A Visit to the Pawn Shop

I am killing time downtown before a mid-morning meeting. Yes, a mid-morning meeting. It pleases me to appear important, but I admit that I am meeting three friends for diet cokes, basically. At least I have three friends.

I see a pawn shop. I've always wanted to go in a pawn shop and gaze at the sad wedding rings, practically oozing stories of lost love. Oh, and the antique watches pawned to buy the hair combs for the wife who cut off her hair to buy the pocket watch in the first place. Or something like that.

I can never get that story straight.

Amusing anecdote: A teenage piano student of mine had a part-time job at the pawn shop. The very pawn shop where I now stand. He was excitedly telling an adult friend about his new job. The adult friend misunderstood and somehow (probably because he's a man) thought the young fellow was working in a "porn" shop. "Yes," the young fellow says, "I work in the back. Where the good stuff is."

I digress.

I walk in. The carpet is turquoise and it smells like the Las Vegas strip a little bit. A guy with green hair is looking at a wall of electric guitars. Really? A whole wall of them? There are knives locked up in a wall case with sharp blades that could gut and slice me pretty darn quick, in the right hands. There are golf clubs and amps and really old televisions (all turned on, which amuses me).

I walk around the jewelry case. There are Tiffany boxes inside. Riiiiight. Do I look like I was born yesterday?

Wait. Don't answer that question.

And that's it. I'm very disappointed. It's just a bunch of crap.

Maybe I need to go into the back. Where the good stuff is.