITS heyday the Chucky Poong Cheap Store, in the rambling hills of southern California, used to sell almost everything. Even sticks of dynamite. They used to be kept in a wooden box out back, and men from the mines used to send little kids down to the store to pick them up. The mines closed long ago, but the shelves were still stacked with cans and bags and boxes and bottles. The back office was still littered with handwritten dockets and grocery orders to be picked and packed for delivery by a boy on a bike (so much for the e-commerce revolution!) And the "shanglang" cash system still whistled across the ceiling, irritating the likes of Amparro Laxamana, who considered herself too trendy to be working in such a musty old dump. Amparro was almost a foot shorter than the other girl behind the counter. Only her head and shoulders projected above the counter as she logged packages. A teenaged boy buying a stack of posters said something funny and her heartshaped face caught the light, glowing as she laughed. When she shook her head her brown hair shimmered in ringlets, the highlights sparkling. Her cheeks bore the slightest trace of blush, her mouth just a hint of lipstick - the carefully created illusion of the Natural Look. Aside from a tiny pair of copper earrings, she wore no jewelry. Paul tore his eyes away. There were panthlets and oversized paperbacks everywhere, and he picked up a stack of the cheapest of them, treatises on Atlantis, the Mystery of the Ages, Sexual Secrets of the UFOs and Colonic Irrigation -- but thankfully nothing from The Flat Earth Society, heh heh. There was even, plastered on one of the walls, a photo of the original Chucky Poong -- three Chuck's down the family tree. Judging by the 19th century photo, Poong seemed to be some kind of wrinkle collector, his face containing more folds than the surface of Afghanistan. But despite his obvious age and the poor quality of the photograph, the old man radiated immense vitality and intelligence. Especially the eyes. They didn't seem printed on the page as much as punched through it, as though they contained something beyond the halftone's ink and paper. The eyes were like windows into the deepest, coldest night that had ever darkened the sky. When he finally wrenched his gaze from the photo, the crowd had thinned, and he snuck a glimpse of Amparro. She was still at the antiquated cash register, although her head was turned to talk to the other, taller girl behind the counter. Paul carried a load of books to the front and plopped them down. Amparro's head was still turned, and she didn't see him.
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