The Pawnshop of Intangible Things by Margery Bayne

Margery is this month’s winner of $430.00 for her story about what is valuable in life. I’ll give you a hint, it isn’t a flashy new car.

Bio: Margery Bayne is a librarian by day and a writer by night from Baltimore, Maryland. She is a published author of speculative and literary short stories and an aspiring novelist. In 2012, she graduated from Susquehanna University with a BA in Creative Writing and continued her education to earn a Masters of Library Science from the University of Maryland in 2021. She also publishes a weekly column about the short stories for The Writing Cooperative on Medium @margerybayne. When not reading and writing, she enjoys running, folding origami, and being the cool aunt. More about her and her writing can be found at www.margerybayne.com and on Twitter @themargerybayne.

Without further ado, “The Pawnshop of Intangible Things” by Margery Bayne.

You don’t find the door until you stop looking for it. You had paced the block three times, crumpling the address-bearing napkin tighter in your fist with each passing. Your unusually patient, midday barstool companion must have gotten the numbers mixed up. That, or this was a wild goose chase he thought made a good joke. 

Then you see it, about ten steps away, right off the sidewalk. The address numbers are painted in gold on the top of the door; under it is “LUCK’s PAWN” in free hand. The whole thing is sun-bleached. It should have jumped out immediately against the modern, corporate background of the rest of this street.

There are no windows, so you knock two knuckles against the wood. No response. No business hours are posted. You try to the doorknob with the fading boldness of drinking that had led you all the way here. The door is unlocked.

Inside is a long, narrow room, with glaring fluorescent lights and a motley-colored carpet that might have been ripped right out of your dentist’s waiting room. What’s most unusual are the jars lining three walls on floor-to-ceiling shelving. Mason, canning, squat vials with stoppers, and even a few recorked wine bottles sticking up above the rest.

You lean in to inspect, but don’t step any closer. It’s more than a ‘you break it, you buy it’ fear. It’s the unsettled feeling in your gut. Inside each jar is a coil of paper.

“Can I help you?” says a voice interrupting your thoughts.  

Behind a jewelry counter at the very far end of the room stands a woman whom you cannot say for sure was there upon your entrance or not. You clear your throat, but your voice still comes out higher than you want. “I heard you pay for ideas…?”

Out loud, no longer so dizzy with drink and desperation after bemoaning at the bar the fourth time this week, it sounds like someone had pulled a real good one over on you.

The woman scoffs. “That is such a simplification.” She rounds the counter and leans against the edge. “What I do is deal in intangibles.”

A dozen questions immediately pop into your skull, but you don’t raise a single one, not even a succinct ‘What?’ The woman, however, must read it from your expression.

“Hopes, dreams, ambitions, inspirations, emotions.” She rolls her wrist in the air. Your eyes follow her wine-colored fingernails. After you leave, it will be the one finite thing about her appearance you’ll be sure of. “The stronger, the better. Love, hate, passion, conviction, and yes… ideas.”

She walks to where the shelves meet in the left corner. “This is my collection of unwritten novels. I call it the slush pile… publishing joke.” She points to a blue glass vial, and says in a stage whisper, “I think this one would’ve been great.”

A book idea is what your bar companion had said he sold. He had gotten five hundred bucks. It seemed ‘too good to be true’ but a valid enough of an exchange. Nothing as bizarre as this jar-covered room.

The woman shuffles to the right and touches the shelf above her head. “Religious doubts… faith, though, is hard to come by. Most people willing to sell it have already lost it.”

She gives a tour of the room, labeling all of her oddities. “Reoccurring dreams – a lot of tidal waves” and “Ah – the memories. Memories are tricky ones. Have to be plucked like a daisy from a field. But they’re the most… distinct.”