Copyright 1999, Mary Mannon Reeves. No part of this work can be used for any purpose without the written permission of the author,
CHANGING WITH THE TIMES
By
Mary Mannon Reeves
Sam liked his job in the pawn shop. It wasn't what he was used to, but if there was one thing he'd learned in his many years, it was that you had to change with the times. The rows of merchandise he dusted everyday were testimony to that.
When he'd started here, what, fifty years ago? Sixty? it had been instruments and wedding rings. The drunk, the poor, the temporarily-short-of-funds, they all wandered in an offered their instruments or wedding rings for a spot of quick cash. The wedding rings were usually picked back up, but there was a hurdy-gurdy in the back that had been there longer than Sam.
Now it was all electronics and guns. Most of it stolen, but that wasn't any of his business. He was just an old clerk, that was all. He swept, he fetched, he polished. He tended to ignore the CD's and .45's with equal disdain and spent most of his time cleaning the jewelry. There was so little of it brought in these days... Even in the dim light of the pawn shop, the gold had a magic sheen. He felt his old, cold blood quicken as he ran his hands over it. He thrummed with the living warmth of it. Then he remembered where he was, who he was, what he was now, and he put away the gold.
At closing time, he didn't set the alarm. Getting old, you know, and a little forgetful. He was hungry. He left the gloomy night lights playing off of gold, and black plastic, running in blue streamers off the barrels of the guns. He disappeared into the back of the shop where he'd built a tiny living space that his boss chose to ignore.
As he curled up on the narrow cot, he remembered larger places, but then, he'd been larger as well. You have to change with the times, with the circumstances. He forgot about the gold, and the cot, and his job, and thought about guns and being hungry.
The punk slapped is palms against his thighs, trying to burn off the energy that crowded his body. Great feeling, good feeling, but it came too fast, left too quickly. Soon, man, soon, he'd be cold and twisted up again, stupid and nothing, just another ex-con, just another junky moaning out hard times in the shelter.
He stared at the closed door of the pawn shop and cursed. He ran the words, every one that he knew, across his tongue like a long drink, savoring their pungency. He stared at the closed door, his hands shoved in his pockets, grasping the gold necklace like a rosary. Blood freckled his nose.
Her fault, man. Wouldn't'a been a problem if she hadn't fought. Gotta dump the chain though, pick up some cash. find Gee-Tee and score.
The dealer wouldn't fence, or he'd just give him the chain. It was too late, and there wasn't anybody who'd give him enough dough for the thing to make it worthwhile. The only things you could get real money for on the streets this time of night were drugs--ha!--and guns. He threw out another curse and kicked the base of the pawn shop door.
It swung open. He waited for the alarms to go off, his whip-thin body poised for flight. Silence.
Hot damn. With a feral grin, he slipped into the shadows of the shop, closing the door behind him. No drugs in here, but plenty of guns. They usually keep them toward the back...He eased through the aisles, pausing now and then to examine the goods on the shelves. A CD Walkman slipped into his jacket pocket, followed by a pearl-handled Buck Knife, a handful of collector's coins, dull pewter in the duller light.
What moron runs this place? The guns weren't even cabled to the wall, or anything. He lifted the Colt, two Magnums, a Luger...too hard to get rid of, but he could keep it himself.
Something shifted in the darkness. Jay froze. Was it just the drugs, flaying every nerve, turning every flicker of shadow into a cop, or was it a shotgun-toting watchman? Just nerves, nothing else moved. He shoved the guns into his pockets, his waist band, the top of his boots. He looked around a final time. Maybe somebody'd pawned a briefcase or something, and he could carry even more out.
The door to the backroom was open, and he grinned again. Everybody knew they kept the best stuff in the back. He slipped by the counter and crept through the door. There was a soft sound, a slight sound, like someone dragging a metal garbage can across a concrete floor. Jay froze again. He squinted, trying to add substance to the shadows.
Light flared, in a burst of fireworks colors, red and gold and cobalt blue. The flames were lovely, and artfully contained, but then, the punk was no longer in any position to appreciate the aesthetics. Sam just grinned his long toothed grin as he dragged the body forward, his emerald-scaled talons still gleaming fresh from transformation.
So much easier than Knights, you know. No chain mail to hang in your crop for days, no twinges of guilt, like heartburn, for eating honest men. He extracted a gold chain from his supper's pocket and smiled at it wistfully. Still magic to his senses, he kept it round for old time's sake, but it had lost its power to draw. The guns he would polish and put back in their place as soon as he ate and reassumed the form of a doddering old man. Distasteful things, guns.
But you had to change with the times.