An Honest Man

"Many a man fails to become a thinker for the sole reason that his memory is too good." Friedrich Nietzche, Maxims Anchorage, Alaska 2010 Paddy quietly slipped into the line behind a short black guy reeking of cigarettes and a chubby Alaska Native woman carrying an Xbox 360. At the counter, a skinny middle-aged white woman was squabbling with Jason. “No. You can’t bring in your pay stub after we give you the loan,” Jason said. “We have to know whether or not you have enough money to pay us back.” “I have a job. I just don’t get paychecks regularly. How I’m supposed to give you something I ain’t got?” “How am I supposed to know you’re not just lying to me? We’ll give you a loan once you bring us a paystub or some proof of income. Next.” “I need this money.” Her voice cracked; she looked over her shoulder at the customers, waiting in line. “My baby-daddy…” Lowering his eyes, Jason answered, “If I give you a loan without a paystub or something like it, I get fired. Sorry. Next.” The next customer strode forward, pushing the woman aside, and offered the Xbox to Jason. “What I get? Almost brand new.” He looked at the console, checking for damage. He placed it on the rear counter. “Do you have any controllers or cords for it?” “No. This is how it came.” "Uh huh," he said. He plugged the machine into a small TV with cords he had beneath the counter, and slid a game into the console. “Is there anything I can do?” the first woman asked. The Xbox hummed to life. “You need to bring me some proof that you have a regular income. Pay stubs, bank statements, tax forms, something like that. I need something. Sorry.” Satisfied that the console worked tolerably well, he said, “Works well but with no cables, games, or controllers…I’ll give you fifty for it.” “Bullshit. I seen this for three hundred dollars.” “In a store. Brand new. In the box. With a game, controllers, and some cables. Fifty bucks.” “Fuck that, man. Liz told me she sold one for, like, twice that much.” “Take it to Liz, then. Next.” “Ok. Damn. Ok. That’s some bullshit. You know that, right? Give me my fifty.” She slowly ambled out, counting and recounting the five ten dollar bills in her hand. “James, how goes it?” Jason said. The short black man approached the counter. “Same shit, same smell. You?” His hand emerged from a jacket pocket and presented Jason with a folded piece of paper. “I hear you. Man, put that away. Same as every month, right?” “No, that scholarship came through, brother. I need half as much as normal.” Smiling, Jason extended a hand. “Good stuff, bro. Congratulations. How long you have left?” “Another two semesters. I am exhausted. How can people keep this up for seven years?” “Diligence and discipline, dude. Give me a second while I recalculate the loan.” Pulling up James’ information on the computer screen, Jason updated the income and loan amount boxes. “You know the same fee applies and you have thirty one days to repay—“ “Got it. Same bat-time, same bat-channel.” “I know you’ve been doing this for a year, but I still have to make sure.” Jason tapped the keys and turned to the receipt sliding out of the printer. He inputted the loan transaction into the register and handed James four hundred dollars. “Good luck.” “See you next month.” “So you’re not an asshole to every customer?” Paddy said, advancing to the counter. Jason stapled James’ signed loan receipt to the register receipt and placed it in a file drawer. “Only to the ones that punch me. So what happened? You were supposed to come by yesterday. The cops stop you from ‘finding’ anything else?” “You seem busy. Should I come back after you’ve had a few drinks?” “Did you do what I said?” “You have Internet here, why the hell did I have to look that stuff up?” she said. “I actually don’t. And would you have believed me?” Paddy drew closer to the glass counter. “Can you give me more than five hundred for the stuff I showed you?” Jason blinked and said nothing. “A guy I know, he said he’d give me five hundred for the whole bag,” she lied. “Five hundred dollars? Five hundred. For everything?” “Five. Hundred. Dollars,” she said. “So…I tell you that you have some artifacts, altogether potentially worth at least many thousands of dollars...” he took his flask out from under the counter. “Some of which”—he took a swig—“have important historical connotations. I didn’t want to cheat you and told you to look up their value.” He slid the flask back under the counter. “Thousands of dollars. And you ask me for five hundred?” “Can you match it?” He fumbled in his pockets for his cigarettes. “Whoever is offering you five hundred bucks isn’t giving you a fraction of what it’s worth. You could probably sell those books alone for that much.” He looked for a lighter. “Did you do any searching online?” She looked at him, mouth flat. “I couldn’t find any place that gave me a straight answer, but there were plenty of websites that said what you were saying.” Jason retrieved a jewel-encrusted Zippo from its display case inside the counter. “So why are you asking me about five hundred bucks?” “Cause I have a job, dick.” She sighed. “I can’t take any time off to find a buyer. I believe you that this shit is worth a lot more than five hundred. And, sorry as it is, you’re more trustworthy than the guy giving me the offer. But, how can I get what it's actually worth without screwing myself?” “So, what are you doing here?” “How can I get what I’m owed without screwing myself?”