Going to the Pawn Shop before Christmas

The days sure do go by fast. I blink and it's morning again. I blink again and it's bedtime. Blink-blink and it's over. So, I've got to get on the ball, and make the most of it. What the hell does that mean anyway... Get on the Ball?!? What Ball?!? And it's round...How are you supposed to get on It?!?

It's was yesterday, and the bills rose, and the paychecks and bonuses were smaller than expected. I was on the phone with various companies, delaying bills and making payment arrangements...very holiday spirit like. It almost looked like there wasn't going to be a Christmas for my child after all.

But, I always have a plan. I always have a way to make money. There are ways to squeeze blood from a turnip...yes, there is.

I keep a small stockpile of shit for the dreaded, horrible pawn shop. Various gifts of gold that my family has given me over the years. I don't wear gold, and have never liked it. But, I keep these things. Sometimes, I regift some of the pieces, but mostly I just keep it. Probably out of family guilt. A secret stockpile bedded deep in an unused, collect-all drawer.

(If you thinking, now, that you might break into my house to look for this secret drawer, don't bother. Yes, I am aware that keeping things in a drawer is an invite. But, I don't worry about that. It's not worth the time of getting caught for it, or the dog bite you might get, or the shotgun blast taken in the heart or the ass...it's just not worth that much. I'm not worth that much, that's why I can keep it in a drawer.)

I worked as much holiday magic on the bills as possible. And then I sighed, and put the pencil and calculator up. I was so tired and I rubbed my eyes and sighed some more. I went to the gold drawer. I announced that it would be pawn shop time. I gingerly sorted what I was willing to part with for the sake of my child's happiness. Dividing, collecting, remembering...There are reasons that this crap is hidden. None of it is really worth that much. These aren't heirlooms or anything like that. My family doesn't really do heirlooms. But, it was the best they could do, they gave these things to me. These things often represented the poorness of my family. The fact that none of us ever truly got above Wal-Mart gold necklaces. They also represented, to me, my lack of my family's understanding of me. Always the gifts of gold that I would never wear. Always the stuff that I disliked or was uncomfortable with. The girl/woman that I would never be for them. What girl/woman doesn't like gold and diamonds?!? What was wrong with me?!? How I would never fit into that image of the norm. Yes, all these things that I kept hidden.

I was taking them to the Pawn Shop. That is very much the norm for my family. That white trash part of us all that maybe I'm never to escape. I loathe the Pawn Shop. We all have that in common. The pawn shops are all owned and operated by bad, bad people, who pray on the desperateness of others. Short changing type people. And they usually don't stop with that theme when they're off the clock...they remain that type of person in every part of their lives. It's just hanging in the air of the Pawn Shop when you walk in. Yes, you have to be a special person to work at the Pawn Shop. Yes, indeed.

And the racket never changes. I walked in with my sack of gold. The counter person, per usual, asks how much I wanted for the stuff. I don't know why they bother asking. They're never going to give you exactly what you want for it. They are ALWAYS going to lowball you. I bit my tounge from saying that I would like three million dollars for the lot. Yes, three million dollars, that's what I'd like. That's funny.

And then comes the examining of all your pieces and the "back and forth" discussion among the counter people. One being the giving and caring type...and the other people the bad one, shaking their head.

Jesus, Sweet Jesus...cut the act, and just tell me what you're going to give me already with that. I tried not to roll my eyes, and look to impatient. I was going to be the cool cucumber type. I was already in know about exactly how much this crap was worth. I was already in the know about how much crack this could buy me. The street value of my gold items wasn't much...so just give me the offer already.

The owner came over as well. His hair was long in the back, balding on top, with a slight comb over. He took out his jewelry monocle, to closely examine my wares. I think I might have died right on the spot if he'd bitten any of my pieces or rubbed any of them harshly on his giant, and I mean giant, belt buckle that was holding up his straight, bootcut Wranglers. As though he would really know quality shit when he saw it. I was bringing in the good stuff. I don't own the good stuff!!!

At the Pawn Shop, you can either get a loan, or you can sell your items. I hadn't said which on I wanted yet. However, I was told that despite the place being laden with gold items, the owner was not buying gold at this time because the taxes were so high on it. Poor, poor Pawn Shop owner.

Let me translate: What this really meant is that the owner would only give out loans on gold and diamonds and wait to see if you defaulted on your loan, and then he's get the goods at a cheaper price and sell your stuff and regain his investment, even with the HUGE taxes that he'd have to pay. Poor Pawn Shop owner and his giving spirit...all that he did for all of us in our time of need.

Let me translate again: Let me stick my expensive, dead animal skin, probably snake or crocodile, boots up your ass for the holiday, you desperate Christmas Fuck.

Now, the truth is, also, if you're a female going to the pawn shop you get screwed even more. It's an unwritten rule of the pawn shop males. It just is. And it's a double screw to you, if your pawn shop owner is one of the comb over males. They can't really help it. You just have to be aware of this rule and make certain accommodations for it.

(If you meet one or more of these qualifications to the rules, please do not bother posting back to me. I have statistics. And deep down you know what you are. Don't play.)

So, I got a loan on my pile of shit. I left feeling dirty and shitty. Blah. I would default on my loan. I had gotten rid of my secret stash drawer, and I wouldn't got back for it, just not to have to go back in there. Like there's going to be a shortage of shit that I stock pile in my life, and like there's going to be a shortage of shitty pawnshop owners in town. Give me a break already with that!!!

But, my child...there's nothing I won't do for him. Nope. He will have his Christmas. He will have his presents. I had made sure of that. He would not know of crappy humans, or disfunctional families, or bare Christmas trees or stockings, or big bills and small paychecks. Nope. He wouldn't know about any of that stuff. That part was cool. So, Mr. Pawn Shop you didn't really get one over on the Holiday Spirit afterall. What you got is a pile of crappy jewelry. Good luck with that.

My son was with me at the pawn shop. He just thought we were shopping. He's too small to really know what going on there. As we were leaving, the Pawn Shop owner gave my son a candy cane, and told me that I have a beautiful daughter. My son has long hair. But he definitely looks like a boy, just with long hair. I told my son to leave the candy cane, and I reminded my son that we never take candy from strangers. My son put the candy cane down, and made a face at the bad, bad, comb over man. I smiled sweetly and my son and I left holding hands. Ahhhh. Good times, good times!

Last night, I dreamed weird dreams of floods, through towns with my mother and grandmother. I was small and holding their hands... Picking through bargain basements in old towns with big keys and cobblestone streets. I dreamed of clipping coupons. I dreamed of the old Green Stamp booklets, and the scrap piles of cheap leftover cloth at the sewing shops. Everything we ate came in cans and boxes.

Then, I dreamed of the ocean, and surfing with a couple of close friends. The surf was scary and fast, the water was dark. The surf was loud and peaceful. We searched and searched. We were searching to find a secret water spot to surf that was supposed to be dangerous and beautiful. We found it and some rich person owned it. We surfed there anyway because no one should own the ocean. I was wearing cheap, flowing, clothes and I had on thick, red, glitter eye shadow. We didn't fit in with the other surfers, but we didn't get caught. My one friend looked so beautiful in my dream. But this friend always looks beautiful.

I also dreamed of all of the recently beached whales. They had been beached because of all of the sonar research. I dreamed of my friend who had accepted a job doing work with that. I dreamed of his soul returning as a beached whale in my surf dream. I couldn't help him either. He was being punished and dying for it.

These dreams that would haunt me this morning when I awoke. All of my dreams that are particularly vivid and colorful, always haunt me in the morning.

It's Christmas Eve morning now. I'm smoking and drinking coffee. Will I stop smoking this year? Probably not. Something has to get me.

I've been thinking about this year. All the fighting. The tsuamis, the earthquakes, the floods, the wars, the bombs, the tortures everyone's okay with because it's not them and the people who are tortured aren't real anyway because we don't know them personally or see them under their hoods, the Government scandles, the ousted leaders, the mass graves, the lying, the big businesses fighting to keep their right to not let people take lunches or to lock them in overnight, the big businesses paying people pennies, child labor, child prostitution rings, cyber child molesters, the distructions of the rainforests for nice expensive woods, and the people that died in civil wars for that wood, the people who are homeless- numbers growing, the old people who can't pay their property taxes or use their heat, the wiretaps, the dead animals, the species that we will never know of because they're just gone so we can drive Hummers, the drilling in the forest for gas and oil, the lack of education, and the hatred for my gay and lesbian friends, the closing of borders to prevent workers from taking jobs that no one wants anyway, the stylishness of adopting children from overseas while our own children are dying, poor people's addictions because they can't afford a vacation, drug companies that make too much money, the real reason our birds are sick, stem cell research to cheat death and keep the world's population at an all time high, nuclear crap we don't need, cloning and secret cloning, etc. I have a big list, I could keep going.

Yes, every year, I pray. I pray that God isn't just a big scam. I pray that the bigger family of the human race will get it together and treat eachother a bit nicer. Am I some sort of hippie? No, I'm not. I'm not a hippie. I'm a realist. We just don't need all this shit. And every day I am throughly embarassed by some human acting out...usually for money...but still, just acting out. We should all be embarrassed. And then there's God, pick a God, who was to remind us to behave better...but it doesn't work. Humans don't listen.

Hurry up a trample people for land scrapes and the best drinking water. HURRY UP!!!! Death and weight gain is just an illusion, we can clone you and drug you to make you feel better. HURRY UP!!!! The 80% off sales are the only sales ever, fuck Jesus cause we've got to save the economy!!!! HURRY UP!!!! HURRY UP!!!! The riding lawnmower needs gas and the prices are rising!!!!!!Soon we'll be out of salmon and furry bears!!!!!HURRY UP!!!!!Cut of the breasts of that woman because her family owns land that there might be real diamonds on!!!!!!HURRY UP!!!!! Pose with those naked, butt cheek-upped, hooded males that we're tourturing!!! This is a once in a lifetime chance to be mean and have fun, and blame it on someone else!HURRY UP!!!!

I'm embarassed for us all. That's what I think of every year. There's so much of it, that if you don't think of it, you're one of the people that's the problem. What can't we round up those people? Is it in all of us?

We should be embarassed. We completely and constantly fuck ourselves!!! Yes, every year, I think about how we all fuck ourselves!!!! Christmas is a joke. I really believe that.

Am I some depressed Christmas meanie? No. I'm not. Again, I'm a realist. I view this through very real, live thoughts, sounds, emotions, and witnessing events. Yes, a realist.

Where's my hope, you say?

Oh, yes, it's there, too. It is laying with the wrapped presents and smiles and loud laughters that I will have tomorrow morning with my child. My hope lies with him, that hope that we will all get it together before I have to turn this world over to him to run and make decisions with. It could happen. There is something real in that as well.

Yes, I felt my hope in my pocket of cash, leaving the pawn shop. I felt my hope, in my dreams of red glitter eyeshadow. I felt my hope. It's there.