July 7, 1990: Slum Is Where Your Heart IsSometimes about now the slummers come out of the ground in bunches, like radishes. We call them “slummers” not because this place is a slum or anything but because that’s what they call themselves when they take their turns through the building. “Oh, we’re just slumming,” they say sort of half-jolly and half-ashamed, no one there along with them from the company guiding them through, and we smile and wave about as much as any museum exhibit would like to.
Colin’s different about them, as you’d expect. He comes roaring out from behind the mountains of papers on his couple of desks, grabs their arms and says everything in big letters, all so you can hear him down at the other end of the building, “Hey, c’mon back here! Ever seen stone money from Yap? Know why they call it Yap, doncha? Scandinavians – like the Vikings discovered America -- came to the island and couldn’t pronounce ‘Jap,’ see, and so they said to one of the natives, ‘You – Yap,’ and it stuck. Here – know why it’s got a hole in the middle? It’s a fertility thing,” and he goes on like that, five minutes. All lies, every one, but slummers are shook up at the end of it. No different than going to a horror movie, Colin says. Not a lot of truth in a horror movie but it shakes you up just the same, which is what Colin’s after.
Colin can get away with it because he's Colin. Rest of us can't because we are who we are. World's foremost authorities on Chinese money are hard to come by. Card guys you can get five for nickel, with one stick gum.
Hard to figure out why slummers come here, though. It’s not on the main road. It’s not even on the road you take when you don’t take the main road. It’s on the road you take when you have to get somewhere that’s on the road. Unless you're a deer, which case it's the road you take to die. People coming from New York really have to have it in their heads they want to come here. People from Chicago it’s more reasonable, but at that it’s two hours out of their way going anywhere.
Only thing we want to know about slummers is what kind of people they are: old-car people, comic-book people, baseball-card people, postcard people, people with a reason to come here other than it's a big flat building in a town of little flat buildings. They look at us curious and then look somewhere else, they're not baseball-card people. They look at us curious and keep looking, staring, maybe some disbelief, they're baseball-card people, unless Duke is nearby, which case it's just Duke.
Once we figure out what kind of people they are we're done with them unless they're baseball-card people. If that's the case we send out whoever's least busy to talk with them for a while until they ask Their Question. Their Question is "What is this worth?", or one of its stepchildren, "My friend has this ball," and "Can I retire on my collection?" We tell them and they go away happy sometimes and less than happy most of the time, which is the way life breaks anyway outside of baseball cards, so what's to complain about?
Four slummers were through the other day, and this is before Colin got hold of them. For whatever reason Mort doesn't wait for the stare. We have a box full of odd packs and cards no one wants because they're worthless and ugly besides. Pacific Flash Cards, sportswriter cards, Sportflics, which are these cards with three images that change when you tilt them, stickers. We call it the Steal Box in hopes that one of the help will figure they can take this box to a flea market and make a killing, but unfortunately everyone around here's too smart to grab the Steal Box.
Mort reaches in the Steal Box, grabs a handful of packs and cuts a straight path to the slummers. "Here you go!" he bellers for Mort, which is near a normal voice for anyone else, then he pushes the packs into the slummers' chests and lets go, so they have to grab on. "Baseball cards! Go get rich on baseball cards! Tell 'em Rick Baumer said you can retire on these baseball cards! Go to the nearest card store! Do not pass go or collect two hundred dollars! Go on -- go! Whatcha waiting for? Go!"
Slummers don't know whether to thank Mort for their fortune or just take the fortune and run. They don't run, but they walk a lot faster.
We must have looked different at Mort, because he swings his head fast so he can give us all a look and then says, "Two things: Baumer was least busy and I'm deadlining a 304-page issue. Okay?" And then he heads back to the pagination he has spread all over his desk and the layout table.
"Okay? Yeah; okay by us," Whitey says, and throws some more dog packs in the Steal Box. "Every slummer needs a piece of the slum to take home with him."
