The Pearl Ring

“Now and again there are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of complication of virtues and vices that bring them about, that egoism and selfishness are forced to pause and are moved to pity; but the impression that they receive is like a luscious fruit, soon consumed. -Balzac

Jaime Lira stood on a porch on Virginia Avenue in South Gate, California. The street was tree-lined and the afternoon breeze floated from the Pacific but disaster, it seemed to Jaime, was close. He glanced to the left and then to the right. His thoughts were of men pulling up in silver sedans with eviction notices, messengers delivering lawsuits, and a tow truck from the finance company pulling his car, the blue car with the dead battery with the note that hadn’t been paid for in months. Finally, his mind rested on his deceased wife, now gone ten years. The cigarette that he was toying with between his fingers he now placed in his mouth. Cigarette smoking, a vice he had abandoned years ago, he had recently taken up again in these days of soul-crushing anxiety.

Lira smoked and watched the street. He had very black,wavy hair and a black moustache. His face had creases by his eyes. He used to smile a lot. And laugh a lot, too. He studied the street with the cigarette burning from his mouth. He put it out and lit another. Smoked. Watched. Every postman or neighbor approaching or salesman innocuously holding out his hand evoked doom.  He did not like this feeling of, of what exactly? Waiting. Waiting for what? Bad news? Then what? More bad news? Then what? Was there nothing for him to do but wait for his turn for the slow march to the casket? Like his poor wife? Or perhaps the march to the casket could be quick with a gunshot. He considered that, too. But he forced his mind away from that thought. Lira formed a plan to slow down disaster.

He looked at the large cardboard box that was placed on the sofa, grabbed it, and locked the door behind him. He turned the ignition on the pickup truck he had borrowed from his brother. He slowly drove his car through side streets, and alleys, carefully avoiding major streets and, finally, pulled up to the back parking lot of a small gold building with the sign “Joe Pawn.”

He walked in holding the box with an air of confidence to attempt to betray the dull ache of despair in his belly. “Next,” shouted the clerk. Lira looked at the clerk. He had gray, receding hair, severe eyes, and thin lips. His glasses rested on the tip of his nose. Lira placed the box on the counter in front of him. The clerk picked out of the box a folder filled with plastic sheet protectors that encased classic baseball cards. The clerk quickly closed the folder. “Worthless,” he said. Lira’s face fell. How could his baseball card collection, of which this folder comprised a tiny fraction, had dropped in value to nothing? He had once been given the estimate of the cards in that folder to be nearly $5,000.00. “But,” said the clerk. “I know someone who might do something with these. I will take them for two hundred.” “Wait a minute. I can get these for a thousand, at least,” said Lira. “No you can’t. But in any case, I don’t want them.” “Ok, ok,” said Lira through gritted teeth. “I’ll take the two hundred.” The clerk took the folder.

The clerk then pulled Lira’s prized Motown records. He shook his head as he flipped through them. Preparing for a lowball offer, Lira instead heard the word: “Nothing.” He winced at the curt dismissal of these records that meant so much to him. The clerk then pulled out the last item from the box, a laptop computer. He plugged it in, turned it on and examined it carefully. 

“The computer’s pixels are slightly off. You know that, right?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Well, they are. Still I’ll take a hundred for it.”

“A hundred.” Lira repeated.

“Yes.”

Lira felt humiliated. He thought the computer alone was worth two hundred and that he was going to walk out with at least a thousand dollars for everything. 

“I was expecting more,” said Lira.

“Well, I like your ring.”

“It’s not for sale.”

“I will give you two hundred for it.”

Lira was outraged. The pearl ring on his pinky finger was worth at least eight hundred dollars. It was his wife’s ring. He always wore it. He knew he would die with it on his hand.

“It’s not for sale. Give me the three hundred for the computer and the cards.

Lira went home and struggled with the impending crush of poverty. Three hundred dollars fell far below his goal. He could only buy groceries and pay for the part to fix his car. He could not make rent. With a sense of doom, he took off his ring and drove back to “Joe Pawn.”

Jaime Lira took the cash from the pawned items and went straight to Northgate supermarket. He bought eggs, milk, rice, tortillas, salsa, and meat. He bought enough for himself and for two others, his in-laws.  He placed the bags in his car and drove north toward Maywood. In his haste to reach Maywood he had forgotten to avoid major streets and drove down Atlantic while focused on the road ahead. He made a left on Slauson and drove toward a block of drab buildings not far from the local high school. He pulled up in front of an old, gray apartment complex. He walked up to a door and tapped lightly. It opened to a woman of seventy. She smiled and whispered, “Jaime. Como esta?”

Lira greeted her and quickly saw behind her. The place was dim, with only a candle lighting the tiny room. The electricity had gone out. Sitting in the corner on a hard wood chair was her husband, who stood up to greet him. He was wearing a white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. The room was tiny: no kitchen, no bedroom. There was a bed, a wooden chair, a tiny bathroom, and a hot pan on a counter. These people, Lira’s late wife’s parents, were in survivor mode. Food was a tortilla and maybe some oatmeal and an egg in the morning. And that was it for the rest of the day. There is a kind of depth of struggle that exists in the city of Los Angeles that brings a reaction of shock, wherein the  level of despair is so great that a typically selfish person can be reduced to pity. Jaime had seen this kind of need only in the tent cities of homelessness of downtown LA and in the neighboring cities of Cudahy and Maywood. Lira pretended to be unmoved by the latest misfortune of this elderly couple and their severe lack but how could he be impassive? Their poverty was so great that as he brought in the bags of food he wondered: what is going to happen to these people? Perhaps food is an afterthought. Should I pay their electric bill? The thought was quickly dismissed: he could not afford it. 

“Thank you, Jaime. For all of this food. God blesses us, doesn’t He? You are always so kind. Please stay?” 

“Yes, I will stay for a little while.”

“You look so thin. Losing weight?”

“Am I? A lot on my mind.”

“You think of Esther?”

“Always. Every day.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Tell us about her again. Any memory. We have so few pleasures.”

The old man got up and smiled. 

“Yes, tell us about her,” he said. “Sit.” 

He gestured for Lira to sit in his chair. Lira sat down on the wooden chair and this old couple, lit by candlelight, sat on the bed.

“Well, you want me to talk about Esther? You know everything already, of course, you do. But maybe you don’t know this. The story is small, meaningless-”

“Tell us,” said the old lady.

“Yes,” smiled the old man leaning in.

“I thought of this just this morning. She said that when she was five years old, you took her to the supermarket, senora, and she put a pack of gum under her waistband and walked out without paying. Do you remember this, senora?”

They both leaned in laughing.

“No. Tell us more!”

“Well, when you walked outside with your shopping bag you noticed the gum and made her return it. She cried as she apologized to the store clerk...That’s it. It’s not much. That’s the story.”

“Thank you,” said the old lady. “Thank you for the story. I think I remember it.”

“Yes,” said the old man laughing. “Thank you for the story.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But where’s your ring,” asked the old lady.

“What?”

“Esther’s pearl ring? You aren’t wearing it.”

“Oh. I took it off. I am doing automotive work today. But senora, I must be going…”

He embraced them and walked out the door. As he drove away, Lira was now fixated on the pearl ring. He felt a thousand miles away from it. He had an idea on how to get it back from pawn but he kept pushing it to the last errand of his day. He bought a battery for his car, the blue sedan that was sitting in his driveway waiting to be repossessed. The pickup he was driving on loan from his brother he pulled into an alley behind a liquor store in Cudahy. He casually walked in and placed a pack of mints on the counter in front of the clerk. 

“Hi, George.”

“Jaime, what’s up?”

“Good. Just got back from my in-laws.”

“Cool.” 

“And that thing that we talked about? Are you still good with it? I mean, are you-”

George put his hand up to cut off Lira. 

“Call me. I’ll be off work at five.”

Lira called George at five:

“Jaime, what’s up? Where have you been? Thought you were a ghost when you walked into the store! Good to see that you are down for Cudahy. You South Gate fools are so uppity! Ha, listen. This is easy.  Same plan as before. You come into the store with the gun and a large bag at 4:30, make sure your face is covered. Do not be late because my replacement comes in at 4:50. I’ll make sure nobody is in the store. And you make sure the gun is not loaded. Don’t shoot me, fucker! Ha ha. Demand all the top shelf liquor. The camera's always rolling so you have to be convincing. But I know you’re good. I will clear the entire top shelf fast. You know me. Then you ask for the register. I will clean it out. All this should only take under a minute. You keep half of the register. It is usually between two and five thousand dollars. And that top-shelf liquor I will buy back from you for four thousand dollars. So you will make at least six thousand from this. How easy is this?  Again, 4:30, don’t be late! Any questions?”

“I won’t be late.”

Lira’s sleep was uneasy that night. He kept having a recurring thought of forgetting something. What if he forgot the mask for his face or the bag to put the money and liquor? It kept him in a half doze all night and he woke up feeling dissatisfied and listless. He looked out of his bedroom window to see if his car was still in his driveway. It was. He walked to his kitchen and waited for the mailman. His unemployment check was already two days late. He made a cup of coffee and mindlessly turned on the TV. His mind turned to worst-case scenarios. He thoughtlessly felt for his ring on his pinky finger. He was startled: it was gone! He then remembered he had pawned it. The dread of it sunk in again.
He heard a noise at the door. The mail. He struggled to get off the sofa.  With a mug of coffee in one hand, Lira opened the mail slot with the other. He could see that the unemployment check with the familiar envelope was not in the slot.  He pulled out three envelopes. A bill and another bill. The third envelope was unfamiliar to him. He opened it. It was a letter offering a brief explanation as to a delay in payment. A delay in payment TO him. And a check for $28,000.00 paid to the order of his own name. Lira looked at the letterhead. He remembered the lawsuit filed on behalf of a group settlement for his wife’s accident and hospitalization. He had given up on it years ago. And now here it was. He looked at the check again and was neither happy nor agitated. He simply did some figures in his head and realized he could easily fulfill all of his financial obligations. For Lira, he no longer outwardly celebrated or despaired at circumstances. He simply calculates and plans his next move. 

Lira showered, shaved, and got dressed. He then drove to the bank. While driving, he opened up the envelope to make sure the check amount was what he understood it to be. And then a minute later, he looked at the check again. He arrived at the bank, cashed his check and pulled out ten thousand dollars in cash. He drove the pickup to his brother’s house and left a key and an envelope of a thousand dollars with his wife. He took a taxi to his in-laws in Maywood and explained that he did not have much time to talk and gave his mother-in-law eight thousand dollars in cash in an envelope. From the taxi he called George and left this message: “Sorry to let you down, man. But something came up. I can’t do it.” 

The taxi dropped him off back at his house in South Gate. He replaced his battery on his blue sedan and promptly drove to “Joe Pawn.” He walked up to the clerk. “Next,” said the clerk.

“I am here for the pearl ring.”

“That pearl ring in the display case? It’s a beauty. Seven hundred.”

“You quoted me a different price when I pawned it.”

“Where’s your invoice?”

“I don’t remember anything about an invoice.”

“Seven hundred.”

“Come on man, you remember me. I was just in here yesterday.”

“Seven hundred.”

“Listen, Jew. Don’t fuck with me. Here’s three hundred.”

“Seven hundred.”

“I’ll find the invoice.”

Lira drove back to his house and looked through his paperwork. He could not find the invoice. He went to his car and looked in his glove compartment. A thought struck him. He drove to his brother’s house. He knocked on his door. His brother answered. 

“Yo.”

“What’s up? I think I left something in your truck. Can I look?”

“Sure. Why did you give me a thousand dollars?”

“Interest payment for keeping the car for so long.”

“You didn’t have to-”

Lira waved him off and walked over to the truck. He found the invoice on the passenger seat of the pickup. He drove to the pawnshop. The clerk shouted, “Next!”

“Here is the invoice for the pearl ring.” 

“I don’t want to sell it to you. It’s not for sale anymore.”

“What?”

Lira looked at the display case and the ring was missing.

“I want my ring. Get it to me.”

“Somebody came and bought it.”

“You are lying. Get my ring.”

“You don’t want a ring from a Jew.”

“Get me my ring.”

“I reserve the right to refuse service. Out of my store!”

“This is the last time I am going to say it. Get me my ring.”

The clerk picked up the phone. Lira walked outside to the alley to his car and reached into the glove compartment. He took out his gun which had been wrapped in a piece of cloth. He calmly made sure there was enough ammunition in the chamber. He walked back into the store. He realized as he walked in there was no way to get to the clerk because of the thick glass. 

“Are you still not going to give me my ring?”

“The police are on their way.”

Lira looked at the visibly scared clerk behind the glass. He then looked out the window. 

“Ok,” said Lira. And he calmly walked out of the pawn store.

********************

A man came out of a Chinese restaurant on Tweedy and walked west toward Long Beach Boulevard. Those that observed him would later say he was smiling and had a toothpick in his mouth. And that he was elderly. But how old? Some said forty. Others said fifty. Some described him as much older than that. There was a family of three walking east toward his direction, a young woman walking about a hundred feet behind him, and two teenagers directly across the street from him standing on their skateboard. And there were others in the Chinese restaurant and also standing at the drugstore a few feet away.  A blue car, possibly a BMW, pulled up right next to the elderly man as he calmly walked. The window of the car then went down and some words were spoken. The driver then stopped his car, left his vehicle, walked up to the man and threw liquid in the elderly man’s face. Then he lit a match and threw it at him. And then he walked back to his car and promptly drove off. What followed next was a ball of fire. From head to toe the elderly man was ablaze. Nobody blamed the witnesses from doing nothing for several seconds because shock overwhelmed them. What exactly were they witnessing? A man doing a stunt? A magic act? How did somebody turn from a walking, breathing human into fire in a matter of seconds?

 By the time paramedics and fire trucks came it was too late. The man was taken to emergency but everyone knew he was gone. But what happened? Those who saw it could describe the scene with impressive detail.  But could they describe a possible suspect? Nobody had much to say about that. “He drove a blue car. That’s all I know.” “He was casual about it.” “It was quick.” And this one: “Yes, the guy in the car burned the old guy. But maybe the old guy burned him first?” There was talk that the victim owned a pawn shop just two blocks away on California Avenue. There were no leads. No arrests were made that day. There were probably a few people who knew exactly the description of the man driving the car. But nobody dared speak for fear of reawakening the anger of somebody who would kill a man in daylight in front of a dozen people. 

**************************

Jaime Lira stood on a porch on Virginia Avenue in South Gate, California. The street was tree-lined and the afternoon breeze floated from the Pacific but disaster, it seemed to Jaime, was close. He glanced to the left and then to the right. He ran out of cigarettes, the vice to which, along with heavy drinking, he was now devoted to almost day and night. He pulled out of his driveway in his blue sedan to fetch a new pack. He made sure to drive on side streets and alleys and to avoid all the major streets. 
-R Aguilar