Radio Man

 This story is about breaking down stereotypes and beginning to see people as God sees them.

    I was a hustler by trade. Cell phones, watches, computers; you name it- I resold it for triple the cost. Stormie got first dibs, of course, ‘cause it’s his shop. Life wasn’t easy at New York’s Best Pawn and Loot, but this is East 183rd street; we didn’t expect easy.
“What ya reading, Bella?” Stormie’s voice had the effect of a semi-truck breaking speed limits. I couldn’t ignore him either, never mind that I was twenty-one. His thick neck starts swelling and his gold chain looks like it’ll choke him. If  he weren’t my big brother, I think I’d want it to.
“Collector’s book.” I lied. Truth is I was looking at an old Bible. Stormie ain’t cool with stuff like that. I usually do whatever he says, but last week an old book auctioned downtown for forty grand. So when a grandma-robbing crackhead brought the Bible that morning, I slid him a few bucks. It might be a waste; he sure was. People are like stuff- some have value, some don’t.
“Get to work!” Stormie straightened cell phone cases as he cursed. He can curse the rims off an Escalade.
Just then, the barred door chimed and trouble entered; an old radio clutched by a homeless black man. Word to the not-so-wise: if you wouldn’t buy it, we probably won’t. Stormie sulked into his office. When he’s angry it’s like a poison gas fills the room. He ain’t too fond of bums.
The man sauntered my way and plunked the radio on the counter. “How much for this, lady?”
“No value.”
“It’s new.”
“Sorry.” I said without empathy.
The man staggered in place for a moment and I looked up, taking in his well-worn pants and unwashed shirt. I willed him to leave with my eyes.
“Listen lady, I gotta get something for this.”
“Sorry, man.”
“I need the money. I’ve got kids.” He started scratching his arm, eyes bloodshot.
I raised a hand. I’ve heard this sob story often enough to write my own book. As my Mexican immigrant mother always said, “don’t take hand-outs and don’t give ’em.” The apartment above our store ain’t the Ritz, but it’s shelter. I don’t have time- or at least patience- to waste on leeches. I gave Radio Man a no-nonsense look.
He took the radio and walked to the door.
Pretending to restock cigarette lighters, I went back to the Bible. The images looked hand drawn, but I’m no expert with rare books. Police sirens sounded out front, though I barely heard them; sirens are as common as the gurgling heater and creaking floor tiles.
***
The door chimed again and two cops entered, stopping Radio Man at the door. A smug Stormie came from the office.
“Is this him?” Cop One looked from me to my brother. Stormie nodded, then gave me the look. The look that says this ain’t none of my business.
“Hey man, it ain’t illegal to pawn a radio. I didn’t do nothing wrong!” Radio Man yelled, wheezing.
Cop One snapped cuffs and read him his rights. I shifted my gaze to the dusty glass counter. It could use a good wipe down. Radio Man started to struggle; Cop Two punched him. I told myself to get a rag to wipe the counter, but couldn’t move. Radio Man fell. Cop Two moved to kick him; Cop One blocked. He helped Radio Man up and the three started toward the door.
“Wait.” I felt the counter’s edge with sweaty palms.
The cops and Radio Man looked at me.
“What’s the charge?”
Stormie’s gaze burned a hole in the side of my head. I wished I kept my mouth shut.
Cop Two’s blue eyes blazed mine. “Dispatcher says he was attempting a robbery.”
My gaze lowered to their wheezing captive. There was something in his pleading expression. Something behind the unkempt hair, baggy pants, and unwashed shirt. Something…human. I didn’t see it before. Maybe I didn’t care to see it.
“He just tried to hock the radio. He didn’t cause no trouble.” My Hispanic-Brooklyn accent made a jumble of the hesitant admission. Stormie turned red like it got real hot in his corner of the room. Now I’m sure he’ll choke me.
“He looks like trouble.” Cop One said, hesitant.
Adrenaline and fear rushed through me, desperate to awaken my rational self. But Radio Man’s eyes begged me.
“He was just leaving.” I said.
“Why does he have this radio?” Cop Two picked it up.
“I told you-”
Stormie moved around the counter in front of me.
“Don’t listen to her, the man was trying to rob us.”
Cop Two handed Stormie the radio and glared at Radio Man. “Come on, let’s go. You’d better cooperate.”
Oh well, I tried. I ain’t fighting my thug brother over this bum. Jail will be a cleaner and safer place for him, anyways. At least he’ll get free food. I lowered my gaze to the illustrated vintage Bible. One sentence seemed to lift from the page:
Love thy neighbor as thyself.

***
What happened next stretches my limited vocabulary. I don’t know much about Jesus and all that religious stuff, but those words effected me like a double-shot energy drink. Call me crazy, somehow I knew it was God. I knew God was telling me that he cared about Radio Man. And since God’s bigger than Stormie, I decided to listen to him.
“Wait.” My voice was a hushed, choked whisper.
They were going through the door.
“Wait!” I rushed from behind the counter, darting past Stormie who moved to block me. I pushed through the chiming door and into the cool day. The cops turned, looking at me in disbelief.
“Watch the security video.” I breathed, feeling delirious.
“We can’t-” Cop Two started.
“It won’t hurt to check the evidence.” Cop One nodded at me.
He followed me through the eerie, quiet entrance toward the back. Where was Stormie?  My hand felt numb, though it kept shaking. I clicked back through the footage and replayed Radio Man walking in. We watched together in silence, my senses alert for any sound.
“You’re right.” He nodded. “We’ll let him go.”
He stepped towards the front with me shadowing him the whole way.
“Hey.” Cop One paused at the door. “You okay?”
I have a rule about cops: only say what needs saying. “Yeah.”
He walked through the door. I stood in the empty entrance.
“Where ya think you’re going?” Stormie stood in the door at the base of the stairwell. He had gone into our apartment, I refused to wonder why. I looked him in the eye, ignoring the bulging chain, reddened face, and his additional five inches. This was my chance to leave the pawn shop, my dictator brother, and dead-end life for good. Or die trying.                            
“I’m leaving, Stormie.” My firm voice fooled my fear. The heater gurgled, the floors creaked; noise couldn’t hide his clinched-jaw silence.
“I don’t need you.” He finally said, shrugging off my years of foolish obedience, then went to his office and slammed the door.
I got the Bible and radio off the counter and walked through the clanky-chiming  door of New York’s Best Pawn and Loot for the last time.

***
Outside a common scene confronted me: Cop Two had Radio Man against the police car. It didn’t look good.
“Let him post bail, Eric. His kind just pollute the streets.” He was saying.
“It’s not our job to make lifestyle judgments. I’ll make sure What’s-his-name gets a hefty fine for false accusation.” There was something in his sincere expression, past the uniform and badge; something human.
Then the cops’ radio garbled. Cop Two reluctantly uncuffed Radio Man and just like that they were gone.
Radio Man shuffled over to me. Sunbeams threatened the murky sky and a few cars rolled by, looking for drama.
“Name’s Derrick.” He snorted, scratching his arm. “I ain’t got no kids.” He paused. “Ain’t nobody stood up for me like that.”
I met his gaze. “It’s cool.”
“What’s that?”
“An old Bible. It’s gotta be worth something. I’m going into the rare book business now.” I gave him the radio.
“Bible’s always worth something. That’s what I need, that’s what I need.” He squinted at me. “You read that Bible, ya hear.” He shook his head and sauntered down East 183rd street.
I watched Derrick’s retreating figure, the cheap radio tucked under his arm. Some stuff has value, some doesn’t. Maybe it ain’t like that with people. I turned and made it to the corner just in time for the bus.