Pawn

Hank pulled up to the curb, the car groaning softly as it settled. He checked his watch, squinting at the numbers in the fading light. Too long. He had been gone too long. The sun was dipping behind the skeletal arms of the trees in the distance, bleeding red and orange across the horizon. Mary would be wondering where he was.

Or worse, she wouldn’t be wondering at all.

That thought gnawed at him, the way it had been lately. She kept falling asleep at odd times, her energy drained like an old battery that could never quite hold a charge. Last night, he had found her curled up on the couch in front of the TV, the blue glow flickering across her face. No blanket. No pillow. Just small and still, like a bird caught in a cold wind. He had covered her, but she hadn’t stirred. That wasn’t like Mary.

He shook it off. He’d be back soon. Everything was fine.

Hank exhaled, rolling his shoulders, and stepped out of the car. The autumn air hit him, crisp with the scent of damp leaves and distant chimney smoke. He rounded the back of the car, popping the trunk with a dull clunk. Inside, the cardboard box sat where he’d left it, plain and unassuming. He hesitated before reaching for it, his fingers gripping the edges as he peered inside. He let out a breath, long and slow, then dropped the trunk lid with a sharp slam.

No time for second thoughts.

As he turned, he had to swerve slightly to avoid a group of teenagers loitering near the entrance of the shop. Five of them. One perched on a bike, another lazily rolling back and forth on a skateboard. The rest stood in a loose cluster, dressed in oversized hoodies, hands stuffed deep into their pockets. A couple had their hoods up, shadows partially obscuring their faces. They radiated the kind of aimless energy that made Hank’s skin itch, that unspoken hunger for something . . . anything . . . to happen.

“Hey, look at this guy,” one of them muttered, just loud enough.

“Sasquatch,” another snickered.

“Hey, old man! You lost?”

Hank didn’t slow. He didn’t acknowledge them. He just walked, straight and steady, cutting through their loose perimeter like a ship breaking through ice. He heard a few more laughs, something about his size, but they let him pass. He had been on the receiving end of worse. A lot worse.

The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. The shop was quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of quiet that had weight to it, the kind that settled in your bones. The atmosphere was thick, stale, as if every bad deal, every last-resort decision, had left a ghost of itself behind. It smelled of dust and aged wood, with an undercurrent of something metallic . . . like old coins rubbed between fingers.

Rows of wooden shelves carved the space into narrow aisles, some sagging under the weight of second-hand goods. The inventory was the same as always. Guitars with dulled strings. Televisions that looked like they belonged in another decade. Vinyl records stacked haphazardly beside outdated stereo systems. There was even a section for tools, their handles worn smooth from years of use.

As he moved closer to the counter, the wooden shelves transitioned to glass display cabinets, the contents shifting from everyday castaways to things that had once meant something to someone. WWII medals lay in a neat row, their ribbons slightly frayed. Silverware sets, watches . . . some still ticking, others frozen in time. Hank’s gaze landed on the jewelry section, his eyes lingering on the engagement rings and wedding bands.

Tiny circles of metal, each one carrying a story. They had witnessed lifetimes . . . felt the pressure of hands gripping house keys to a first home, brushed against a baby’s soft fingers, clutched onto a grandchild’s tiny palm, familiar gesture . . . a love reaffirmed with a touch. Now they sat here, stripped of their history, silent and unknowable.

They had outlived their owners. The people who had once cherished them were gone, and the rings remained, waiting for new hands to claim them. But who would buy them now? Would they carry forward the joy they had once known, or would they become part of something else entirely . . . something bitter, something cold?

Would his and Mary’s rings end up here one day? Sitting side by side for a time, only to be separated forever? The idea unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected. He had never thought of it before, that the love they had built . . . solid, tangible . . . could be reduced to something so small, so meaningless under the flickering fluorescent lights.

A raspy voice pulled him back.

“Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

Hank turned toward the counter, where the shop’s owner stood half-hidden in the shadows. The man was small, withered, wearing a threadbare knit sweater that had probably been gray once. The scent of stale tobacco clung to him, thick and sour. His fingers . . . especially the index ones . . . were yellowed from years of cigarettes, stained like old parchment.

He cleared his throat, a deep, rattling sound. “Guessin’ you haven’t swung that job yet, huh? Too bad, fella.”

Hank stepped forward, setting the box down on the counter. “Not yet.”

The words tasted bitter. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had promised himself that the next time he walked into this shop, it would be to buy back what he had already pawned. Instead, here he was, giving up more.

Doing it behind Mary’s back.

Shame crawled up his spine, but he kept his face neutral.

The old man smirked, peeling back the box’s flaps with his yellowed fingers. “So, what’ve we got this time?” He rummaged through the contents, nodding absently. “Y’know, not many folks remember who you are any more, Hank.” He let out a short, dry chuckle. “Was hard to get rid of the last lot.”

Hank swallowed down the sharp retort that wanted to rise. He just watched as the old man picked through his things, handling them with the same detached disinterest he had for everything in this shop. He wrestled with something inside the cardboard, huffing under his breath, until with a triumphant little grunt, he pulled it free.

A trophy.

Gold-plated boxing glove perched on a slab of marble, its sheen dulled by years of neglect. Hank didn’t need to read the plaque. He knew what it said. New York Golden Gloves 1984, Heavyweight Division Winner, Open Division, Hank Malone.

The little man turned it in his hands, squinting like he was trying to appraise a diamond. Then, with a breathy whistle through the gap in his teeth, he let out a chuckle.

“Well, what do we have here then?” His voice was like a rusty hinge, all wheeze and scrape. “A real beaut, this one. But lemme tell ya somethin’, Hank… don’t know if I got a buyer for this kinda thing. My guy’s a belt man. That’s what he collects. Bet you got a lotta belts, huh?” He flashed a yellow-toothed grin, like they were old pals talking shop. “Tell ya what, Hank. A whole box of belts, now that might be worth my time. Maybe I oughta give him a ring. See if he’s interested.”

Hank’s stomach clenched. His belts.

Not his belts.

They weren’t just leather straps and gold plates. They were . . . him. Blood, sweat, bone . . . deep exhaustion. They were what he had to show for years of getting up before dawn, of running through snow with burning lungs, of breaking his hands on bags until his knuckles felt like gravel under his skin.

His belts were everything.

He swallowed hard. “I dunno about the belts,” he said, voice gravel thick. “That’s.. kinda personal. I got boxes of trophies, medals, all that, but I was hopin’ to keep my belts.”

The little man’s expression soured, like Hank had just insulted his mother. With a slow shake of his head, he slid the trophy back into the box and shoved it across the counter.

“Afraid I can’t help ya then, pal.” He leaned back, folding his arms. “See, nobody comes in here lookin’ for trophies. Collectors, they want the big stuff.. the showpieces. And what’s the point of bein’ a collector if the guy sellin’ won’t part with what’s worth havin’?” He sighed, theatrical. “Shame, really. Good luck with the job-hunting, Hank.”

Hank’s heart pounded in his ears. He felt sick, like he’d taken a punch to the gut and was still waiting to hit the canvas. He’d expected to be lowballed, expected to walk out with less than what it was worth. But he hadn’t expected to leave empty-handed.

He needed money.

He had no way of going home to grab a belt . . . Mary would see. She’d know. And God help him, he couldn’t bear that conversation.

The air in the shop felt thick, pressing down on him. He forced himself to stay still, to keep his voice level, though he could feel the sweat gathering at the back of his neck.

“Not all the belts,” he muttered. “Maybe I bring a couple. Tomorrow. But.. I need some memories for myself, ya understand?” He forced a smile, but his fingers curled into the counter. “See how it goes.”

The little man let the silence stretch. His beady eyes stayed locked on Hank, weighing him, chewing him over. Then, with a sudden shift, his face brightened, his whole demeanor flipping like a switch.

“You know what, Hank?” He clapped his hands together, grinning wide. “Maybe I was a little too hasty before.”

His voice had that oiled-up, syrupy tone now . . . the kind salesmen used when they smelled weakness.

“Tell ya what,” he said, plucking the trophy back up. “I’ll take this after all. And tomorrow, you bring me those belts. Hell, why stop there? Bring some of those medals, trophies, whatever you got sittin’ in them boxes. I got friends. I know somebody out there wants a piece of The Freight Train.”

Hope flickered in Hank’s chest.

A miracle.

Everything was gonna be okay.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The little man nodded, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a key, unlocked a drawer, and fished out a brown envelope. Hank heard the rustle of paper money before the drawer slammed shut and locked again.

“I can give ya one-fifty for the trophy,” the little man said, stuffing the bills inside. “And don’t even think about hagglin’. Not sure I can even sell it for that much. But I’m willin’ to take a gamble ‘cause of them belts you’re bringin’ me.” His eyes narrowed. “You are bringin’ them, ain’t ya, Hank?”

Hank nodded.

One-fifty . . . Not enough to fix everything . . . But enough to keep things from crumbling, at least for a little while longer.

“Ya got m’word.”

He reached for the envelope.

The little man didn’t let go.

For a moment, their eyes locked. Then, to Hank’s disgust, the little man spat into his own palm . . . yellowed fingers glistening with saliva . . . and thrust his hand across the counter.

Hank tried to spit into his own, but his mouth was dry. So dry it felt like he’d swallowed sand. He made the noise anyway and hoped the little bastard didn’t notice.

He clasped the offered hand. It was cold. Clammy. Felt like leftover chicken wings left too long in the fridge.

With a final squeeze, the little man let go and smirked, his salesman act snapping back into place.

“Hey, now that you got some cash, maybe you wanna buy somethin’? A pendant for the missus? She like the last one?”

Hank forced himself to nod. “Yeah. Loved it… But no, I gotta go.”

He turned, making his way through the cramped store, past dusty shelves of forgotten things. Outside, the sun had set. He could see his reflection in the glass door . . . a big man, shoulders slumped, looking older than he remembered.

Behind him, the little man cleared his throat.

“Hank!..”

The name was spat out sharp, like he was scolding a dog for pissing on the carpet.

Hank stopped.

Turned.

The little man’s face was hard now, all smiles gone.

“Don’t fuck me over,” he said, voice low, full of menace. “You be here tomorrow, or don’t bother coming back at all.”

Hank stared at him.

Once upon a time, nobody would have dared speak to him like that.

Once upon a time, he could have put a man in the ground with a single punch. Not even his hardest. Just something he knew. He could knock a man’s brain clean against the inside of his skull, shove his nose straight into his brain if he wanted to. And back then, people had known it too.

But not now.

Now, he was powerless.

He clenched his teeth. Kept his temper caged, where it always was.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

He turned to leave . . . but something caught his eye.

A shelf lined with old picture frames. Different sizes, different colours. Once, they had held smiling faces. Happy moments frozen in time. Now . . . they held dust.

“How much for the frames?” he asked.