“What’s that?”
“It’s a locket.”
“I can’t give you much for that, mister. It ain’t solid gold.”
“Its value isn’t as a piece of scrap gold to be melted down by the ounce…”
“That ain’t no ounce of gold. Throw it up on the scale and I’ll show ya.”
“Its value lies in the fact that it’s an antique. What’s inside is much older than the locket itself.”
“It jest looks like a scrap of cloth.”
“Cloth woven from the hair of a being from another world.”
“What? Like alien hair? Listen, mister. I pay for jewelry and musical instruments and tools and guns. Not stories. I can give you forty bucks for it. Take it or leave it.”
“It’s hair from The Morguein.”
“Don’t care. Forty bucks.”
“The amount of money is immaterial. I simply need you to hold it for a while.”
“Yeah. That’s the way a pawn shop works. You give me something, I give you some money. I hold onto it for a while and if you come back and give me more than I gave you for it, then you can have it back. If you don’t, then I can sell it to somebody else.”
“No. I don’t mean your collateral holding policy. I literally need you to hold it in your hand or wear it.”
“Wear it? It’s a woman’s piece. It’s shaped like a tiny heart.”
“That’s because it was created in 1896 by The Golden Heart, a theosophical society that practiced arcane arts handed down through the millenia. While you hold it, it will protect you from what you fear, but not from what you love. Do you understand?”
“What I understand is that all the jewelry that comes in here gets labeled and put in the safe until the holding period is over. Then it goes in the display case to get sold. I don’t wear any of the merchandise. This is my store, not my closet. Besides, ain’t nothing I fear except getting shot by some pillhead the day before I’m due to retire. Long story short, I ain’t gonna wear it.”
“You don’t need to wear it. You can just hold it. Or keep it in your pocket. Just think of it as a good luck charm.”
“Like I said, this is a pawn shop. I think of it as either a purchase or a sale. It’s $40, take it or leave it. I got other customers.” While they had been talking, someone had slipped in the door and was scanning the contents of the shelves nervously, muttering to himself.
“Very well. The heart must go where the heart must go.”
“Outstanding!” the pawn shop manager exhaled with obvious relief. He slid a piece of paper and a pen across the glass countertop. “Just fill in your particulars here and here. This just says that I gave you forty bucks and if you want this piece back within ninety days, it’ll cost you $48.”
“That’s not necessary. It is yours now.”
“Great. Then just sign here,” he tapped the appropriate line on the form with his forefinger, “and it’ll be a receipt showing that I paid you $40 for it.” The man produced a large signature marked by elaborate flourishes and curlicues. The manager opened the till, extracted two twenty dollar bills and put them on the glass. The man folded the bills carefully and put them in his shirt pocket, gave the heart-shaped locket a wistful look, turned and left.
“What are you looking for?” the manager asked the new customer who had by now completed several circuits of the entire store. He picked up the locket and looked behind the tiny square of glass. It must have caught the reflection of one of the overhead fluorescent lights because it looked like it winked at him. The customer came towards him, looking back at the doorway as he approached rapidly while the manager slipped the locket in his front jeans pocket.
“You know what I’m looking for!” the man said, pulling a pistol from the waistband of his pants and pointing it at the manager. His hands shook and sweat dripped from his forehead down his stubbled cheeks. The manager forced himself to exhale as he looked down the barrel of the gun.
“Let’s see, that looks like a Hi-Point knock-off of a 9mm Ruger. I can probably give you a hundred bucks for it, but I’ve got to inspect it to check the condition of the mechanism. Can I have a look at it?” He kept his hands where the gunman could see them and concentrated on his breathing. Nothing to see here, just taking care of a customer.
“I ain’t selling this bitch. Give me what’s in that register before I shoot your ass and grab it myself!”
“The money! Of course! Let’s see, all I’ve got to do is ring up a cash sale and…” The money drawer popped open with a satisfying “ding!” The manager began extracting the money and stacking it on the counter next to the register. “Will you need a bag with that, sir?” The gunman looked at the small pile of money with visible disappointment.
“Yeah, put it in a bag. Is that all there is?”
“Let me just check.” The manager bent down and looked in the drawer again. “It looks like there’s a little bit still in the back. Want me to grab that for you?”
“Hurry and put it in the damn bag before I shoot your ass!” The manager reached in the very back of the drawer where a .45 acp pistol lay, fully loaded with the safety off. In a single motion, he wrapped his hand around it, pulled it out and thrust it in the bag obscuring it from the gunman’s view. He exhaled again, pressing the trigger as he did so. The gunman flew back onto the floor, losing his gun in the process. The look of shock on his face turned to one of stunned betrayal as he watched the bloodstain a couple of inches below his right nipple slowly spread.
“That’s not fair! You cheated!” The manager responded by picking up the gun that had skittered across the floor under the air tools and calling 911 for police and an ambulance. Then he called the owner.
“Are you okay?” Mr. Shah asked after being informed of the incident. The manager told him that he, and the store, were physically unhurt. “I’m going to come in and work the rest of the day. You take the afternoon off with pay and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
The manager went straight home without stopping for lunch. The smell of the gunman’s blood lingered in his nostrils and put him right off his appetite. As he opened his fridge to grab a bottle of water, his phone rang. It was his ex.
“Yeah, what?”
“Is that any way to talk? You almost died today! When Caitlyn saw it on the news, she started crying. You couldn’t bother to call your own daughter to let her know you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. I had to shoot some junkie who pulled a gun on me. I had no idea it was on the news.”
“You’ve got no idea about a lot of things. Did you forget that it’s Caitlyn’s birthday today?” The manager started patting himself down with his hands like he did reflexively every time he forgot something. He felt a lump in his left pocket and pulled it out. It was the locket from earlier.
“No, I didn’t forget. I got her a present. Let me drop it by.”
“You can afford a present, but not your child support? That’s right. Because you know it’ll make me look like the bad guy. I do all the work and you get to be ‘fun dad’ with the good times and the presents. Fine. Bring it by, but you can’t stay long. You can celebrate with her when you have her next weekend.”
The manager pulled in the driveway of the small ranch house that used to be his. He saw a new stain on the apron of concrete. It looked like whoever she was dating now was losing some oil and a little bit of tranny fluid.
The door opened straight into Caitlyn’s arms. She was so tall now and with her long hair she was looking more like her mother’s kid sister than her daughter. Her eyes swelled with excitement when she saw the jewelry box. Jewelry was just the kind of grown-up gift that a thirteen-year-old could appreciate.
“Thanks, dad. I can’t wait to show granny.”
“My mom got her tickets to come see her in Albuquerque. The flight leaves tomorrow morning.”
The manager didn’t come back into work the next day. He saw the crash on the news. The plane went down with 155 passengers. He only cared about one. She survived. She wore a heart-shaped safety belt.
- The locket has a destined path and must be passed on to whomever is next
- The locket contains the hair of The Morguein and will come to her when she returns
- The locket grants immunity from harm to whomever holds it
- The locket protects you from what you fear, but not from what you love
Literature in Small Doses 