Norris Electronics

The sign on the door read “Norris Electronics.” Inside was a small, comfortable, wood paneled room. There were a half dozen televisions on one wall, antennae probing upward, seeking signals that were few and far between. A turntable squatted against the wall, a selection of records below it on the shelf. Mr Norris, 68, was sitting at a workbench, hopeful. There was a soldering iron and a dozen pairs of pliers and wire cutters. There were spools of wire, covered in dust. In the cluttered backrooms of Mr. Norris’ memories were hundreds of blueprints, vacuum tubes, switches and dials. Patience and hope kept Mr Norris behind the counter from 8 am until 5 PM. He ate a lunch around noon: an apple, bottle of juice and bologna sandwich.

He carried a briefcase to work. It was sharp. Light brown leather with a combination lock kept his clients important documents safe. Except it was empty. He had his business cards in there. Printed two hundred in 1984 and he still had some. And the paper, of course. The daily paper. Have to keep up with all the new things going on. The new televisions that nobody wants repaired and the new videogame systems that don’t need vacuum tubes or solder or anything else when they break. They just get replaced.

Then 5:00 comes around and Mr Norris gets up from the bench, walks over to the door and takes a brief look around to see if anyone is just running up at the last minute before flipping the sign over to “closed.” Today he knows this will be the last time. He walks home.

On the way to the shop in the morning Mr Norris enters the pawnshop he’s walked by every morning for close to 30 years now. After a few minutes he walks out without his briefcase and with a bulge in his pocket. He walks to his shop. He opens the door, walks in, closes and locks the door behind him. Mr Norris walks slowly into the backroom. He paces up and down the rows of shelves, touching dusty cardboard boxes of ancient capacitors and replacement resistors. He takes a seat on a 100 pound variable transformer that should by all rights be in a radio cabinet, picking up strains of ancient forgotten music. Then Mr Norris takes the gun out of his pocket and shoots himself in the head.

A few hours later a young man knocks on the door. He’s got a sharp briefcase, light brown leather with a combination lock. He wants to build a turntable to play videogames. He knows Mr Norris is his man. But nobody answers the door. Well, maybe there’s someone else out there who can do it. The world doesn’t stop turning.