Apparently, the whole town had been sold off, if not sold outright from under then at least from above it’s been rented, leased then sublet: this untrafficked stretch of Mitteltown pavement bought by a mensch off a mensch who rented from yet another who lived large across the river, Not So Short Island it’s going by now’s the line for a laugh; how some mensch owned the sidewalk (actually him the cement only, though, his halfbrother’d bought the rights to the concrete), another owned the street, yet another the avenue intersecting and yadda blah north by south, and so you have to know always where you walk on whose you’re walking, how much more it’ll run you and fast: alleys held by a business, owned by this dummy corporation don’t ask, we’re talking fake addresses, doors without handles or hinges, empty windows (the mullions, however, they’re still on the market, any interest, you know who to call, be in touch), it’s all strictly needtoknow, none of your business, bubkiss my tuchus lecker, who the hock mir are you, wanting, on the outs, skidded, stop right there, no room at the inn.
After being evicted from standing His loiter upon every corner in Mitteltown, B makes its upper limits, Times Square and keeps moving: keeping it in mind, that the more you keep moving the faster, the less chance they have to charge you for putting your feet up and staying a while. Billed by the hour, the square a roundless clock, He’s got nothing left by now, not much. After the tunnel’s toll and the tax on the toll, then the tax’s tax assessed to’ve been no more than a bribe, He’s broke, busted, inclusive of slavery severance: without money whether in bills or coins, He’ll take either even if His face is fading from them; they’re being phased out, converted into a currency newer, the metals and paper as fragile as yesterday, as precious, too, though the gems still as hard as tomorrow. Speculation, in every denomination. Foreign forage. Hofn oyf, forget it, meaning hope.
He heads for a pawnshop He finds advertised on a wall, peeling in promise from exposed brick blackened with smoke — ripped like a disreputable, deathinscribed name from the yellowpaged book sealed within the booth of a payphone…but it’s closed, we’ll be back at and locked and so B with klutzy fingers rings at the bell, wakes the onelunged, tiny like an insect beadle and when the sun’s still cresting high, waits for him to fall downstairs two flights, a spindle with a twinge of gray hair hung in green pajamas. Knock knock. Who’s there, who’s there? A wink that it’s worth your time — enough urgent assurance to justify suspicion, expectation lowered so much by now that it might on its own trip the alarm. Rachmones, you have to have pity, the pawnbroker’s saying as he opens, undoing the intricate locks of his door and shutters and grate, this I’m always telling my wife — keys and patience, patience, the life of the deadbolt, bound to who knows how many chains. B comes in quickly His hands in His pockets as if armed for a robbery — a lining giving shine, only a glint, an equatorial edging: His silverspoon — He’ll hock it, to afford an aliyah in any direction.
You’re disturbing me on a holiday, what’s so important, what’s the emergency, a fire, pogrom, has the Messiah arrived?
B holds out His hand.
O, the pawnbroker’s saying as if he’s surprised — though it’s only resignation hidden, this ritual yet another act, a tallis cloak or spare tefillin cover (whatever kind you’re interested in, he’ll oblige with wait). As he has all day, he’ll see what he can do, and by the looks of Him — Him, too. Having been retired to readiness ever since B’s very entrance, the customary ring, his own sleepy slowness merely a shtick, allowing whosoever here to pawn the pretense of advantage, and so now just offering the most requisite of prayers: shoptalk, this Kaddishing of weights & measures, the formulaic preparation of an Amen’s delay — all to enable him a sizing up, as if for B’s coffin, a suitable shroud; him ensconced behind his cage, already putting on his visor and adjusting, always, the scales of his enterprise both the honest and those used to weigh by his daughters and the wife — what he wants, the mark in his palms of the object not yet his a suppurant stigma: what he could get, he’s calculating, conniving, there is no can’t, and those thoughts and others like them not motivational, but true and believing, felt so long he’s convinced, convicted upon his own recognizance of B’s desperation, which he’ll share for half; all such thoughts, hopes, prayers, and dreams accompanied by the various commercial ablutions: such as, the sacred wicking of the moustachebeard, the ritual liplick, the calming of the throat into a fist that’s tightly held…hymn, he’s beginning so soon with the setup, the Blessed Art bumble — so it’s a spoon you want to sell me, nu? Business. That’s something else altogether. Everything. Come in, come closer, that’s it?
A spoon, He says, silver, and an heirloom, worth more to me than to you: hard times have forced…
Forced me, too…says the mensch, he’s heard it all, listened to little, to none — now examining the pawn under a glass, a loupe unlidded and wedged over an eye within the rim of a wrinkle. It’s a spoon, he’s saying, that I can tell for myself, silver, not much. Hymn. A bit tarnished, isn’t it?
As if to noncommit, intereshting.
How? He wants to know, what do you mean…B wanting His money but more His calm, doesn’t want to impress Himself on anyone’s memory — anonymous charity, isn’t that what they say, that it’s the highest form of help…
Nicht, I mean nothing, a bit touchy, aren’t you, neurotic, the shpilkes, and this on a yomtov, it’s unfortunate. You seem good people, though — have you ever been told such things…what am I talking, bet you get that all the time: presentable as you are (but suck it up, will you, tuck that in), and sensitive, too, compassionate’s what they used to say, and with character, such a nice boy that face, such hands, without parents, am I right, a tragedy, always too young, always too soon…an orphan, it must be difficult, and for that you have my condolences, my very best, you’re assured — but forgive me, your spoon, a triflele lefele…so it’s kosher, as an antique it’s echt, not by much. As a keepsake, I’d say it’s worth something. Tell me, how much?
A hundred…He’s thinking as an initial offering high enough, which means there’s still ample low to spare for his greed, the pawnbroker’s — the long, thin fingers refusing to knuckle under, stirringup the cracked teacup mouth, the eyes above unsalted butterpads over the unleavened skin — this alterhocker whose fix seems to be in…an even hundred, thinking that’s fair, as if assuring Himself He does and He doesn’t, B saying it twice, once for each zero on the count of His breath, which is horrible, hungry.
As if to say to the mensch — here’s my pride, bubeleh, now bargain me down what you will.