Post by glen on Jan 8, 2009 21:15:32 GMT -6
The first time I saw the Savior of Mankind was in Michener Pawn Shop just off Michigan Avenue. The area that I was looking at, there are a lot of pawn shops, but someone I worked with had recommended this place. Michener was distantly related to the writer, although I doubted he ever got any of the fame or fortune that came with writing a best seller.
It was the Christmas season, and I had dropped by Michener’s on my way to Watertower Place, shopping for an old cigarette lighter for my brother, Rex. Rex lives in Boston. I haven’t seen him in years. We used to be close, but years in graduate school for me and the merchant marine for Rex pulled us apart. Rex collects lighters, as well as many other things. I usually don’t get him much, but what the hey, it was Christmas.
I remember that evening, because I thought it was eerie that a gangly, pimpled teenager would spend so much time staring at handguns. You need a permit to buy a handgun in Chicago, and there’s a two-week waiting period on top of that. I didn’t think the kid was old enough to buy one, either. In any case, it creeped me out.
But the kid stood there in his torn red hooded sweatshirt and dirty jeans, staring at the glass case that displayed the snubnosed Smith &Wesson .38 right next to the nickel-plated Beretta 9 mm automatic, which in turn was below the Colt .45 long barrel. Behind it on the wall was a sign that said: “Glock: the Choice of the Best.” Any one of those guns were enough to shatter a padlock, hold up a 7-Eleven, or blow the top of the kid’s head off, depending on what his intentions were. And I was beginning to wonder just what his intentions were.
I wasn’t alone in that. The kid continued to stare at the glass case as if he were the only person left in the world, as if he was going to have a love affair with one of those guns. I could see the wheels turning in his head, just standing there looking in the glass case. It was almost as if he had some telepathic connection with those hunks of metal.
And all of this continued to happen, despite the vicious stare of Al Michener, the proprietor, who was busy selling cheap jewelry to the two old women at the end of the counter. One of the women seemed to know her way around the place. The other acted like she would catch a venereal disease just by being in a pawn shop. She stood closely behind the tall one, as if she would protect her from Al, who I could tell wouldn’t hurt a flea. Finally the two women paid for their brooch and earrings, and left. Al looked at me and nodded, letting me know that he would be with me in a minute.
“Can I help you, Son?” he said to the Savior of Mankind, an edge in his voice. I looked at the clock and realized that the shop would be closing soon. Al strode quickly over to the opposite side of the handgun case and towered over the kid. Al is not built that muscular, but he looked like he could take out the kid if he needed to. The kid was a stick with tennis shoes.
The kid didn’t look up. Instead, he sniffed and picked at his nose, still staring at the guns. Despite his red hood being pulled up tight over his head and around his face, I could see that the boy had a major case of acne. He shifted from one foot to the other, his worn out Converse All-Stars hightops untied, their laces dragging behind him. They looked three sizes too big for him. I waited for him to walk out of those shoes.
“Kid,” Al said again, standing opposite him and leaning down, his voice much lower this time. “Are you going to buy something? Other than a handgun, I mean. You have to be 21 to buy a gun in Illinois.”
The kid’s response came out in a squeak.
“How…how much for the Smith & Wesson?”
“A hundred dollars, but not for you.”
The kid looked up slowly in surprise, his mouth formed into a silent O.
“Look, kid, if you want something to hold up a liquor store with, this is not the store to buy it in.”
“I…I didn’t.…”
“Or if you’re mad at Mommy and Daddy, go find another way to let them know you’re disappointed. Go find some girl to get pregnant. That will ruin their life, and they will live to remember your petulance for a long time. Petulance. Go look it up.”
The kid just stood there as if his shoes were superglued to the linoleum floor.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? Beat it, kid, before I call the cops.”
“But….”
“SCRAM.” Al’s face bore down on the teenager’s, a flood of anger washing over it.
The Savior of Mankind was torn between some hidden task that he had before him, and a sense of survival that suddenly took priority. With a superhuman effort, he jerked away from the case, shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and bolted out the door onto the busy sidewalk outside. I couldn’t tell if he was miffed, frightened, or something in-between. All I know was that he was gone in less than 30 seconds.
Al watched him leave, then turned to me. Traces of anger still on his face, it relaxed when it saw me and a lopsided grin took over.
“I hate getting rough with them,” he said. “But it is necessary sometimes.”
I shrugged. “Probably saved his life.”
Al nodded, then looked out the door after the boy. “Probably.”
It was the Christmas season, and I had dropped by Michener’s on my way to Watertower Place, shopping for an old cigarette lighter for my brother, Rex. Rex lives in Boston. I haven’t seen him in years. We used to be close, but years in graduate school for me and the merchant marine for Rex pulled us apart. Rex collects lighters, as well as many other things. I usually don’t get him much, but what the hey, it was Christmas.
I remember that evening, because I thought it was eerie that a gangly, pimpled teenager would spend so much time staring at handguns. You need a permit to buy a handgun in Chicago, and there’s a two-week waiting period on top of that. I didn’t think the kid was old enough to buy one, either. In any case, it creeped me out.
But the kid stood there in his torn red hooded sweatshirt and dirty jeans, staring at the glass case that displayed the snubnosed Smith &Wesson .38 right next to the nickel-plated Beretta 9 mm automatic, which in turn was below the Colt .45 long barrel. Behind it on the wall was a sign that said: “Glock: the Choice of the Best.” Any one of those guns were enough to shatter a padlock, hold up a 7-Eleven, or blow the top of the kid’s head off, depending on what his intentions were. And I was beginning to wonder just what his intentions were.
I wasn’t alone in that. The kid continued to stare at the glass case as if he were the only person left in the world, as if he was going to have a love affair with one of those guns. I could see the wheels turning in his head, just standing there looking in the glass case. It was almost as if he had some telepathic connection with those hunks of metal.
And all of this continued to happen, despite the vicious stare of Al Michener, the proprietor, who was busy selling cheap jewelry to the two old women at the end of the counter. One of the women seemed to know her way around the place. The other acted like she would catch a venereal disease just by being in a pawn shop. She stood closely behind the tall one, as if she would protect her from Al, who I could tell wouldn’t hurt a flea. Finally the two women paid for their brooch and earrings, and left. Al looked at me and nodded, letting me know that he would be with me in a minute.
“Can I help you, Son?” he said to the Savior of Mankind, an edge in his voice. I looked at the clock and realized that the shop would be closing soon. Al strode quickly over to the opposite side of the handgun case and towered over the kid. Al is not built that muscular, but he looked like he could take out the kid if he needed to. The kid was a stick with tennis shoes.
The kid didn’t look up. Instead, he sniffed and picked at his nose, still staring at the guns. Despite his red hood being pulled up tight over his head and around his face, I could see that the boy had a major case of acne. He shifted from one foot to the other, his worn out Converse All-Stars hightops untied, their laces dragging behind him. They looked three sizes too big for him. I waited for him to walk out of those shoes.
“Kid,” Al said again, standing opposite him and leaning down, his voice much lower this time. “Are you going to buy something? Other than a handgun, I mean. You have to be 21 to buy a gun in Illinois.”
The kid’s response came out in a squeak.
“How…how much for the Smith & Wesson?”
“A hundred dollars, but not for you.”
The kid looked up slowly in surprise, his mouth formed into a silent O.
“Look, kid, if you want something to hold up a liquor store with, this is not the store to buy it in.”
“I…I didn’t.…”
“Or if you’re mad at Mommy and Daddy, go find another way to let them know you’re disappointed. Go find some girl to get pregnant. That will ruin their life, and they will live to remember your petulance for a long time. Petulance. Go look it up.”
The kid just stood there as if his shoes were superglued to the linoleum floor.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? Beat it, kid, before I call the cops.”
“But….”
“SCRAM.” Al’s face bore down on the teenager’s, a flood of anger washing over it.
The Savior of Mankind was torn between some hidden task that he had before him, and a sense of survival that suddenly took priority. With a superhuman effort, he jerked away from the case, shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and bolted out the door onto the busy sidewalk outside. I couldn’t tell if he was miffed, frightened, or something in-between. All I know was that he was gone in less than 30 seconds.
Al watched him leave, then turned to me. Traces of anger still on his face, it relaxed when it saw me and a lopsided grin took over.
“I hate getting rough with them,” he said. “But it is necessary sometimes.”
I shrugged. “Probably saved his life.”
Al nodded, then looked out the door after the boy. “Probably.”