Pawn Shop Deal

          Sandra played with her fingers at the old, scarred dining table. She rubbed them together and occasionally picked at a nail, worrying it a bit the way worry etched and weathered her own face. “We can’t skip. Not this year.”

          “Why not,” Prince said. He stared out the window, watching the of the few trees that lined the street shiver, their leaves ruffled like glitter. He watched the people pass beneath them, going to work, coming from work, going to do whatever it is that they were doing.

          “We skipped last year,” Sandra played with her finger tips absentmindedly as she spoke. Cleaning the finger nails, staring at how each knuckle bent, almost as if in admiration.

          “How much will this thing cost again,” he asked.

          “Five.” She counted out each knuckle and fingertip. She made a fist with with her hands for a moment and squeezed as if trying to hold on to something for dear life.

          “Jeezus,” Prince griped. “I can maybe see three. But five? Why so expensive?”

          “Everything’s going up.”

          Neither said anything for a while. Finally, Prince broke the silence. “For Danny?”

          “For Danny.”

          Prince's heavy shoulders sagged in defeat. He turned from the window. “Then we should get this over with, I only have today off.” Sandra nodded and stood. She clasped her left hand in his right, just like that first night they had met so long ago, beneath the bleachers at Washington High. They didn’t say a word between them as they left their apartment. She used her right hand to grab the apartment key, lock everything as tight as she could behind them. Then as one they turned to the old beat-up elevator, neither staring down at the torn-up, stained, and burned carpet nor seeing the ancient walls.

          As the elevator opened on the first floor, they walked forward again as one. Their footfalls matched as if marching. One hand clasped into the other swung in unison. Even their breathing became unified as they exited onto the dirty street. They moved as one, down the street, down the subway, seated side by side in the ancient platform, never leaving each other's grip.

          As they left the subway, they exited onto a street slightly more rundown than the one they left. Same amounts of cracks same type of trash, but no trees. Every building felt closer, more crowded against each other. As if they were closing in on the people, preparing to pounce on them.

          They stopped in front of an old pawnshop. The paint long since faded from the façade above. A guitar hung in the window, with a Onewheel next to it. Below it was a RC car. It was in the shape of an old sports car, but advertised the most modern of features, including an app that let you steer it with your phone and record your entire race with built-in on-board cameras; everything a young child could want or desire in a toy.

          “For Danny,” Sandra said.

          “For Danny,” Prince said. Then they stepped forward and went inside.

          The inside of the tiny shop was even more crowded than the window outside. Old tablets and laptops sat on one shelf, stacked atop each other. Nearby was game systems, some only a few years old, others decades, their faded plastic now more yellow than the grey they used to be. Each piece of old hardware and electronics were wrapped with their wires haphazardly, and stacked atop one another in almost separate piles in the tiny shop.

          A glass countertop sat at the end. Behind it was a man wearing a leather apron, and a wifebeater. Greasy hair hung down his face, now more grey than the black it used to be. An old cigarette hung out of his lip, dancing a bit while he talked. “Didn’t think you’d come back,” he said, then grinned. “It really is quite the steal.”

          Prince glared at the thin, greasy old man and set his left-hand on the counter, palm down, fingers out. “Hurry up."

          “Oh-ho,” the greasy man said, then smiled. “I don’t know where you been, but that ain’t legal. Get your grubby mitts off my counter until I tell you to.” He reached beneath the counter and set two sets of legal documents in front of both Sandra and Prince. “Read these and sign. Once we start, there’s no stopping. Once you sign, I take my pick then you get yours. If you get cold feet, I’m well within my legal right to TAKE my property, and not give you shit for your effort.”

          Prince held up his left hand. The pinky finger was missing a section at the end of it. “I know how this works,” he growled at him. “Just hurry up.”

          "Not until you sign." Ash dribbled from the edge of his cigarette as the greasy man spoke.

          Paperwork felt heavy in Prince and Sandra's hands, as if the weight of the world laid in those pages. They skimmed but didn't see anything strange. The pens danced in unison as they signed, and placed their paperwork on top of one another.

          “So,” the greasy man said with a bit of glee. “Looks like you made your selection already, huh?”

          “Yes,” Prince said. “The one in the window.”

          The greasy man’s grin grew as he pulled out an old board. Dark brown spots splattered it, brown spots that had once been blood red. There was a blade attached to the end of it that seemed to swing down like an ancient paper cutter. “Five knuckles,” the greasy man said. He flicked a switch on the back of the board. After a moment, the blade began to glow from the heat flowing through it.

          Prince set his left hand down again, glaring at the greasy man. “Seems you already forgot,” the greasy man said. “I get my pick and I don’t need no lefts.”

          “B-but,” Prince said, curling his right hand up protectively. “I’m right-handed. One is as good as another, you know that! I-I need my right,” he looked down as Sandra’s right hand curled into his left. Danny, he thought then bit his lip and set his right hand down, fingers out. He stared the greasy man in the eye, never looking down.

          The work went fast and efficient. Three quick swings of the blade down, through his index, through his middle, and the first digit on his ring finger. A soft thwack for each finger lost. It was over almost before Prince knew it. The pain came running in after. Prince snatched his hand up and held it to his chest, shivering as a soft whimper escaped his throat. A cooler was pulled from beneath the counter. Inside was fingers of all races and genders, arrayed like a box of crayons stacked atop one another.

          “Now,” the greasy man said. “There’s the matter of tax.” Prince shivered, his hand throbbing, his lower lip quivered, his face screwed up in pain.

         “W-what,” he asked.

          “I need a thumb.”

          Shakily, Prince began to press his fist back down onto the counter. Glaring at the greasy man the entire time. Sandra was quicker though, placing her left hand down before Prince could make it with his right.

          “N-no,” he sputtered. “Baby please! Don’t do it. B-baby, d-don’t.”

          She interrupted Prince with a kiss. “For Danny,” she smiled, then turned to the greasy man. “Hurry the fuck up,” she snarled. He nodded, then then grabbed her thumb. With a quick thwack it was over. Her lip quaked a bit in pain. But her eyes never showed a bit of it, save for the single tear that rolled down.

          “Now take your car and get out,” the greasy man snarled. “And have a nice day,” he added with a thick sarcastic grin. Sandra and Prince both glared at the greasy man a moment longer, their grimaces of pain turning to a snarl before they turned to the box and brought it home.

***

          School was fun as always. Some kids never go to school on their birthday. Their birthday is the only day of school they would skip. But not for Danny. He loved being in class, hearing everyone tell him Happy Birthday. Listening his friends and the teachers sing him “happy birthday”. It was nice to have everyone be so nice to you just for a single day.

          He remembered asking Mom for the car, but he also told her it was alright if they just skipped this year too. “I’m happy with just a cake,” he’d said, looking down at the bare floor, his eyes finding patterns in the fibers in the grey carpet. To be fair, Danny would have been surprised to even get that. Living was expensive, he knew.

          He didn’t expect the chocolate cake with the number eight candle sitting in the center. Nor did he expect the wrapped box next to it. He pretended to not see how uneven the icing was, the suspicious brown spots here and there in the newspaper wrapping. He pretended to not see the thick gauze around his dad’s right hand or his mom’s left, or they way they touched their gauze together, instead of just holding hands like they used to.

          “Happy Birthday,” they had said in unison.

          “Come on! Come in,” his dad said, waving him inside. “Open your present! Make a wish!”

          The plain newspaper quickly tore away from yellow and black colored cardboard. Black, grey, and blue plastic shone up at Danny, almost glistening in the light, mimicking the paint. Never in his life had Danny felt such joy and disappointment at the same time.

          “Well,” his mom asked. “Do you like it?”

          It was in that moment that Danny learned how to lie. He turned to her, a smile upon his face as big as he could have ever made, and hugged her tight. “Oh Mom! Dad,” he said, “I,” the words choked back for a moment thick with tears. He swallowed them down and pushed as much joy into it as he could muster. “I love it.”