Pepper's Penance Ch. 03

Namaste

Author's Note

Pepper's Penance is a slow burning romance that unfolds over the course of twenty-three chapters. This is not a wham-bam story. But, if you're into that sort of thing, I think you'll like this tale.

And, if this is your first encounter with the story, do yourself a favor and start with chapter one. All chapters are listed in my profile page.

The deli delivery guy came back—the one who was looking at guitar strings and tablature—he bought the tablature book this time. So, hooray for ringing up a sale, but, that was it. No Trixie and no Pepper. Not that she was my favorite person in the world, but how were people supposed to wander into my store without the siren's call of her remarkable piano playing to draw them in?

I studied the henna art on my hand. It was starting to fade. I pulled out my repurposed glue bottle and went to work on a new design while I sorted some of my pay later bills into the pay much later pile.

It was coming up on two o'clock before the door chime finally rang. There was Pepper, her hoodie had a different logo on it, but still managed to look like it had been hung up on the floor for the past several days. She stubbed out her cigarette and trotted in with Trixie at her heel.

I stared at the front of her hoodie. "Namaste Motherfucker?" I mumbled.

"You like it?" She grinned as she hooked her thumbs in the top of the kangaroo pocket and pulled it out straight so I could see. "Got it online. Can't remember the site, though. So, if you want one, you'll have to search."

"I think I'll be fine."

She pushed back the hood with one hand. "I know, it's a little crass, but look, it's got that statue guy and a there's a little squiggly thing where the 'u' is supposed to be, so it's not actually swearing."

"Buddha? The Om? Sacred symbol to Hindus, Buddhists and Jains around the world?"

"Yeah, I guess." Pepper let go of her sweatshirt pocket and I watched it deflate. She turned and wandered toward the piano. Trixie followed.

I walked back to the front counter. "You missed lunch."

"Actually, I was going to buy." She pulled a wad of cash from her Namaste hoodie pocket, tossed it on top of the Yamaha and sat down at the bench. "But, it sounds like you already ate."

"I had a late breakfast."

"Oh." She began playing her signature sad, minor key blues. "I had my usual. I could really go for another corned beef on rye. You wanna call it in? Get yourself whatever you want. My treat."

Trixie snuffled and curled up under the piano.

Pepper looked up. "Oh, and don't forget—"

"Diet Coke."

"Yeah. Thanks."

I phoned in our order to the deli and went back to sorting my pile of overdue bills. The front door chimed a minute later. A woman walked in with a toddler clinging to her pinky finger.

"Hello," I said.

The woman flashed me a quick smile.

"Doggie!" exclaimed the toddler, and went tearing off in the direction of the piano.

"Be nice," called the woman, turning to look.

I was thinking quite seriously of hollering the same thing to Pepper. But then she paused her playing and leaned toward the toddler.

"Namaste," she said, pressing her palms together and bowing toward the tiny human. Fortunately, there was no mention of the printing on the bottom half of Pepper's hoodie, and by bending forward, it was hidden from view.

"Doggie!"

"Trixie. That's her name. You want to pet her?"

The woman seemed to think all was well with her child, and turned to ask me about piano sheet music. When I walked her over to the wall where it was shelved, I could hear the toddler giggling. I told myself it was because Trixie was being charming, not because Pepper was explaining the words on her hoodie, and I was able to focus on helping the woman find what she wanted.

The sad chord progressions resumed, underpinning a slow, improvised melody Pepper tinkled out with her right hand. In stark contrast came the occasional swell of giggling and exclamation of "Doggie!" from the toddler.

"This is a nice place you have here," the woman said, as I rang up her purchase."

"Thanks," I said. "Tell your friends."

"Of course." She went to collect her child, but lingered a while to listen to Pepper's playing.

I should have been happy. I made a sale. She agreed to my offhand suggestion of telling her friends about my store. But, in my mind, all I saw was Pepper's hoodie and a curious toddler. I hoped the piano blocked the choice words from view.

The deli delivery guy had impeccable timing and held the door open for the woman and her child as they left. Trixie popped her head up, sniffed the air, and trotted over. Pepper followed.

"Namaste Motherfucker," the delivery guy chuckled. "I like it."

Pepper tipped him five bucks for a twelve dollar lunch. I guess she really took the hoodie compliment to heart.

"Thanks," he said, and proceeded to wander back to look at the guitar sheet music and accessories.

"You should sell guitars," Pepper said, after tearing off a bite of corned beef on rye. "I bet that guy would buy one."

"I can't really compete with the big online retailers."

"It's a college town, Ash." Pepper tore off another bit of sandwich, with her fingers this time, and fed it to Trixie.

"Let some freshman kid buy the guitar from the big store. You know, when he's feeling flush after his student loan payout. Give him a month to realize it's harder than he thought and that he really needs that money for beer now.

"Even if you bought it back at half price." Pepper tore off another bite of sandwich while Trixie sat patiently watching and pleading with her eyes.

"I don't know..."

"Delivery guy would buy one." She tilted her head in his direction. "I'll bet you lunch on it."

I grinned. Somehow I imagined I'd be buying lunch from here on out anyway, that Pepper's spark of generosity was a one time thing. What did I have to lose?

"Craigslist?" I said.

"Nah." Pepper shook her head. "The college newspaper has online buy and sell classified pages. That's your preferred demographic anyway."

"I'll give it a shot."

"Do it quick. Before delivery guy gets paid again and taps confirm on his online shopping cart." Pepper tore off another bite of sandwich. "What do you think? Is he a Stratocaster guy or a Les Paul guy?"

"I have no idea," I said. "I know nothing about guitars."

"Neither do I. But I convinced you, huh?" Pepper tore off a bit of sandwich for Trixie. "So go ask him."

"What?"

"You know. Strat or Les Paul."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

So I did. I got up and walked back to where I stocked the strings and tablature.

"I'm trying to figure something out," I said. "Are you a Stratocaster guy or Les Paul?"

"Me?" He turned. "Strat all the way. I mean, like, Cobain, Frusciante, Gilmour. Man, that all black look is wicked."

I nodded politely, recognizing only Kurt Cobain, with Gilmour ringing a distant bell somewhere in the back of my mind.

"We're going to start stocking some guitars," I said. "Mostly used, would be my guess. I could keep an eye out for you or you could just pop in. I'm sure this won't be your last corned beef delivery here."

I looked over at Pepper. She was bent over, holding out what looked like the last of her sandwich to Trixie. She held her hands out, palms up and flipped them over, in what I think was a sign language gesture for all done.

"...would be sweet," the guy from the deli was saying, as I refocused my attention. "I've been borrowing my roommate's. He's nice about it, but I can read between the lines. Thing is, I can't really afford new and I hate to buy used without being able to look 'er over first. You know, to see how she's been treated."

"Right," I said, "I'm going to put the word out. Hopefully, we'll have something for you to take home and call your baby."

"Nice," he said. "Namaste, ladies." And with a wave, he was out the door.

"You gonna eat your sandwich?" Pepper was over at the piano now, already tinkling the keys. Her deli paper wrapper, strewn with crumbs, was still laid out on my front counter. "'Cause if you're not—"

"Who's Frusciante?"

"Red Hot Chilli Peppers."

"I thought you didn't know anything about guitars."

"I don't," she said. "I just like music."

I wandered back over to the front counter. I tucked into my sandwich while I looked up the university paper's classified section on my phone. Between bites, I wadded up Pepper's deli paper wrapper and tossed it in the trash. I used her crumpled up napkin to soak up the condensation ring left by her Diet Coke.

"Pepper," I said without looking up.

"Yeah?"

"Get your Diet Coke off my fifteen-thousand dollar Yamaha end table."

I heard a chuckle. "Yes, ma'am."

The door chime rang out and I looked up to see another customer entering. "Namaste," I said, smiling.

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