3.

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.”

And with a click the door swung open. Without hesitation, I stepped inside. The door closed behind me, and I gotta tell you, it shut soft as a whisper. No cliché slam. A soft click, nothing more.

Right away I sensed something different. I can’t explain it, not even after all this time. All I can say is the air inside felt heavier. Everything was blanketed by an oppressive silence. Y’know how it sounds inside a building when it’s empty? Or maybe how it feels is a better way of putting it. The store didn’t sound empty so much as it felt empty.

Which didn’t make sense. Even assuming there was a rear exit for the shopkeeper, I hadn’t stood on the sidewalk for long. No way he could’ve closed the store and left.

Glancing toward the counter confirmed my suspicions. All the lights were still on. And, sitting where I’d left it, was that hokey Magic Eight Ball.

I’m still not sure what pushed me forward. Why I didn’t turn around and leave. Crazy as it was, the guy had obviously closed and gone home. It seemed weird for him to have left the front door open and the lights on, but maybe those were security lights, right? Maybe the door’s lock stuck as old ones do. Maybe he’d thought he’d locked it, but hadn’t.

I meandered forward, glancing around the cluttered shelves. My gaze didn’t settle on anything in particular, gliding over used tools, old board games, discarded dolls and other cast-offs. By the time I reached the counter, most of my unease (okay, fear) had passed. The human brain is interesting, if you think about it. It doesn’t want to be afraid or think about things hiding in the shadows. It hates ideas that don’t make sense, or things that trouble us deeply inside . . .

like the .38 under the bed

 . . . so our minds slide around these things, winking at them, nudging them softly aside. That’s what my brain was doing, I guess. I’d gotten over my nerves and figured I was right. The shopkeeper had thought he’d locked up, but the front door’s lock was broken or didn’t work right. Or, maybe he was out back and hadn’t heard me come in. Either way, so long as I didn’t think too much about the weird heaviness of the air in the store . . .

or my .38

 . . . I felt fine. It was a weird night in a weird little town. That’s all.

I stopped at the counter, placed my hands flat down and leaned over. I tried to peer around the corner. All I saw was a dimly lit corridor reaching into darkness. I supposed it was possible someone was back there, but I heard nothing. All I could see was a vague suggestion of shelves, and boxes piled on the floor.

“Hey,” I called, “anyone back there? Mr. We-Have-What-You-Need? Hello?”

Silence.

And the weird thing was, my voice didn’t echo at all. I wasn’t expecting an echo, of course. Place wasn’t a cave or anything. But I expected to hear something, I guess.

I got nothing.

I grunted, dismissing it. So my voice sounded weird. So what?

My gaze fell on something I hadn’t seen before, to my far left on the counter. An old tape recorder. One of those big reel-to-reel jobs. And the odd thing was: the power light glowed an eerie green.

It was on.

I stared at it, frowning. I didn’t remember seeing it only ten or fifteen minutes before, when I was talking to the shopkeeper. Of course, I hadn’t looked around much, either. Was mostly focused on the guy and his weird ramblings. But I would’ve bet my bottom dollar it hadn’t been there when I’d first approached the counter.

And it was on.

Which bugged me most of all.

Why would it be on?

I found myself reaching for the “play” switch before I even understood what I was doing. I stopped short, clenching my hand, gripped by strange, conflicting emotions. I couldn’t understand why I felt compelled to press “play” and at the same time, I didn’t understand the feeling of . . . foreboding? . . . which checked my hand.

It was an old tape player. What could possibly be on it? Disgusted, I pushed aside my strange reluctance, reached forward and pressed play. I heard nothing but clicking, hissing static as the reels turned, then, a deep voice cleared its throat and . . .