by Kevin Lucia
There was a modest lake—Clifton Lake—to the east, and folks referred to the hills as “the Heights.” The clean streets were patrolled often by Sheriff Baker and his deputies. He seemed a decent guy. Certainly not the stereotypical small-town crook, who ran his little kingdom with an iron fist. Trust me; I ran into plenty of that sort back in the day.
The students of Clifton Heights High were a bunch of hard-working go-getters, the kind which usually brought in droves of subscriptions. Right from the start I knew they would deliver.
The teachers and administrators were friendly and accommodating. The kick-off went well, the student body enthused, and everything was running five-by-five. Normally, I would’ve headed out to a bar (in the next town over, of course, always in the next town over), and settled for Ms. 40-Maybe-50. If she looked okay, of course, and if I’d had enough Jose Cuervo.
For some reason when I returned to my cabin at The Motor Lodge, I started to feel restless. I’m not sure why. Like I said, there was something off in Clifton Heights. It didn’t make sense at the time. It was quaint, homey, rustic but not a tourist trap. The people were friendly. The kids at the high school had been outgoing. The English teacher there—a Gavin Patchett—had taken me out to dinner at The Skylark. The meal had been everything you’d expect from a small town diner; heaping portions of great food. When I’d left The Skylark, I was full-bellied and content, maybe interested in a little company later.
On my way back to The Motor Lodge, I started feeling twitchy. Uneasy. As if I was being watched or something. Sounds crazy, I suppose. Anyway, even after showering and prepping for my night out, I still couldn’t settle down. My good mood had vanished. I no longer wanted to chat up an aging bar whore with a loose grin and glazed-over eyes. At the same time, I was far too restless for sleep.
So I found myself driving aimlessly around town.
Which was strange.
I’d never before had any desire to explore the town I was visiting. I usually checked into my motel the night before, maybe hit a bar one or two towns over, called it an early night so I could wake up fresh the next morning. The next day I’d wake up early, get myself organized, head to the school, and do my thing. After, I’d return to the motel, eat somewhere then head out to another bar a few towns over and maybe score some female company. The next morning, I’d be on my way to another gig.
I’d never bothered to see more of the towns I visited, so I didn’t understand why I was doing so that night. Maybe I was curious. You never know if something interesting might be lurking in a humble little town, right?
As I turned onto Asher Street, I pulled my rental up to the store at the end. It appeared to be the only one open. Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. That was interesting: a thrift store in a small town open at 8:30 at night, when everything else appeared closed.
At the time, I didn’t know why I’d stopped there. The joint caught my eye for some reason. Maybe there was something valuable inside, hiding in all the junk. Treasure among trash, y’know?
But something else was at work. I felt pulled there. By what, I had no idea at the time. Now I know, of course.
It was Fate.
I was meant to stop at Handy’s.
And nothing would ever be the same after.
3.
From the outside, Handy’s Pawn and Thrift was like any other second-hand junk store. Random items filled both storefront windows. Old radios, ranging from transistors to stereos with combination eight-track players and tape decks. Rusted old milk cans. An old tricycle next to a plastic Big Wheel. A jumbled assortment of sports equipment—deflated basketballs, footballs, scuffed baseballs and dinged bats. Helmets, a pair of hockey sticks, and a few pairs of old basketball sneakers. Old mason jars filled with marbles, a pile of hammers, saws, another mason jar filled with assorted screwdrivers. A few stacks of old books, and leaning next to them, old records in faded sleeves.
Standing on the curb, I saw nothing particularly enticing or remotely interesting. In retrospect, I think it was the sign hanging in the window that sealed it. Maroon with gold trim and gold lettering, it read:
Handy’s Pawn and Thrift
We Have
Things You Need
I snorted because from where I stood, Handy’s didn’t sell anything but junk. Nothing sitting in the window looked valuable. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine I needed anything Handy’s was selling. In fact, I was about to turn and leave when I glanced down with some surprise to see my hand turning the doorknob.
Even more surprising, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
I stood there for a few seconds, my eyes adjusting to the dim murk. After my vision focused and I could see better, I glanced around and saw the inside of Handy’s didn’t appear any different than what I’d seen through its storefront window. A collection of junk no one would be interested in. Of course, that was my initial reaction. As I’ve since discovered—like other things in Clifton Heights—Handy’s Pawn and Thrift needed much closer examination to gain a true appreciation of its offerings.
An aisle led from the door to a sales counter, and on either side stood rows of double-sided shelves. More old tools hung on the wall to the far left. The wall to the right looked interesting: Several framed paintings (nothing valuable, mostly pastoral scenes) and a few framed movie posters from the fifties and sixties.
I almost left right then.
This was what my life had come to?
Haunting a junk store because I didn’t want to sit in a dingy bar chatting up fifty-year-old lushes?
A surprising tide of self-loathing rose up inside. For a second, I imagined spinning on one heel, marching out of Handy’s, and heading back to my cabin at The Motor Lodge to finally use my .38 . . . until a voice stopped me.
“Anything you’re looking for?”
I glanced up, startled. No one had been standing behind the counter when I’d entered the store, but someone stood there now. I’d heard nothing. Not the creaking of a door or the clinking of a latch, or a shoe squeaking on the floorboards. One minute, the area behind the counter was empty, the next, a tall, shadowed form stood there. The way the shadows fell, I couldn’t see a face. Disconcerting as hell, let me tell you.
But I knew how to sing the song and dance the jig. Smiling, I stuffed my hands into my pockets and wandered casually down the aisle toward the sales counter, pretending the man’s shadowed face didn’t bother me.
“You’re open late,” I noted, sidestepping the man’s question, “especially considering all the other stores on this street are closed.”
As I neared the counter, the shadows pulled back to reveal (much to my relief) an ordinary, if slightly weathered face. With a neatly trimmed white beard matching his hair, the guy could’ve been anywhere from his late forties to early sixties. He was smiling amicably, revealing white, even teeth.
“As Mr. Handy always says, you never know when someone’s going to get an itch for what they need. So we try to stay open for folks of all hours.”
I stopped at the counter, arrested slightly by the guy’s vivid green eyes. “So you’re not the Handy of Handy’s Pawn and Thrift.”
The man smiled wider, eyes twinkling, as if he thought the idea funny. “No, sir. A humble shopkeeper is all.”
I grunted, casting a glance back over my shoulder at the assorted odds and ends of old toys, soda bottles, yellowed china and tarnished silverware, aimlessly cluttering row upon row of shelves. “An itch for ‘what they need’ huh?” I faced the man, offering him a smile I hoped wasn’t too sarcastic. “Nice hook on your sign. ‘We Have Things You Need.’ Catchy.”
The guy’s smile never wavered, and he appeared about as genuine as they came. “Catchy and true. We do have things people need. And a surprising number of them seek what they need after regular hours, so we stay open late.”
I smirked a little. Couldn’t help it. I mean, the guy looked sincere, but he was laying it on a bit thick. For some strange, mean reason I felt compelled
to probe his bubble. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it was because he’d gotten to me a little. “C’mon. A small town thrift store has what people need? When folks these days can get whatever they want online and have it delivered by air drones to their doorstep in hours?”
The man tipped his head as if conceding the point, though still disagreeing with me in principal. “But isn’t this the age-old conflict wrestled with by philosophers, theologians, and psychiatrists all through the ages? What we want is so rarely what we need. What we need, we hardly ever want.”
Outwardly I scoffed, shrugging as I glanced around the store, but on the inside, I gotta be honest: What he said struck a chord. Again, against my will, I thought of the .38 in a box under my bed back at The Motor Lodge.
A thought occurred to me; a way to steer our increasingly disquieting conversation back onto more comfortable ground. I glanced at the guy, giving him my ‘just-between-us’ grin. “You guys do good business here, I bet.”
A smile and a nod. “I must admit we do. Only Mr. Handy knows the exact details, of course. However, I’ve certainly rung up enough sales to know we’re in no danger of closing any time soon.”
“I bet. Take that old milk can.” I gestured at the black, rustic Crowley’s milk can standing in the corner. “Folks come to the Adirondacks from out of state, see it with the date embossed on the side—1950, is it?—and because they found it here in an Adirondack thrift store, they’ll be far more willing to pay top dollar for it than if they’d come across it in a yard sale, where Mr. Handy probably bought it for ten bucks. And that’s if he didn’t get it lumped in with a bunch of junk in an estate sale, or came across it for free in someone’s abandoned barn.”
I gotta admit feeling proud over my little spiel, which makes sense, I suppose. All those years on the road selling magazines—hell, selling the idea of selling magazines—and I’d never gotten the chance to flex my marketing muscles. Granted, what I’d offered wasn’t exactly the most insightful market analysis, but it felt good regardless.
It must not have been far from the truth, because the shopkeeper (yeah, I never did get his name; weird, huh?) gave me a knowing smile and winked, as if we were two old friends sharing a secret. “You know your thrift stores.”
I shrugged. “Nah. I know marketing. Well,” I added, giving him a whimsical smile I hoped didn’t show my hidden despair, “I used to.”
Something flickered in his eyes again. “Are you sure there’s nothing you’re looking for in particular?”
I had to hand it to him: he showed some salesman moxie himself. I wasn’t about to be handled so easily, however. I tipped my head—in what I hoped was a bored gesture—and said, “You mean, am I looking for what I need? I dunno. Guess I’ll have to browse a while.” I grinned. “As you said, most folks only know what they want. Not what they need.”
Making good on my words I meandered to my right, approaching the farthest aisle. It was crammed with plastic and ceramic figurines, plates, mugs, and more of those old soda bottles.
“This is true,” the shopkeeper agreed, “people know exactly what they want, but it takes time to search for what they need. No rush. Take your time.”
I spied a Magic Eight Ball nestled on a shelf between some slumped over Barbie dolls. Y’know what I’m talking about. That corny fortune-telling game we all played as kids, which delivered vague answers like Future Unclear or Answer is Hazy. On a whim (I admit, a slightly cruel one), I snatched the eight ball, turned on my heel, held it up with a grin and said, “Here it is. This is what I need, right here.”
The shopkeeper folded his arms, pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes and examined me silently for about a minute or two. I swear, he literally examined me, taking me at my word, as if by some mystical clairvoyance he could determine if, indeed, I did need the Magic Eight Ball.
After another minute, he shook his head and said, sounding regretful, “No, I’m afraid it’s not.”
I felt a little bad about stringing him along—for the most part, he seemed genuine—but I couldn’t stop. The showman in me was on a roll.
I spread my hands in mock appeal. “C’mon. I’m on the road all the time, working a dead end job with no upward mobility but which pays me too comfortably to quit. I’ve got no family or friends, no one at home. If there’s anyone who needs to know the future, it’s me. See? Look.”
I addressed the Magic Eight Ball, earnest as could be, bringing all my showmanship to bear. “Magic Eight Ball. Will I everget off the road and find some sort of life . . . ”
will I go back to my cabin and shoot myself between the eyes
“ . . . besides pitching magazine sales to bored teenagers all over the East Coast?”
I shook the Magic Eight Ball, suddenly and inexplicably angry. I didn’t know why, but standing there, holding the damn thing, I’d spoken truer words about my own life than I’d ever allowed myself to think. I swear, the bit about shooting myself had been on the tip of my tongue. In fact, to this day I’m still unsure whether I thought it or actually spoke it.
The little hexagon suspended in milky liquid inside the Magic Eight Ball finally floated to the surface. Predictably enough, it read “Future is Hazy” in faded letters. I had to restrain a sudden, violent urge to heave it the length of the store.
Instead, I smiled at the shopkeeper. “‘Future is Hazy.’ Figures. Maybe I don’t need this thing after all.”
He nodded in sincere agreement. “You certainly want to know the future. We all do. But that’s not what you need, I don’t think.”
For some reason, my grin felt forced. “Is that so? What do I need, then?”
It was his turn to shrug. “I can’t say, for sure. You’ll know when you find it. As I said, take your time. No rush. Once, a man—also from out of town—visited us around this time, and he didn’t find what he needed until nearly 10:30. I was happy to wait. Turned out he needed an old turntable.”
His straightforward answer popped my bubble. I couldn’t keep up the show. All my snark faded, leaving me empty, used up . . .
And thinking about my .38.
“Listen. I’m sure you mean well. You seem sincere and all.” I tossed the eight ball hand to hand—fidgeting, for God’s sake.
His expression sobered. “Sure you’re not looking for something?”
I shook my head and approached the sales counter. “Thanks for chatting. Got a long drive tomorrow. Gonna go and . . . ”
get my gun
shoot my brains out
“ . . . hit the sack.” I placed the eight ball on the counter. The shopkeeper gazed at me silently, as if he could see inside my head. As if he knew all about the .38.
“Have a good night.” Not waiting for an answer, I turned on one heel and walked down the middle aisle without looking back.
He didn’t answer.
The only sounds were my shoes squeaking the floorboards, and the door as I opened and closed it behind me.
***
You know what I did then? I stood outside Handy’s, staring into space. I didn’t see anything. Not the street, the dark stores on the other side, or my rental. All I saw as I stood outside the store?
My .38.
It crept up on me, y’know? The idea of actually using it. I certainly hadn’t been thinking of it when I’d woken up in the morning . . .
but I knew it was under the bed
felt it there
like a sliver in my brain
. . . and I certainly hadn’t been thinking about it while I was performing for the cheering student body of Clifton Heights High, or during dinner with Mr. Patchett. All right, so maybe I thought about it a little when I returned to my cabin . . .
pulled the box out from under the bed
opened it, and held it
. . . but nothing more. I put it out of my mind as always and ended up at Handy’s Pawn and Thrift, for no reason at all. After a little conversation with an eccentric but well-meaning shopkeeper, there I was, halfway convinced if I
returned to The Motor Lodge I’d finally put my .38 to use.
are you looking for something
we all know what we want
not what we need
Standing on the sidewalk, staring at nothing, the weight of my life loomed. I had no idea what I wanted. If I was honest with myself, I had no clue what I needed, either. For the first time in a long time, I had no idea what to do next.
I felt it tugging at me, a mental fish-hook in my mind: Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. We Have Things You Need. I slowly turned, and before I quite knew what I was doing, I grabbed the door knob and tried to turn it.
At first it wouldn’t open. I don’t mean the door was locked. The knob turned fine, but when I pushed, the door wouldn’t budge. I rattled it a few times, and was about to shrug and walk away.
But I couldn’t.
I know. It sounds crazy. I’d started the night thinking about hitting a bar for a few drinks. Maybe finding some company for the night. But there I was, rattling the door to a hokey used pawn shop with a ridiculous sign promising “We Have Things You Need.” Convinced I might actually need something in there, when what I needed was back in my cabin at The Motor Lodge . . .
in a box under the bed
“Please,” I whispered, twisting the door knob, rattling the door against its frame, “please let me in, I . . . I need to be in there, I’ll do anything. Let me in.”
I know.
I’m not proud of how I acted. I can’t explain why I needed to get inside so badly. All I can say is a short conversation with a weird shopkeeper had stripped away the shell I’d created over the years, leaving me exposed and raw—an open nerve.
I thumped the door, laying my shoulder against it. “Let. Me. In.”