The Bong Goodbye

"Is there a reason," José pondered, "that all pawn shops have the exact same olfactory stew of piss, body odor and smoked trout?"

He had occasion to consider this question because he was currently standing in his third pawn shop in as many hours, all in service of possibly the least urgent, most ridiculous job he'd ever taken.

The previous afternoon, he'd been about to close up the office and head home, maybe have a fun, spontaneous bourbon taste-test. As he was putting on his jacket, a couple of Jedi walked in.

José had no proof they were Jedi; just, earth-tone robes and light-sabers hanging from a belt looks more Lucasfilm than lumberjack. The couple introduced themselves as Vhiran Un-Haku and Grepf Sei'rag of the Kaleesh Resistance. Their checkbook introduced them as Herbert and Connie Schmidlapp of 37th Ave. South.

Their story was one he'd heard a thousand times: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy marries girl, girl's brother buys them a glass sculpture of BB8, girl's brother subsequently dies while performing complicated light-whip fight choreography in the bus lane outside of a Chipotle.

The sculpture, they told José, had been a wedding present. They showed him a picture. José looked at the picture. He looked at the two earnest nerds in front of him. He looked at the picture.

"It was limited edition," said Vhiran Un-Haku.

"I see," replied José.

"My brother loved that little droid," said Grepf Sei'rag, holding back tears.

José decided some things at that moment. He decided he'd take the case. He didn't need the work. He was incredibly busy at the moment. He was juggling three divorces, two missing person cases and a small supporting role in a local theater's production of the female version of The Odd Couple. But, overloaded though he was, his heart went out to these super-sincere cosplayers. And so he also decided not to point out the part of the "sculpture" where you were supposed to put your mouth or the other part of the "sculpture" where your weed went.

Instead, he set about checking out any of the three dozen places in town where someone might have sold a stolen bong.

In the third such place, where he was currently standing, José watched a greasy-haired trashbasket in a No Fat Chicks t-shirt haggling with an old woman who was trying to hock a necklace. The trashbasket was telling her he could only give her four bucks because the market for sapphires was in the toilet right now. The old lady cried, so the trashbasket bumped it up to four and a quarter.

As the old lady, still sobbing, steered her walker out the front door and down the street toward the OTB, José approached the counter. He flashed the guy the picture of the bong.

"Nah," said the trashbasket eloquently. "I ain't seen nothin' like that. I'd'a remembered that."

"Are you a fan?" José asked, caring as little as it is possible for a human being to care.

"Are you fucking kidding? The new trilogy?"

"Sure," responded José, "I guess."

"What a fucking pile of shit," the trashbasket spat. "They kill off Han. And Luke. And all so a black guy and a chick can be the stars. Bullshit."

Normally, this is the kind of thing that would force José, without any synapses firing in the rational decision part of his brain, to put this guy's face through his glass countertop. But, given how little time he had to be thrown in jail for assault, he let this slide, with nothing more than an almost-imperceptible narrowing of the eyes and a terse, "Right."

"And don't even get me started on that Chinese girl who isn't even fucking skinny," the trashbasket said.

José's jaw was clenched tighter than Mike Pence's asscheeks. His hands could've squeezed coal into diamonds. But he managed to nod his head and walk out the door.

The fact that a garbage can was thrown through the pawn shop window seconds later as a male voice yelled, "Fucking entitled dickhead!" may have been coincidence.

Happy Birthday, Beigey!