The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe by J. Michael Orenduff Page B

owner for fifteen pesetas in 1691.
    When the middle third became vacant, I leased it because I thought I wanted two shops, one featuring traditional Native American pottery and one featuring my copies. Running two stores proved to be a hassle, so I reconsolidated.
    Now the leased space sits empty while I make monthly payments. It makes no economic sense, but at least I’ve come to realize why I leased it in the first place. It wasn’t because I needed two shops. It was because I didn’t want to risk having a body-piercing emporium or pawn shop as a neighbor.
    â€œHow would you use the space?” I asked Glad.
    â€œCasual clothing—jumpers, trainers, plimsolls, swimming costumes—that sort of thing.”
    The perfect business, right? Nothing noisy or open late. No rowdy customers. No cooking smells. Never mind that I have no idea what a plimsoll is and that a bathing costume sounds like something Esther Williams would wear at Halloween. This could be a way to get those lease payments made by someone else.
    â€œI might be interested. Would you like to see the space?”
    â€œI have already done so. Looked through the glass door, you see.”
    No, I thought to myself, if you looked through the glass door, I wouldn’t see— you would see.
    â€œHow much will you let it for?”
    â€œIt’s a thousand square feet, and retail space in Old Town goes for about a dollar a foot.”
    â€œA thousand a month is beyond my budget. I have a proposal. The town I come from, Ludlow, is home to many sole-proprietor shops. When the shopkeeper has to run an errand or visit a doctor’s surgery, he closes up and posts a notice. We in England are used to it. But you Yanks seem less patient. You expect shops to keep regular hours.”
    I could have sworn he said shoppes . I could almost hear the extra letters. I nodded my agreement to his observation.
    â€œI propose that I mind your store when you are away, and in consideration thereof, you reduce the lease to eight hundred.”
    Since eight hundred is the exact amount I was paying Benny Orozco, I was tempted to accept his offer on the spot. But I hesitated.
    â€œI’ll stand you a drink,” he said.
    We had reached the front of the line. He ordered a pink gin. I asked for a Tecate. He paid. We found a table, worked out the details and made a toast to our new business arrangement. The good fortune of meeting Glad was a small step toward solvency.

13
    S harice walked into Spirits in Clay the next day around noon with a young cheetah on a leash.
    Geronimo yelped, then bolted headlong into the door to the workshop. Bouncing off it didn’t injure him—his head is more skull than brain. He popped back up and began clawing furiously at the door, looking back every few seconds to make sure the cheetah was still on its leash.
    I took pity on him and opened the door.
    â€œSorry,” she said, laughing. “I should have called to warn you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I don’t like laughing at Geronimo, but you have to admit he doesn’t quite live up to his name.”
    I made a feeble attempt to defend his courage. “Well, he’s never seen a cheetah before.”
    â€œIt’s not a cheetah. It’s a Savannah cat.”
    â€œWow. They grow them big in Georgia.” The beast was twice the length of a dachshund and a whole lot taller—it came up past Sharice’s knees.
    â€œIt’s not from Georgia. Savannah cats are a cross between a serval and a domestic cat.”
    â€œI know cats are domestic, but I’ve never known one to be servile. Only dogs seem anxious to serve their masters.”
    â€œNot servile . Serval , with the accent on the first syllable. Servals are a breed of wild cats from Africa.”
    â€œAfrica?”
    â€œDon’t worry, it’s not an ethnic thing. I’m not going to start wearing dashikis and grand boubous.” She laughed. “Unless