Thinking back to San Diego there was a moment, entire weeks of moments, when I wasn’t just living for Saman, doing my wifely duty, dissolving into a timeless role.  I felt the future happening beneath my skin.  I felt myself becoming me, whoever that is.

I remember hesitating at the US-Mexico border marker, peeking down from the pedestrian skyway that descends into the smog and traffic and chaos of Tijuana, the first time I’ve confronted a foreign country since I came to America as a little girl.  I could’ve turned back to the San Diego trolley – spent the day in downtown instead, or maybe safe sunny Coronado – but I set aside my fears and crossed over into the unknown, my heart beating like a proudly flying flag.  That’s when I met Nick.  Not before.  And not the way Saman thinks.

I’m trying to rediscover that courage as I walk into the Pawnshop Superstore.  I’ve never been in a pawnshop before.  The heavily-barred entrance funnels me into aisles that look like they’ve been excavated from a giant roomful of merchandise.  I wander aimlessly between shelves crammed with televisions, DVD players, microwave ovens, vases, fine china dishware, porcelain statuettes, software, even funeral urns.  Turning a corner I knock over a mountain bike, one in a long line of bikes tilted against a row of appliances, including a brushed-aluminum refrigerator as large as a portapotty.  A wall is waiting for an orchestra and several rock bands, completely hung with brass instruments, woodwinds, and electric guitars dangling by their necks.  Computers, copiers and office furniture overflow a back corner, finally steering me back to the entrance again.

The front counter is a glass display case filled with jewelry, watches, cameras, and an antique sewing machine.  I find myself wondering about all the people who’ve stood here before me, pawning off parts of their lives.  Why did they need the money?  What kind of trouble were they trying to stave off?  Were there any happy endings for them after they walked out of here, or just sad ones?

“Nothing except leathers and furs.  That’s the only clothing we pawn, lady.”  A bearded white guy in a faded Hawaiian shirt has emerged from a side room.  He’s pointing to a sign hanging above a rack of mismatched leather jackets and fur coats.  LEATHERS AND FURS ONLY.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to my suitcase, which I’m wheeling around behind me.  “This is what I want to…pawn, or sell, or whatever you call it.”  I spread my palm on the counter to show off my wedding ring.  Guilt floods through me, and an enormous sense of futility, as if what I’m doing is idiotic and bound to fail and I should just give up.  But I won’t surrender to it.  I refuse to surrender to it.  Remember, Nooshin?  You’re the same girl who crossed the US-Mexico border.  The very same girl.

The man’s gaze is triangulating between my lazy eye, hijab, and ring.  He slides it off my finger and inspects it, first by squinting, then under a microscope.  I watch his bald spot hover motionless while he twists the ring this way, then that way.  Just when I think he’s done, he inspects it some more.  “I know you ain’t here for advice, but I’m giving you some anyway – don’t pawn this.  Ain’t no way I can give you fair value for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“We got an upper limit on jewelry, and this here rock is north of that.”  He studies the confusion in my face.  “You got no idea what I’m talking about, huh?”

“Not really,” I admit.

“The value of a diamond is based on the 4 C’s – carats, color, clarity, and cut.  This ain’t no big rock.  It’s only about 1 carat.  But the color and clarity and cut, they’re all first-rate.”

“So what will you pay for it?”

“Like I said, I can only give you $1,000.  But lady, listen to me – your rock is probably worth three or four times that.”

My heart jumps.  $1,000 sounds like a fortune to me, especially when I barely have enough change in my purse for bus fare.  “That’s okay.  My husband will buy it back.  Can you hold it for him?”

“You want him to redeem the item, we’ll write the ticket that way.  But he does it within four months or we’ll sell this ring.  It’ll be gone.  Guaranteed.”

The paperwork is a blur, and a bit of a surprise too.  I never realized that pawning something means taking out a loan against it.  Saman will have to redeem the ring for $1,312.25 in interest and fees.  I imagine his pockmarked face turning a deep shade of crimson.  It gives me a perverse pleasure.

The man disappears into the side room for a while, then returns with a sheaf of twenty dollar bills.  He lays them out on the glass countertop, one by one, until there are 50.  I begin to tuck the thick wad into my purse, then get cautious and tuck them into my bra instead.  Instantly I go from flat-chested to looking like I’ve had a single mastectomy.  Oh well.  No one will notice when I zip up my coat.

I nod at the street outside, where a construction crew is gouging at the asphalt with jackhammers.  “Is it easy to catch a cab out front?”

“Not really.”  The man begins to reach for the phone, hanging next to a bank of security camera monitors.  “You want, I can call you a cab.  Yeah?  Okay.”  He dials and mutters into the receiver, then glances over a washed-out lei on his shoulder.  “They want to know where you’re headed.”

“The bus station,” I sigh, inspecting my bare left hand.  I wish I could fly to San Diego, but I can’t afford a same-day fare on the cheapest airline.  Greyhound only wants $200 for a one-way bus trip.  To the horizon line and beyond.  To the vast, scary, exhilarating unknown.  To the Nooshin no one – especially not Saman – ever wanted me to be.

I promised my husband that I would love and honor and respect him forever.

Forever ends today.