Grip
Pawn Quixote, another roadside museum of miscellany, stands open. It’s a still life of eye-level guns and stacks of electronics and a surplus of leather hats and belts. Somewhere unseen, a turntable scratches its bluesy hymn. The entire west wall, a dedicated guitar showcase, entices no one.
The kid enters carrying a handsome leather case underarm. Hoodie up, he catches himself in the convex eyes of markdown television sets, headphones fastening his neck, and turns away. Ahead, the owner waves him to the counter, framed by ceiling-high shelves of cassettes and CDs. They are alone.
“Afternoon.” The man extends a hand—long fingers, gray hair, bad tremor. “I’m Jack.”
The kid shakes it, winces. He matches Jack’s firmness, but the owner redoubles before letting go. “Caleb,” says the kid. “I’m here to sell a guitar.”