the glamours of the pawnshop life

The pawnshop that I work at is on the edge of a neighborhood scary to the upper class patrons that come to buy jewelry, and frat boys from the state university across town that come to shop for guns. Geographically located in between a homeless shelter and a counseling center for the mentally ill, the sidewalks in front of our building teem with the old, infirm, crazy, and down and out. Gang members strut and swagger, crackheads panhandle, and prostitutes wave johns into the empty parking lot across from us. Police officers hang out for the free coffee, and mingle with the general public. It is a veritable goldmine of stories.

An elderly black man passes in front of the shop, wearing what appears to be a tweed sport coat, brightly colored Bermuda shorts, and huge earmuff style headphones, singing along to the old spirituals that only he can hear. Sometimes, this same man carries a closed umbrella, which he slams against the sidewalk, punctuating a vivid argument he is having with the thin air.

Sebastian, one of the mental health clients, comes to the counter, where I am speaking to a former police officer about his new career, head of security for the county expo center.

"Say baby! I need to pawn this ring for a hundred dollars," Sebastian shouts at me, interrupting my conversation.

I see that curl activator is dripping from Sebastian's hair, staining the neck of his white t-shirt. His eyes look wild, and his stance is aggressive. He hasn't been taking his meds.

"Sebastian, you're gonna have to wait a second. I am finishing a transaction for this gentleman, and as soon as I'm done, I'll look at your ring."

Sebastian turns to the former police officer and immediately recognizes him.

"Say man! You remember me? I'm Sebastian. You used to arrest me all the time!"

"Yeah, Sebastian, I remember you, but I don't do that anymore. I retired."

"I know that's right. You work at the Expo Center dontcha?

"I do."

"Say man, why don't you get me a job up there, working with you? I need me some money so I can get a car. I'm tired of all this walking bullshit, and begging for motherfucking rides. You know I done walked over here from North Street? That's a long fucking way when it's this hot. So what you say man, you gonna get me that job?"

"I'm not gonna hire you Sebastian."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, you're already drunk, and it's only ten o'clock in the morning. Don't you think that's a little early?"

"Man, what the fuck are you talking about? I ain't drunk." Sebastian stares at the former officer. "Man...how'd you know I was drunk?"

"I can smell it on you. You reek of cheap booze. What have you been drinking?"

Sebastian leans closer to the ex-cop. "Evah-clear, mothafucka." He lifts his massive hand to the cop's face, covering it with his palm.

The cop slaps Sebastian's hand away. "Sebastian, you best start acting right. I will put your big ass in the floor, and I believe these ladies have a pistol behind the counter, in the event that I need some help."

Aunt Cheryl looks at Sebastian. "I think it might be a good idea if you left hon."

Sebastian rises from his barstool and leaves, lingering in the parking lot until one of Tom's watch repair customers exits.

"Excuse me sir," Sebastian says, "my name is Jimmy Jones, and I was wondering if you could give me a ride. I live over on North Street." He uses all 6' 7" of his frame to lean over the man, caging him in.

The watch customer looks nervous and unsure how to handle "Jimmy Jones". Cheryl rushes to the parking lot.

"Sebastian, you leave my customers alone. Don't be out here asking people for rides. And stay off my sidewalk, and don't be walking through the neighborhood screaming anymore. In fact, it might be best if you just stayed away until you start taking your medicine again."

I am buying tools from a young, black college student, Keyshawn, and talking about the elections. A police officer walks through the door, and Cheryl hugs him. Keyshawn looks up.

"Hey! Officer! Do you remember me?"

"I can't say I do. You look familiar, but I don't know your name."

"You don't remember me?"

"No son, I don't"

"You maced me. In the face. Remember that? Up at the animal shelter? Remember, they put my dog to sleep, and I was upset because I'd had that dog for six years. So I made a scene, because my dog was dead. They called you, and you maced me in my face. Remember me now?"

"Seems like I do remember that now." The cop won't make eye contact, instead watching the shiny toe of his shoe make lazy circles on the linoleum floor. "It's hard to lose a pet. I understand that."

"You didn't seem to understand it then, cause they killed my dog, and you maced me in the face."

"People make mistakes."

"They sho' do." Keyshawn turns to get his receipt from me. "Thank you ma'am." He is headed to the door. "This is some BULL-SHIT," he yells over his shoulder as he leaves.

I am checking my email when I realize there is a homeless person standing at my side. They appear sexless due to the bulk of the various sweaters and pouches decorating their mid-section, but I suspect it is a woman, mostly because she's wearing six skirts. She is trying to show me something on her hand.

"Scuse me, ma'am. I was hoping you could give me a loan on this so I could get me a meal. I don't know if it's worth anything, but they told me it was very valuable." She is pointing to a large ring on her forefinger, clear plastic with black and silver sequins embedded inside.

"This ring?" She nods her agreement. "Ma'am, that ring is plastic. It doesn't have any pawn value."

"Well," she says, "they told me it was valuable. When the CIA gave it to me, they told me it was a representation of racial hatred in America. I guess they lied."

Before I can think of a reply, she has shuffled out the door.