Another Man's Treasure

In retrospect, there is a list of reasons why I shouldn't have taken a job as an inventory clerk in a pawn shop. The list begins and ends with the fact that I'm a kleptomaniac. For reasons unbeknownst to me, or anyone else for that matter, I pocket everything from used popsicle sticks --not mine, by the way--to vintage records, to first edition books. Pretty much anything I can get my hands on, I steal.

I prefer to be called a collector rather than a klepto, but it's hard to avoid the name calling when I have been fired by at least 23 different jobs for the "mysterious disappearance of an item"...or two. They always cite deductive reasoning for making me the culprit--and if I didn't want to risk a search warrant that would unveil one of the largest private 'collections' of gidgets and gadgets and what nots, then I'd certainly fight them to protect my name. But having already got what I needed, I am always moving on to the next. A fearless vagabond in search of--what, really? Who knows?

There is a rumor going around, a legend in fact, that I have become the great Pawn Shop Prowler--never staying in one shop for too long, but just long enough to make out with the missing pieces. I am certain that I will have the world's most fabulous obituary and they will write about me long after my death. They will say I was a principal, that I was unpredictable, and unmatched in my elusiveness. They will tell stories of how I proved them wrong when they said, "Nothing's free in this world." It will all be free, including the nostalgia.

And then just as they write it, someone out there will look closely at the fine print--very closely--and in retrospect, will see that I wasn't a pioneer at all, but rather a thief who ended up with nothing but a pool of everyone else's memories.

And as it turns out, one man's trash was my missed opportunity.