The drugstore was on the comer of Ainsley Avenue and North Eleventh Street. A lunch counter ran along the left-hand side of the store. The remainder of the place was given over to drugs and sundries. A rack of paperback books, their titles and covers screaming for attention, stood before a row of hot-water bottles. Beyond that, and somewhat apart from the heap of combs and syringes behind it, was a rack of greeting cards. He walked past the books - something called HOW TO DO IT ON AIRPLANES caught his eye - and directly to the greeting cards. An assorted array of birthday cards was spread out on the rack - Birthday Son, Birthday Daughter, Mother, Father, Brother, Sister, Grandfather, Grandmother, and Miscellaneous Relatives. He scanned them quickly, glanced briefly at Condolences, Anniversary, and Birth and finally came to the section devoted exclusively to valentines. More and more of the cards each year were comical. He didn't care much for that kind of card. Most of them, matter of fact, he didn't get the humor of. He looked down the row of labels at the top of the rack, and saw that these cards were classified, too, almost the way the birthday cards had been. There were cards for Sweetheart, Wife, Husband, Mother, Father; he didn't bother going down the rest of the row because what he was interested in was a card for his mother. He looked at two or three of them, and then found a nice card with a real satin heart on the front of it, and pink ribbons trailing from the heart, and the word Mother in delicate gold script across the top of the card. He opened it and started to read the little poem inside. Sometimes, you found a nice-looking card but the words were all wrong. You had to be careful.
He read the verse over again, and then read it a third time, pleased with the sentiment, appreciative of the way the lines scanned. He wondered how much the card cost. He liked it, but he didn't want to go spending too much for a card. He walked over to the cash register. A colored girl was sitting behind it, reading a magazine.
"How much is this card?" he asked.
"Let's see it," she said. She took the card from him, turned it over, and looked at the price on the back. "It's seventy-five cents," she said. She saw his expression, and smiled. "There are cheaper ones there, if you look."
"Well, I like this one," he said. "It is a nice one."
My Mother The. joy you Bring to me each day Cannot in mere words be. e^ressed. The. mittion things you do and say Confirm, you are the very Best. And even when the day is done, And weary waCf^ I up the stair, 'Who Waits for me? The only one To smite, to greet, to Cove, to care - mother.
"Yeah, I like the poem. Most of them have terrible poems."
"It's a nice poem," the girl said, glancing at it.
"Seventy-five, huh?"
"Yes, that's what it says on the back. See?" She turned the card over and held it out to him. She had very long nails. She pointed to some letters and numerals printed on the bottom of the card. "See where it says XM-75? that means seventy-five cents."
"Why don't they just mark it seventy-five cents?" he asked.
The girl giggled. "I don't know. They want to be mysterious, I guess."
"Yes, well, XM-75 is sure mysterious," he said, and smiled, and the girl smiled back. "Well, I guess I'll take it," he said.
"Your mother'll like it," the girl said.
"I think so. I need some stamps; do you sell stamps?"
"In the machine," the girl said.
"And, oh, wait a minute…"
"Yes?"
"I want to get another card."
"All right," she said.
"Don't ring that up yet."
"I won't."
He went back to the rack and bypassed the Mother and Wife and Sweetheart section, searching for a section labeled Friend or Acquaintance, and finding one marked General, and then looking over the cards there until he found one that said simply, To Someone Very Nice on Valentine's Day. There wasn't any poem inside the card. All it said was Have a Happy. He took the card back to the cash register and showed it to the colored girl.
"Do you like this one?" he asked.
"Who's it for? Your girl?"
"No, I don't have a girl," he answered.
"Oh, sure, come on," she said, "big handsome fellow like you."
"Really," he said, "I don't have a girl," and realized all at once she was flirting with him.
"Who's it for?" she asked archly.
"My landlady."
The girl laughed. "You must be the only man in this entire city who's sending a card to his landlady."
"Well, I am," he said, and laughed with her.
"She must be something, your landlady."
"She's very nice."
"A blonde, I'll bet."
"Well, no."
"What then? A readhead?"
"No, no, she's-"
"Or maybe you like darker girls," she said, and looked him square in the eye.
He looked back at her and said nothing.
"Do you like dark girls?" she said.
"I like dark girls," he said.
"I'll just bet you do," she said, very softly.
They were both silent for a moment.
"How much do I owe you?" he asked.
"Well, let me take a look at the one for your landlady," she said, and turned the card over. "Seventy-five and… twenty-five is a dollar."
