sell. However, if the soul does exist, then in accordance with eBay’s policy on human parts and remains we would not allow the auctioning of human souls. The soul would be considered human remains; and although it is not specifically stated on the policy page, human souls are still not allowed to he listed on eBay.
Your auction was removed appropriately and will not be reinstated.
Please do not relist this item with us in the future.
You may review our policy at the following link: http://pages.ebay.com/help/policies/remains.html .
It is my pleasure to assist you. Thank you for choosing eBay.
26. Pawnbroker
The man inherited the pawnshop from his brother, who had died of a heart attack. He wouldn’t have kept the place, but he inherited it while he was unemployed. He figured he could keep it and run it until he could find a better job. That was twenty years ago. Now he knows it’s a life sentence.
A boy comes into his shop one evening before closing. Not his usual type of customer. Most folks come into a pawnshop down on their luck, ready to trade in everything they own, from TVs to family heirlooms, in exchange for a little quick cash. Some do it for drugs. Others have more legitimate reasons. Either way, the pawnbroker’s success is based on the misery of others. It doesn’t bother him anymore. He’s grown used to it.
This boy is different, though. Sure, there are kids who come in, hoping to get a deal on items that were never claimed, but there’s something about this kid that’s markedly off. He looks more clean-cut than the kids that usually turn up in his store. And the way he moves, even the way he holds himself, is refined and graceful, deliberate and delicate, like he’s lived his life as a prince and is now pretending to be the pauper. He wears a puffy white coat, but it’s a bit dirty.
Maybe he’s the pauper after all.
The TV on the counter plays a football game, but the pawnbroker isn’t watching the game anymore. His eyes are on it, but his mind is keeping track of the kid as he meanders through the shop, looking at things, like he might want to buy something.
After a few minutes, the kid approaches the counter.
“What can I do for you?” the pawnbroker asks, genuinely curious.
“This is a pawnshop isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t it says so on the door?”
“So that means you trade things for money, right?”
The pawnbroker sighs. The kid’s just ordinary after all, just a little more naive than the other kids who show up here trying to hock their baseball card collections or whatever. Usually they want money for cigarettes or alcohol or something else they don’t want their parents to know about. This kid doesn’t look like the type for that, though.
“We
“Who said I have baseball cards?”
Then the kid reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bracelet, all diamonds and gold.
The pawnbroker’s eyes all but pop out of his skull as the kid dangles it from his fingers. Then the pawnbroker laughs. “Whad’ya do, steal that from your mommy, kid?”
The kid’s expression stays diamond hard. “How much will you give me for it?”
“How about a nice boot out the door?”
Still, the kid shows no sign of fear or disappointment. He just lays the bracelet on the worn wooden counter with that same princely grace.
“Why don’t you just put that thing away and go home?”
“I’m an Unwind.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
This throws the pawnbroker for a loop for a whole lot of reasons. First of all, runaway Unwinds who show up at his shop never admit it. Secondly, they always appear desperate and angry, and the stuff they have to sell is shoddy at best.
They’re never this calm, and they never look this . . . angelic.
“You’re an Unwind?”
The boy nods. “The bracelet is stolen, but not from anywhere around here.”
Unwinds also never admit that their items are stolen. Those other kids always come up with the most elaborate stories as to who they are, and why they’re selling. The pawnbroker will usually listen to their stories for their entertainment value. If it’s a good story, he’ll just throw the kid out. If it’s a lousy story, he’ll call the police and have them picked up. This kid, however, doesn’t have a story; he comes only with the truth. The pawnbroker doesn’t quite know how to deal with the truth.
“So,” says the kid. “Are you interested?”
The pawnbroker just shrugs. “Who you are is your business, and like I said, I don’t deal with minors.”
“Maybe you’ll make an exception.”
The pawnbroker considers the kid, considers the bracelet, then looks at the door to make sure no one else is coming in. “I’m listening.”
“Here’s what I want. Five hundred dollars, cash. Now. Then I leave like we never met, and you can keep the bracelet.”
The pawnbroker puts on his well-practiced poker face. “Are you kidding me? This piece of junk? Gold plate, zircons instead of diamonds, poor workmanship—I’ll give you a hundred bucks, not a penny more.”
The kid never breaks eye contact. “You’re lying.”
Of course the pawnbroker is lying, but he resents the accusation. “How about if I turn you in to the Juvey- cops right now?
The kid reaches down and takes the bracelet from the table. “You could,” he says. “But then you won’t get this—the police will.”
The pawnbroker strokes his beard. Maybe this kid isn’t as naive as he looks.
“If it were a piece of junk,” the kid says, “you wouldn’t have offered me a hundred. I’ll bet you wouldn’t have offered me anything.” He looks at the bracelet dangling from his fingers. “I really don’t know what something like this is worth, but I’ll bet it’s worth thousands. All I’m asking is five hundred, which means, whatever it’s worth, you’re getting a great deal.”
The pawnbroker’s poker face is gone. He can’t stop staring at the bracelet—it’s all he can do not to drool over it. He knows what it’s really worth, or at least he can guess. He knows where he can fence it himself for five times what the kid is asking. That would be a nice bit of change. Enough to take his wife on that long vacation she’s always wanted.
“Two hundred fifty. That’s my final offer.”
“Five hundred. You have three seconds, and then I leave. One . . . two . . .”
“Deal.” The pawnbroker sighs as if he’s been beaten. “You drive a hard bargain, kid.” That’s the way these things are played. Make the kid think that he won, when all the while he’s the one who’s truly being robbed! The pawnbroker reaches for the bracelet, but the kid holds it out of reach.
“First the money.”
“The safe’s in the back room—I’ll be back in a second.”
“I’ll come with you.”
The pawnbroker doesn’t argue. It’s understandable that the kid doesn’t trust him. If he trusted people, he’d have been unwound by now. In the back room, the pawnbroker positions himself with the kid behind him, so the kid
