The store looked as old and empty as the town. Years of dust and dirt coated the large glass storefront upon which the hand-printed sign looked taped off-center. A few faded, ancient advertisements lay mutely on the wide windowsill along with many generations of dead flies. A faded yellow "We're Open -- Use Burma Shave" sign hung silently in the center of the door.

An invitation, Tim thought.

The door moaned as he opened it, awakening a small bell announcing his entry.

A man appeared silently from a back room and in a weak voice asked, "Can I help you?" He looked old and tired, his hair white and in disarray, as if the bell had awakened him from an afternoon nap. A little boy appeared behind him, his reddish hair in the same disarray as the man's.

"Well -- ah -- yes," Time said hesitantly. "Interested in your sign. What do you mean, 'New Pasts Sold Cheap?"

The man's face brightened into a smile. "Well, sir, let me ask you one question." His voice strengthened with each word. At the same time, he straightened as if being pumped with new life.

I awakened the con artist, Tim thought.

"Ever wished that some part of your past turned out differently?" the old man asked. "Maybe life would have been better if you had won the big lottery or married your childhood sweetheart? Well, I'm the local distributor of your new past." He gave a command to the boy in a low voice, who then disappeared into the back room. "Would you be interested in a purchase today?"

Tim's smile faded momentarily as he wondered what kind of crazy he had come across. After a moment of thought, Tim asked, "What do you mean? I don't understand!"

"I'm sorry, where are my manners? Please follow me to my showroom."

The man smiled again, pointed to a large dust-covered table at the rear of the store, and then walked to the table. Automatically, Tim followed. The man pulled back a chair. What the hell, Tim thought and sat down.

The little boy returned, struggling with a large leather-bound book almost as big as he was.

The man took it and set it in front of Tim, opening it to the first page. "Please feel free to browse through our catalog. I'll return in just a moment."

Tim, confused, stared with amazement into the book. The first page displayed his own birth certificate. "How the hell did you know?" he asked, turning to address the old man. He found the room vacant, with the smell of dust and mildew remaining. The store rang silently in his ears, so Tim turned back to the book.

The next few pages consisted of his birth announcement, and his first -grade report card. Next came a newspaper clipping with a faded picture of a group of Boy Scouts in front of an old library. Tim smiled, remembering that day the town's public library honored him and his Boy Scout troop for their work. They had worked odd jobs all summer to raise money to buy new books. Tim always loved to read.

His smile broadened at the sight of the next page, the acceptance letter from Boy's Life magazine. One of the proudest moments of his life, 12 years old and already a writer! His parents had been proud, but his grandmother's smile seemed even more important. Tim's grin continued as pages slowly passed by.

When Tim ran across his grandmother's obituary, he stopped leafing through the book. Tears misted his eyes as he remembered her. He loved his Grandma Mary. She loved books, and she made sure Tim shared that love. She encouraged him to write and to work hard in school. Without her, he would not have gotten that scholarship to Kenyon College.

The next page held a copy of his first short story published in The Kenyon Review, "Relations." The story was about his grandmother, written during his first year at college. In his second year, he turned the story into a play.

Tim caught his breath at the next page: a photograph of Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, and himself. Tim turned again to look for the old man because he remembered tearing that photo up in a drunken rage years ago. Still, there it was, untorn, with the inscription: To Tim – a bright future ahead – Paul & Joanne. They had read his short story. Both Paul Newman and his wife were famous alumnus and alumna of Kenyon and always looked for new talent there. They suggested that if he wrote the story as a play, they would consider doing it for their annual summer stock at the college. A year later, the college's drama department produced it. At the celebration, which this picture was taken, he met Sue Ann; she worked at the Pirate's Cove, Kenyon's only beer hall.

Yes, Tim thought, as he turned the next page: their marriage certificate. "God, we were both so much in love," he said in a low voice, smiling. Tim looked up again, and he was still alone in the store. A few rays of afternoon sunshine made thin, silent shafts of dust towards the front of the store.

He continued to smile, turning the page to his acceptance letter from Monroe Hills College, his first teaching job. He and Sue Ann were young and ready to conquer the world for his short stories began to appear in print. He thought the teaching job was just the springboard to a promising career in writing. He had burned hot to be a writer. To be famous. The next page destroyed his happiness.

There before him lay one of his rejection letters from the many book publishers he had sent his manuscripts to. This one in particular had finally broken his confidence, making him give up writing. Nothing in that letter made it different from the many others he had received before, but this one rejection broke his will to go on. That letter briefly brought back his feelings of deeply hidden anger.

In the Eighties it seemed everyone got their work published. Tim felt then, deep in his heart, that his work was as least as good as anything on the market. Three years of work and no one wanted it. Yet, each week publishers printed more crap between book covers.

The next page sent a shot of regret through Tim's mind. The nerve of that backwater college; they fired him without a second chance. So what if I drank a little. Everyone did, and more. Now, Tim knew that he had become an alcoholic over those years of rejections of his novels and teaching kids who cared little about literature.

Regardless, there lay the letter of termination from Monroe Hills. That letter kept him from any hope of other teaching jobs, even if he wanted one, which he didn't. Suddenly, he was afraid to turn the page for he knew what was next.,

Tears welled in his eyes at the sight of his final divorce decree from Sue Ann. Again he asked the question "How does the old man know so much about me?" Tim glanced up. The room felt deathly still and quiet, and the man or the boy still nowhere in sight. With his question unanswered, he looked back at the page.

As Tim stared at the decree, memories of Sue Ann returned: blonde hair always kept in a ponytail, green eyes sparkling as she spoke, and a face that somehow reminded him of spring. Those were memories of long ago, before the troubled times. By the time she left, her sparkle had long vanished, and her face sadly had the look of autumn.

He really couldn't blame Sue Ann for the divorce. She had been so supportive during those years he struggled to become a writer. She stood by him when failure often got the better of him. However, the drinking and the abuse that followed proved more than she could stand. Now, Tim understood that she had had no choice but to leave him, or she would have fallen down that dark hole with him. After she left, his whole world fell apart and he lost everything to the booze and drugs. It took him two years once he hit rock bottom to get his life back to normal. Now he lived a normal, but far from happy, life.

Beyond that page Tim's life continued. Numerous termination notices and arrest reports slipped silently past his eyes; he stopped when he saw the release paper from a drug rehab center in Atlanta. Yes, he thought, this book holds my whole life.

. He turned the page to a letter from the Fox Network. They wanted to buy rights to a short story for a TV movie deal.

The last page, from Monroe Hills College and dated just a month ago, inquired if, after these many years, he wished his old teaching job back for the following fall term.

"Have you found anything of interest?" The old man's voice brought Tim back to the present. "Any new past you wish to purchase?"

"How can you do that, old man?"

"A secret, my young man, a secret," the old man said, sounding like dialogue from a W.C. Fields movie. "You don't ask Colonel Sanders how he cooks his chicken, but you buy it. You don't ask Dolly Parton how she keeps her -- " He stopped and looked down at the smiling face of the young boy. "Ah . . . never mind. It's a secret."

"I still don't understand," Tim said, as he wiped the tear of remorse from his eye.

"Simple. Just find an event in your life you wish changed, and it will be changed. For a fee, of course, but I guarantee my rates are the cheapest."

"I still don't really understand, but yes, I've found a time I wish changed." He turned the book to a certain page and showed it to the man. "How much?"

"Two hundred three dollars and twelve cents."

"That's every cent I have," he said finally.

"But it's the cheapest rate you'll find anywhere."

Two hundred and three lousy dollars, Tim thought, was all that remained of that advance money Fox had sent him. He needed that two hundred dollars to live on until he could make it back to Monroe Hills and start teaching. However, against all the little voices inside telling him not to, Tim reached for his wallet and handed the man the money. "Now what?"

"Nothing. Close your eyes and think only of that page."

Tim smiled nervously and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt a warm sensation that started in his feet and raced up his body. Once the warmth reached his neck, he opened his eyes to a bright flash, and he felt himself begin to disappear. The last thing he saw was the old man looking down into the smiling face of the young boy and saying, "Another satisfied customer."

Hopelessly lost, Sue Ann drove down a back road in the Ohio countryside. Her tired eyes barely noticed when she entered yet another one of those small empty farm towns. Another town that looked like it had nothing more than a few old brick buildings waiting for time to wear them down. A sign in one storefront caught her attention:"New Pasts Sold Cheap.."

She stopped the car, backed it to the front of the store and parked. A puzzled, nervous smile slowly grew on her face. Had this been six years earlier, she would have passed this place without a thought of the sign's meaning. Now, life had been so different since Tim had left her. Now she had nothing to lose by investigating.

Once out of the car, she stood for a few minutes, nervously twisting her wedding band. The divorce had been final two years ago, yet she still wore the ring. She didn't totally blame Tim for leaving her for his lifestyle changed with his success. Tim loved New York City and she was a small-town girl. She longed for that little house near Monroe Hills College where they lived, he teaching and she growing vegetables and waiting for a child they never had.

She really couldn't blame that bitch novelist who stole him away; well, maybe a little. The woman was beautiful and younger than herself, and so much a part of that world of books and writers, a world Sue Ann cared little for.

It wasn't even the fault of all those people who suddenly became Tim's friends when his novels became bestsellers. Tim had been caught up in the fame he had worked so long and hard for.

She loved him the way he had been before and still loved him now, regardless. Maybe, if she continued to wear the ring, she thought, there still may remain a chance that one day he would realize her love and return to her.

A sudden cool breeze in her face brought her attention back to the storefront. The sign had whetted her curiosity and now it got the better of her. She opened the door and walked in. The door moaned as it opened and a small bell over the door ran out in the empty store. The room smelled old and dusty.

An old-looking, white-haired man appeared from a back room and said in a soft voice, "You must be Sue Ann." A small reddish-haired boy appeared by his side with a large leather-bound book. "We've been expecting you."

About the author:

Laid-off Kennedy Space Center worker Jim Harris now spends his time learning about computer networks. Yet, he takes time to continue honing his skills on his second love, one of writing -- his first being his wife. "New Pasts Sold Cheap" represents another important first: his first sale.