[ WP ] Poor people are able to pawn off their memories .

I drove the familiar streets, hardly aware of the road in front of me as I scanned bus stop shelters and groups of kids on bikes. At 23 he was hardly a kid anymore, but old habits were hard to break. I pulled into the gas station on State street to see if he was hanging around. I'm sure I owed them money anyway. 
 
 The alarm dinged 3 times as I opened the door. `` Hello, Miss.'' 
 
 `` Hey, Frankie. My brother been around lately'' 
 
 `` I seen him on Tuesday to get smokes. He get Marlboro. He never get Marlboro no more. I think to impress the lady, had a nice lady wit'im.'' He always had a nice lady with him. 
 
 `` Thanks Frankie, what do I owe you?'' 
 
 `` Oh, he payed for his stuff when he got smokes, owe me about 15 for last week though.'' 
 
 I threw the guy a 20. My brother was a charmer. Friendly, hilariously funny and handy when he had to be, he made friends quickly. But he was also an addict, so when money was spent on getting his fix instead of feeding himself, he often stole from small gas stations. Frankie, having a soft spot for my brother, began turning a blind eye. Every week I would pay off his debts. 
 
 Knowing he had money to spend on food and smokes should have made me happy, but this was a bad sign. He could n't have gotten a job, not an honest job, his addiction would n't allow it. I went down to the pawn shop instead. 
 
 I hated coming here. The gated windows, the damp side alley, the trinkets and rings and weapons in the locked display cases, why was there never enough light? I did not make eye contact with a couple who were trying to retrieve a memory they had sold last week. This guy drove a hard bargin, and for things like, honeymoons, first Christmases, and the birth of a child, it was usually a paired deal. both memories, or nothing, it's not worth much otherwise. 
 
 I went to the back table containing boxes faintly reminiscent of an old record shop. These were n't the actual memories, those were kept locked away, but the cardboard slats were labeled and contained a brief description and a price. 
 
 I found my brothers box. An XXX sticker was slapped across the side. People paid good money for his memories. He could make any woman fall for him, and frequently sold memories of himself with beautiful, influential, or married women. People paid top dollar for the reality of it. 
 
 `` Miss'' The old man called me over to the counter. He knew I was n't here to buy anything. `` Do n't bother. He's not coming back.'' He reached behind the counter. `` I ai n't charging you for it.'' 
 
 My stomach dropped. I could feel the edges of my world blackening around me and a ringing in my ears prevented me from listening to anything else the old man had to say. He handed me the small box containing the memory stick. He patted my hand and walked me out the door to my car. 
 
 As tears finally began to fall from my eyes, I opened the box and read the small paper tag inside which was labeled in my brothers chicken scratch. Everything that happened next makes no difference at all. 
 
 `` Me and Sis'92-'15''
