The Pwn Broker
One rainy morning I went to the neighborhood McDonald's on Amsterdam at Broadway for my usual large coffee and hot apple pie. Order now in hand, and by luck, I found an available seat in the crowded restaurant. Getting settled-in, my attention was drawn by a ring on the floor beneath the next table. Checking the impulse to reach for it, I paused to look around, first. Seated at the next table (beneath which was the ring) were four street gamins that frequent the neighborhood. They look the shiftless type, always on the lookout for advantage, none of which looking as if ever having worked a single day in his life. I was wary of their notice.
As it was a rainy day, I carried my umbrella by my side. It was the full-length type (black), and with a metal tip. It occurred to me to use it to maneuver the ring into a better position to snatch it up for myself, whilst not attracting anybody's attention, see? Assessing my chances of success, I returned to my hot coffee and apple pie, making a mock show of enjoying it very much. That got the street hustlers' attention: No one who looked a fool, such as I appeared to be, should enjoy anything so much! They turned away from me in disgust, and back to their own, treacherous, schemes. Feigning an absent-minded gaze at the pedestrian traffic on the street, from the periphery of my vision - and with absolute concentration - I maneuvered the ring by means of my umbrella tip into a better position to purloin for myself.
Looking up to see that no one noticed, I returned to my pantomime lust for coffee and hot apple pie. In fact, I was only thinking of the ring, which was now beneath my chair. Next (done with breakfast), I made a show of departing, looking at the watch on my out-stretched arm, waving both arms as I put on my coat, and making sure I had everything belonging to me. Bending over as if to hoist my backpack, I deftly pinched the ring from the floor (at last!). Dropping it into my pocket, I suddenly felt conspicuous. Glancing towards the table of ruffians, I perceived that they had, indeed, perceived a change in the surroundings. Halting their conversation, they each paused and looked around; each, however, glanced in a different direction. Then, all at once, they all looked at me. I smiled. Smiling is a feint which I have found to never fail in New York, where anxiety is the norm. The boys sneered at me and returned to their skulduggery.
Outside, examining the ring in sunlight, I promptly dropped it. Recovering it, I determined it to be a man's everyday wedding band. It fit my wedding ring finger. At the same time, it made me uncomfortable. It felt strange. I'm single - always have been - and like it that way. The formerly married guy's ring fit on my hand, but it didn't fit me, if you see what I mean? It's not only not mine, it's not me. That's sufficient to make it Taboo. That's not all; I believe it is cursed. The first thing I did when I got home was wash my hands, whereupon the ring promptly slipped off my finger, and fell down the sink drain. A plumber had to get it out for me. That was only the first time - of many - it has slipped-off my finger. The ring's curse is that it won't stay on the finger, because it is slippery, which leads me to suspect that's how it got lost in the first place.
As said, I was superstitious before I came into possession of the ring, and the ring's feckless disregard for its wearer only exacerbates my suspicious nature. I call it the Ring of Infidelity. I don't know what to do with it. It would make a very bad wedding ring -for anybody. As it cannot be worn by just anybody, therefore, it cannot in good conscience be pawned. I refuse to have it appraised. It looks like silver, but it's not silver. My best guess is it is made of Titanium - supermetal - a masculine vanity. I'm dying to find out, but also fear to be identified as the possessor. I'm too embarrassed to get an opinion. What suspicions might be going through the jeweler's mind?
"So (he might say), you've decided to sell your wedding ring; did your wife divorce you, or did you divorce your wife (spoken with a smirk)?"
Cravenly, I have considered selling it anonymously (online), but again, it would be unethical to conceal the suspected curse it bears, and analogous to selling a house without disclosing to the buyer all the hidden faults of the property. Will the ring make me a criminal, as well as cursed? Which brings me back to the true occasion for this blog post. While the ring has been under my assuming bailment over it, the short story The Little Brown Man, by J. J. Jacobs, came to my attention. The story bears on my possession of the ring. In Jacobs' telling, a scruffy fellow stumbles into the pawn shop of one Solomon Hyams. I can't relay the story with Jacob's grace and wit, but I can offer a synopsis:
It begins with the scruffy fellow offering the pawnbroker a priceless jewel for a mere £500. The pawnbroker can tell at a glance that the stone is worth 10 times that, and agrees to buy it for seller's price. Later, he contacts some well-connected brokers in the trade for a fair appraisal. Indeed, the stone is worth at least 10 times the purchase price, which Hyams accepts. A little later, the little brown man (of the title of the story by J. J. Jacobs), enters the pawn shop of Solomon Hyams;
"You have in your possession," the little brown man says, "a jewel - which is mine - and which I wish to ransom from you. It was stolen from me. It has sentimental value for me, and I will pay more for its return than you paid for it."
The pawnbroker sees an even better deal than the first. He asks the little brown man to return on the morrow when he shall have it. The little brown man points a gnarled hand at the shop cat, and mutters, "Let it be so." He then exits. That night, the cat shrieks horribly, and dies. Because of that, and for conscience sake, Solomon Hyams repents his misdeeds, and awaits with apprehension word from his broker connections. They inform him that the jewel was immediately bought from them for - not 10 times it's original purchase price - but for more than 100 times it's original price, and, unfortunately, refund is impossible.
Feeling despondent, Solomon Hyams awaits the return of the little brown man. And return he does, as promised. I don't have to tell you exactly what happens then, except to characterize it as a grim accounting. As for me, as a reader - and possessor of a similarly cursed bauble - I cannot get the jewel in the tale out of my mind. It's becoming an obsession. I often re-write J. J. Jacobs' story in my imagination with a new plot twist each time. For example, I thought of my own subtitle for J. J. Jacobs' novel short story; I call it, "The Game of Diamond Ball." It is a race with no winners, no rules, and never ends.