Path: bloom-picayune.mit.edu!snorkelwacker.mit.edu!americast.com!americast.com!americast-post Newsgroups: americast.twt.news From: americast-post@AmeriCast.Com Organization: American Cybercasting Approved: americast-post@AmeriCast.com Subject: Innocent purchase drives out depression on a dreary day Date: Sat, 21 Nov 92 17:35:41 EST Message-ID: \SE A;METROPOLITAN;THE RAMBLER \HD Innocent purchase drives out depression on a dreary day \BY John McKelway \CR THE WASHINGTON TIMES We will pull out of the depression once we return to buying what we don't need. Thus spake - well, I'm not really too sure. It might have been an obscure professor of economics who said it and won the Nobel Prize. Economics professors are always winning Nobel Prizes, which is why, so far as I know, they get into the business in the first place. Anyway, one dreary, cold, drizzly afternoon recently, I had that thought in mind when I set out once again to buy another record, or compact disc, capturing the thoughts of some long-dead classical music composer. I usually go to the same store, a relatively new spot on Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda. There's also a shop selling prints and paintings - some good wildlife stuff - and a honey-baked ham store that from time to time has some free samples. There's a free parking garage in the back that has yet to be discovered. Across the side street is an Oriental rug store run by an Armenian named Jimmy who hangs stunning, expensive examples of his inventory in the window now and then. It's a good place to roam. The record store is on two floors. The classical stuff is down below. I usually walk as fast as possible past the terrible rock music, down the stairs, and then start checking to see what's new. I'll throw $15 at almost anything that looks interesting if it is by a big symphony orchestra conducted by some character - conductors are always characters - I've heard of. But first, I've got to browse. In the past, I've found the routine pleasant and peaceful. The store is never crowded. Downstairs with the classical collection, I'm often alone. I can take my time and, before I know it, I've killed another afternoon. If I don't leave with a record, I at least have the feeling I'm up to date and the record industry hasn't advanced in some direction without my knowledge. I might have spent as much as an hour before finally picking up yet another recording of the "Bolero." The Chicago Symphony Orchestra had turned it out. It is a fine orchestra and I wanted to see how it handled the piece I never get tired of for some strange reason. Ravel, the composer, was surprised it ever attracted much attention at all. I took it to the cashier upstairs. One of the clerks came over and looked at me in a strange way. I was wearing a windbreaker and a heavy, loose shirt. "Pat yourself down," he said. It was pretty obvious he thought I was shoplifting. I kept waiting for myself to get angry, which, it seemed to me, was what I ought to be doing. Normally, it doesn't take much. Actually, I was sort of amused. I had never heard of anyone suspected of anything patting himself down. Why, goodness, you could get away with murder doing that. I went the guy one better. I took off the windbreaker and then patted my tummy. I have no idea what the guy expected to hear. Even that did not satisfy him. He sort of stepped back and moved away slowly. No apology. No explanation. Was he having second thoughts about the possibly dangerous old man who had taken so long to buy the "Bolero"? I paid the other clerk what I owed for the "Bolero." He was deadly serious. He might have wondered what the two of them might have done, either if I was trying to shoplift or I had hit the ceiling having been accused of something I hadn't done. Or was he concerned about possible ramifications, like lawsuits and testifying and the job market. I asked him what was going on. "Somebody," he said, "has been stealing a lot of classical stuff lately." I left. Just casually left. I couldn't find the huff to stalk out in. Actually, I felt oddly at peace with the world. I think something's gone wrong. Have I been beaten down that much in 66 years? Or did I finally feel for the first time, when accused of something, that I wasn't guilty of anything? I was totally innocent. It's real nice. Like a summer breeze off the ocean. Maybe I'll go back and tell them that. This article is copyright 1992 The Washington Times. Redistribution to other sites is not permitted except by arrangement with American Cybercasting Corporation. For more information, send-email to usa@AmeriCast.COM