The folks who’d set them off this particular morning looked to be middle-aged, a couple, garishly dressed and bound to be bubbly. Harold stood, leaned against the counter and said, “Can I help you folks?”

“Just looking around,” said the man. “Love those wind chimes.” Then he gave them a smack with the palm of his hand and set them off again.

Harold flinched but felt he'd managed to hide it.

The man had entered the store first. He wore cowboy boots with lots of tooling and a broad white Stetson. The woman followed, tight on his heels in spiky boots of her own and a short, hip-hugging skirt. They both had big round buttons on their chests; but hers stood out more. "Nicely built woman," thought Harold. “Welcome To The North Country” the buttons said. The woman pushed past the man and began to touch, lift and poke at merchandise (cat-shaped dog biscuits, soaps, slabs of fudge, quilts, fragile crystal knick-knacks) that signs on the walls and counters explicitly said she shouldn't. "LOOK BUT DON’T TOUCH — IF YOU TRY IT AND BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT AND TAKE IT." Harold had made those signs. They weren’t exactly eloquent, but customers got the idea. Most of them did, anyway.

The man took a card from a basket near the door: "Harold Dibble's Vermont Country Emporium! Wow! If this isn't the place, Ruthie, I'd like to know what the place is.” He practically shouted it into the woman’s ear. She seemed immune, though, winced a little, maybe. Then he smacked her butt; he seemed to be into a smacking mood. “This IS the place, isn't it honey?” Then he kissed the woman's abused ear. "Better for you," thought Harold.

“It’s paradise!" The man spread his arms, took in the store with a broad magnanimous gesture. "Smells wonderful, too," he said. "That’s certainly right," Harold thought. The country store with the fragrant scents of pine and aged cheddar was the way Harold had put it in some of the ads.

Harold sat down but kept himself focused.

"Charlie, look at this, it's so ... cute." The woman, Ruthie, had picked up a small wooden outhouse with a crescent moon on the door and was looking it over through the dark, sequined sunglasses. She turned to Charlie and gave it to him to study, to approve of, Harold supposed. Charlie turned it this way and that, then handed it back to Ruthie and smiled. "She wants it, God love her," thought Harold, "and Charlie’s going to get it for her."

"Why do they go for that crap?" Harold asked himself. He had more of that “crap” in the back, of course. Business being business.

Charlie pointed and oohed as he came across things that struck him: bubbling lamps, plastic doggie-doo and ties sporting "comic" quotes seemed to strike his fancy the most. "This is why we’re here," he said to Ruthie. "Why we came to Vermont, isn't it sweetheart?" He looked so pleased.

Ruthie agreed that that was why they had come. She waved her prize at Harold, to show how happy she was to have found it in Harold’s store. At least that’s how Harold chose to interpret her gesture.

Harold remained wary, as the couple snooped, touched, lifted and poked things. He glanced out the window at the big Mercedes SUV in which they'd arrived and wondered how folks like this could afford to own such pricey vehicles. "Hey... none of my business," he thought. He picked up the paper and started to check ads again.

"Ahhh... sir..." said Ruthie.

Harold looked up and saw that the woman was standing before him, holding the outhouse gingerly with the tips of her manicured nails.

"How much is this... sir?" she asked.

"Harold, lady. Name's Harold. Harold Dibble’s Country Emporium. It’s my place."

"And a wonderful place it is," Charlie shouted. He’d been searching through marked-off items at the back of the store.

"Thanks," said Harold. He took the outhouse and checked the price. "It's five dollars and thirty-seven cents."

Ruthie looked back at Charlie.

“I told you it was OK to get it, honey,” said Charlie. He’d been busily pumping out blats from the bowels of a Whoopee Cushion he’d found. “Thirty percent off; can you believe it? I’m getting this, Hon.” Charlie set the cushion down next to the outhouse and dug for his wallet.

"Nice choices." Harold smiled up at the two of them.

Ruthie and Charlie smiled back. "Thanks," they said at the same time.

"That'll be eight dollars and fifty-three cents, plus tax." The couple chuckled and winked at each other. Harold cleared his throat. He wondered why taxes would strike them as funny. "Maybe they don’t pay any, maybe that's why," he thought. Charlie gave Harold cash. Harold counted it carefully.

"Where are you folks headed?" Harold asked.

"Down the road," said Charlie." We’re looking for more bargains." He gave Ruthie a big squeeze, "Right, Honeybun?"

“Right,” Ruthie giggled and winked again.

Then they said their goodbyes and walked toward the door.

"Enjoy yourselves," Harold said.

"Oh we will," Charlie replied. He smacked the chimes again, for luck perhaps, got his fingers meshed in the strings and brought it all crashing down. Harold stared. The couple stared back, waiting, Harold imagined, to see what he'd want them to do.

Harold was about to be stern, but he sat, for a moment in silence… eyed the chimes as they lay on the floor... and thought better of it. It was too damn hot to scold. Besides, he was secretly pleased with what had happened.

“Forget it,” he said. "Don't worry," and waved them on their way.

They waved back and left in a rush. Harold got up, lumbered over and picked up the chimes. He shook the remains, for old-time's sake, then dumped them into the wastebasket.

“Good luck,” he called out as the couple roared off in their van.

Then he settled back in his chair, put his feet up, yawned, and thought about what he could hang onthe door that would dingle with dignity.

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