She did not plan this end, hock shop parking lot greeter. She’ll make the best of it with her casually tousled chestnut hair framing a perfectly, permanently made up face. The ideal antidote to the bars and barricades behind her.
Her career began clothed in the latest fashions, an idol erected in shopping malls where gold cards bought goods. Then she fell to discount stores with their marked down, hand-me-down clothes.
The final landing in her inevitable economic decline here, bare feet balancing on hot asphalt while she waves to drive-by truckers.
“Baby, I’ll make you a Pawn Star!” they promised.
The initial misunderstanding forgiven. This job has dignity to match her fallen pride. Ammo box at the ready she guards the last shred of OPE. Pilgrims approach with offerings of guns and guitars, dusty television sets and laptops, cast off wedding rings and with the DVD boxed set of Seasons 1 through 10 of Friends, complete -wrapped and unopened.
No existential crisis for her, she’s right where she belongs. Dancing to scratchy 1980s mix tapes played on a boom box with one working speaker, she waves you off the interstate.
“Come one come all, have I got a deal for you!”