The Pawnshop

"I'll give you fifty bucks for it. Seventy if you give Daddy a kiss." The pawnshop owner's breath smelled like tonsil stones and coffee.

Mira stuffed down her disgust. “It’s vintage Tiffany from 2030.”

He scoffed, “Sweetheart, I don’t care if the King of England forged it with his royal sphincter. It’s barely a few grams of gold.” He slid the heart-shaped locket back towards her with disdain, “The best I can do is fifty.”

Mira didn’t want to do this, but she didn’t have much of a choice. She was sick of cheap ramen and Fuel bars. She was also just sick. This pandemic was relentless. They stopped naming the variants after the markets crashed. These days only those who could afford the endless steam of designer vaccine boosters survived. Those who couldn’t, well, they used their dead mom’s jewelry to cop the next round. She was at least three shots behind and the chest pain was starting to get bad, especially at night. “Look inside, there’s a ruby.”

The pawnbroker rolled his eyes and snatched up the locket again, prying it open with his grubby, sausage fingers. Particles of dust floated up from the locket, catching the light in that special way that makes dirt look magical. And there it was, a plump, perfect, little ruby. He unconsciously caressed the radiant stone with his thumb, it was pigeon-blood red and so very round.

Mira knew what she had, “That’s a Burmese ruby, grade 4A.”

“We’ll see about that.” Tony grabbed his loupe and began to inspect the jewel. He scanned for imperfections but there were none, so he just let himself get lost in the flaming facets. As the kaleidoscope of vermilion exploded before him, he thought of pomegranates, his wife making muhammara, and how she would playfully slap his hand away when he stole a bite, and then another. Nowadays she was repulsed by his touch. But this locket could change things, he could finally afford the treatment their daughter needed for her collapsed lung. He could be a provider again, a man again, and his wife would take him into her arms, smelling of fine oud and cinnamon.

Mira was lost in her own reverie. She loved pawnshops, they were museums of broken dreams, each precious artifact telling a story of someone’s high hopes before they had to trade it in for something more practical. Glossy electric guitars lined the wall, she envisioned a handsome rock star belting it out on a stadium stage, the crowd screaming so loud it sounded like ocean waves crashing. She touched an antique crystal vase, surely a wedding gift, and watched as the beaming young couple swirled around the dance floor in a blur of silk and lace. Weddings, concerts, they’d been banned for ages. All we had were the relics now… Her melancholy fantasy was interrupted by a piercing squeal.

The pawnshop owner clutched at his neck, wheezing as he desperately tried to suck in oxygen that his lungs could no longer process. Cyanide will do that. Mira took a moment to admire her work. You know how many peaches she had to eat just to extract a few measly milligrams of poison from the pits? Just thinking of the cloying, sickly sweet scent was enough to make her retch. But all's well that ends well.

Mira adjusted her mask and surgically retrieved the contaminated locket with a gloved hand, daintily sealing it in an old sandwich bag. She could really go for a sandwich right now, pastrami and Swiss and that fancy grainy mustard that bursts like caviar. The dying man’s eyes began to bulge, foam curdled at the corners of his twisted mouth. This couldn't be happening. Tony needed to tell his wife he loved her, to touch his little Pumpkin's velveteen earlobes one last time... but his epilogue was reduced to a wet gurgle. He toppled over, bringing down a smartphone display with a crash. Mira barely noticed, she was dreaming of how she’d wash down her feast with an ice-cold cherry cola, gulping it down real fast so that the bubbles hurt good. She stepped over him and began to load the shop’s jewelry into her duffle bag.

Just as she was about to head out, a young man busted through the pawnshop doors. He was gaunt and struggling to carry a bulky hologenerator. “Don’t go in there!” Mira warned in a panicked voice. “Why not?!” As the question left his lips he saw the shopkeeper, red-faced, and convulsing on the floor. Mira shook her head, “Covid.” The young man dropped the generator and ran onto the street screaming for help. Mira walked away.

Maybe she’d even get a chocolate babka. Today was a good day.