By Michael De Rosa

One Friday morning, as I walked in Manhattan’s Upper Eastside along Madison Avenue to my subway entrance at 72nd St. As I had countless times, always too distracted to pay attention to passing stores, I found myself drawn to a store. As a card-carrying member of the International Society of Refrigerator Magnet Collectors, surprise did not do justice to my reaction when I saw its sign — “Magnets”—made from thousands of refrigerator magnets glued together. I had no choice. I went in, almost trembling with excitement. Who wouldn’t?

Inside, the tall, skinny clerk, face hidden by shadows, nodded as I entered. The walls, a higgly piggly arrangement of tacky magnets, seemed to go on forever. I stopped to look at the same magnet I had bought in Ouagadougou. When I glanced back, others replaced it from West Africa. Were they moving? Further ahead, a Neon sign I had not noticed before flashed “Bespoke Magnets” in crimson red.

Walking toward the Neon sign, I noticed a light sweet smell in the air. Now on the walls, I saw the unique magnets I had dreamed of bringing back from my travels, each an original artwork to be proudly displayed on a lucky fridge: the letters of Tanzania, a mosaic made from different shades of Tanzanite, tiny pearls or shells adorned those from Islands in the South Pacific; Hawaii’s was a small quilt stitched together from Aloha shirts.

I fell in love with a magnet from Hokkaido, Japan. In relief, a Steller’s sea eagle soared over a turbulent blue, foam-flecked sea. Individual feathers delicately carved, its bright yellow bill and talons glowing in the dim light. I had to have it, but it stuck to the wall, and I could not pull it off. I called the clerk over, his aquiline nose peering out from what looked like a hood. He effortlessly took it off and placed it in my hands. We walked to the counter. I was nearly in a trance as I paid hundreds of dollars for a 2×3 magnet. As I turned to leave with my treasure, he told me, “I have several other collections of interest.” I knew he was trying to upsell me, and hooked; I followed his lead.

We stopped at an alcove separated from the main showroom with a black beaded curtain, making it almost invisible to the casual visitor. Pressing a switch, “Ancient Places” glowed in dim purple light. Parting the long strings of beads, he went in, and I followed. Inside, a dazzling display of magnets from places whose ruins I had walked through, read about, and wondered how it would feel to be there in their glory days. I recognized the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, their labels in scripts I could not read: hieroglyphs for the Great Pyramid of Giza, cuneiform for the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and Greek letters spelled out those from Ancient Greece. Puzzled. Whose refrigerators were they made to grace? In his unplaceable accent, before I could ask my question, he said, “Don’t get too close,” in a warning tone. I didn’t heed his advice.

Spotting a magnet of the Mayan City of Tikal, whose ruins in Guatemala I had visited, the central plaza was in miniature in all its glory. What I had seen before was now transformed into a riot of color. I got closer for a better look, but I was too close. As I peered at the magnet, it became a small window through which I could see tiny figures moving. I felt a wave of vertigo; a gentle tug brought me back into the showroom. Was it possible that what I thought of as magnets were portals into ancient worlds? He saw my pupils dilate with my thoughts of trying to find out, detoured me again, telling me they were experimental, not yet ready for sale. He led me farther into the store than possible for the NYC store size. As we walked, the only sounds were our footsteps, and the perfume in the air got stronger.

This section was even darker than the rest of the store. Finally, we came to another sign: “THE COSMOS.” He pressed a panel with his boney palm, and what looked like an airlock opened. A slight breeze, scented by a familiar sweet smell, wafted out. I turned with a questioning look, and he said, “Ethyl formate, the smell of raspberries and interstellar space.” He led me in. Before he closed us in, he warned me again as the airlock clicked shut, “Don’t get too close,” and added cryptically, “Beware of gravity.” Gravity?

Inside, there were no walls. Instead, magnets, or what I took to be magnets, floated, spotlighted against the gloom — almost as if they were dancing in the presence of magnetic fields. I could make out the glowing astral bodies they celebrated even from a distance. In one corner were our eight planets, each in its magnet orbiting a giant sun magnet. Was it my imagination, or was Pluto trying to rejoin his larger siblings — completing my childhood Solar System? Others featured constellations. As I watched stars morph into the shapes, we imagine them to be, Virgo, my zodiac sign, turned into a portrait painted by a Renaissance Master. More exciting, others were of spiral galaxies, globular clusters, planetary nebulas, and the Magellanic Clouds.

As I approached, trying to stay safe, I saw some objects remembered from my college astro class: The Crab Nebula, Andromeda’s Spiral galaxy, and one that looked like the Milky Way but as seen from outside our galaxy. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw an orange-yellow ring as hypnotic as the Eye of Sauron — a Black Hole. I found myself walking faster and faster, almost running toward the Black Hole.

My last memory is of the clerk leaping to try and stop me.

I awoke sprawled face down, with carpet pile tickling my nose. Light filtering from the storefront window told me it was early morning. As I tried to get up, a strong skeletal hand reached out to help and led me to a waiting chair. Had the clerk been waiting for me? He handed me a mug of hot tea. I gulped down the sweet brew as its warmth suffused my body. I slowly came back to consciousness. Touching my face, I found I had a stubble. I had not shaved in a couple of days. Puzzled, but once the clerk saw I could stand and walk, he handed me a small bag with my eagle magnet. And without a word, he escorted me out of the store.

I slowly walked home, shaved, and showered. When I looked at my alarm clock, it was two days since I had gone to work. I rapidly changed my clothes and went to the store as quickly as possible. It was gone, nowhere to be found and in where I thought it had been, a Halloween pop-up store. I retraced my steps on the opposite side of the street to ensure I was not confused about where the shop was.

Over a year has passed, and on Fridays, I walk back and forth from my house to the subway station on alternate sides of the street just in case. Sometimes I un-focus my eyes, hoping the magnet store will pop out of the confusion. And now, I pay attention wherever I walk, just in case.

The eagle soars over a turbulent sea on the magnet stuck to my refrigerator. Proof that what happened was not a dream. On mornings when I have raspberries with my granola, sometimes, there is a glint in the eye of the eagle as I pass by.

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Michael De Rosa is a writer from Wallingford, PA, who recently retired as a professor (emeritus) of chemistry at Penn State Brandywine. Interests are travel, photography, and birding. The writer has published poetry in Ariel Chart, Trouvaille Review, and Academy of the Heart and Mind, and a memoir in Ariel Chart: International Literary Journal.