Pawnbroker

The shop was down a gloomy, beat-up

lane, in an obscure part of town. William

was with me. I pushed open the battered

door, and we moved inside. A curious

toad-like man was sitting at the counter.

He looked up. His fishy eyes, behind huge

bottle-top glasses, expressed only mild

interest. How can I help you? he asked,

in a bland, slippery way. He showed

absolutely no curiosity about our ages.

I placed Mother’s watch on the counter.

So, what have we here? he asked, his

eyebrows beetling with professional

excitement. I want a fair deal, I said

firmly. The negotiating had begun.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist

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