they returned to redeem their collateral eight of ten times, a ludicrous claim I later learned was bruited by scheming brokers regardless of region.

My first day on the job was as I expected: business was good. A post-crash malaise had fomented the rural poor’s already healthy distrust of the banking system, and, anyway, many clients were among the longstanding unbanked

This student mother had an ebullient, infectious, even defiant personality that softened the pawnbrokers.

For the next couple of minutes, she abrogated her family history.

Other clients were deranged and dangerous. One day a Charles Manson clone slithered up to the counter with a canvas bundle; I recoiled. When he unveiled his goods, I saw a handful of glistening knives emblazoned with swastikas. “Take these?” he hissed. I turned him away. A few minutes later, I told the rest of the pawnbrokers. Incredulous, they berated me for rejecting his Nazi paraphernalia, which they knew to be highly collectible in those parts. They also warned that he might return with a vengeance. In a way, he did.