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“I hope you’re right, Ghost.”
Ghost smiles a crooked smile. “When the fuck am I not right?”
I laugh, flicking him off as I make my way to my bike. “Fuck off.”
The studio is less than a mile from the pawn shop that I run and live over, so within a few minutes, I’m parking behind the shop and heading in through the back door.
“Hey, Ben,” I call out to Ben, the older guy I’ve had working for me since I opened this place.
Ben knows more random facts about antique shit than I could ever imagine. If he doesn’t know about something, he sure as hell knows how to find the answer to it.
I grew up in foster care. My crack-whore of a mother gave birth to me and gave me up right there in the hospital when I was born so she could leave and score more dope. I kept my nose clean and was an overall good kid, but I never got adopted. I aged out when I turned eighteen and never had a true father-like figure in my life until I met Ben.
At eighteen, he gave me a job working in his old antique repair shop. He taught me damn near everything I know. Four years ago, when I opened this shop, Ben decided to close his shop up for good and come work for me as his retirement.
“Jamie! I’m over here,” Ben calls out.
I follow his voice through the aisles to the back corner, where I find him bent over an old cuckoo clock. I chuckle as I watch the eighty-year-old man work on the clock laid out on the floor.
“One of these days you’re going to get down and not be able to get back up, old man.”
“Now see here, boy, I am just fine. You and Maribel need to just mind your own damn business,” he snaps back. I laugh, picturing his tiny white-haired wife in here yelling at him for being on the ground.
“Anything on the ‘57?” I ask, rounding the glass counter. I finger through today’s mail, stopping on an antique car magazine.
“Some suit came in and took a card. Saw him outside taking a few pictures of it but he didn’t talk much,” Ben grumbles as he pushes off from the floor, adjusting his suspenders and brushing off his knees.
“If you see him again, make sure to call me. I want to get rid of it. I can’t believe it’s been sitting as long as it has.”
Ben pushes his glasses back from the ridge of his nose, running his wrinkled hand over his mouth. He waves his hands away. “Don’t worry about it. Someone will scoop it up.”
I nod, flipping through the magazine, stopping when I land on another ‘57 Bel Air.
“You here for the night? Mary’s making shepherds pie and I want to eat it while it’s hot.”
“Go home and ice your knees old man,” I say and laugh at his disgruntled appearance as he walks away, shaking his head at me.
I jot down the number listed below the car in the magazine and tack it to the bulletin board behind the counter, saving it for another day.
An hour after Ben leaves, a middle aged woman comes in, waving her wedding set at me before bursting into a fit of tears.
“Take this! He’s a fucking cheater!” she wails.
I turn around, bending over to grab the form out of the filing cabinet below the counter and turn back to her, reciting the same shit I do to every heartbroken woman that comes in trying to sell their wedding and engagement rings. “We will hold your ring for 7 days, you can come back for a matched refund within that time frame. But if you don’t come back within that time period, you will have to pay full asking price to get your jewelry back.” I point to the signature line at the bottom. “Sign here if you agree.”
The woman slams the yellow gold ring set down on the glass before snatching my pen out of my hand, scribbling her name on the bottom.
“I need your I.D. and a couple minutes to look it over to get you a price.”
“Whatever! Just get it out of my sight!”
Looking back, I wish I would have opened the pawn shop with the disclaimer that no business would be done with disgruntled breakups just trying to unload their shit. Ben grumbles everyday that I should’ve just opened an antique shop, but I like bartering with people about their shit that they think is worth the world. It’s fun.
I also really love buying cool shit and selling it when I don’t want it anymore. If only I didn’t have to deal with fucking jewelry.
Although the money it brings in is nice.
After taking care of the emotional mess of a woman, I close up the shop, heading upstairs. Before settling down for the night, I pull out my phone to text Pebbles.
