License to Pawn: Deals, Steals, and My Life at the Gold & Silver
Page 4
So we picked up and moved. I was sixteen. It would have been a rough time for most kids to do this, but since I wasn’t in school it was a little less of an upheaval for me. It was tough to leave my friends, guys I’d hopped fences at Jack Murphy Stadium with, devised plans to steal motor homes and drive to Vegas with, done drugs with. But to be honest, for a guy with an interest in moneymaking and an absolute love for the wonder of our crazy world, Vegas was a great place.
My parents had about five grand to their name when they moved, and my dad immediately opened his little buy-and-sell store on Las Vegas Boulevard. He did OK, well enough to stay in business but not well enough to ever take a single day off. He worked day and night to get that shop started, and eventually it began to pick up.
Las Vegas is a hustler’s paradise. There’s always something going on, with people buying and selling, yard sales and auctions, gamblers flush with cash and gamblers down to their last dime. There’s always a deal to be made, and my old man is the ultimate deal-maker. He didn’t know how this new chapter of his life was going to work, but he knew that he had to provide for his family and that failing at this was not an option. So, like all workaholic men of the Depression and post-Depression era, he worked his ass off in that place to make sure he—and we—would make it.
A look back at my employment history reveals some of the strangest jobs known to man: repo man, mall-kiosk gold-chain salesman, paddle-tire entrepreneur, motorcycle-chain salesman, payday-advance guy, pawnbroker.
In my late teens I got a job selling these chains in the mall. They called the kiosk Hitch of Gold, and it was a big deal for a long time. They were layered, fake gold chains that came with a lifetime warranty. We sold the chain for twenty bucks. To get the lifetime warranty, all you had to do was fill out a form and send it in the mail with five bucks for shipping and handling.
Guess what? It was the world’s greatest scam. This was the beginning of the bling era, I guess, when even white suburban kids started feeling like they could pull off jewelry. High school kids bought these little chains faster than the factory could churn them out. The best part: The chain cost a buck to produce, one-fifth of the warranty. I made some good money as a teenager off that job.
But most of my time was spent working with my dad. The shop did well enough that we wanted to expand.
We had no idea about politics. We walked into this—owning a shop, living in Vegas—completely clueless about the ins and outs of city politics. If we wanted to take the jump from secondhand store to pawn shop, we needed to upgrade our Class 3 license to an unlimited one. That was a much bigger task than getting the Class 3 had been.
This became my dad’s dream: to own a pawn shop in Vegas. At this point, in the late 1980s, most of the pawn shops in town were being bought up by huge corporations like EZPAWN and PawnAmerica. The mom-and-pop pawn shop was becoming obsolete in Vegas, which is probably the most lucrative pawn market in the world. But my dad loved competition and never backed down from a challenge. More on that later.
When I was seventeen, I got my girlfriend Kim pregnant. This was one of those life moments that define who you are as a person. We didn’t want to be in this position, trust me. We were both immature, content to run around Vegas partying and goofing off like we didn’t have a care in the world. Which we didn’t, until the day Kim came to me and told me she was pregnant. Then we had more than we could count.
I went to Kim and her family and said the right thing to do was to get married, so we would get married. Everyone agreed, but before the plan could be put into action—before I could “do the right thing” as it were—Kim miscarried.
We got married anyway.
What can I say? It was on our minds, it was already a plan, so by the time we got the sad news of the miscarriage we decided we’d go ahead and go through with it. We got married and resumed our partying, carefree ways, until we got news after about two months of marriage that Kim was pregnant again.
We were eighteen when Corey was born. As I saw him and the reality of an entirely new life ahead of me, I changed the way I lived. I don’t know if being a dad scared me or inspired me—probably a little of both—but the whole idea of “Dad” injected me with this overwhelming sense of responsibility. I decided to quit being an idiot, which meant stopping the drugs and the consistent partying. This was a new phase of my life—call it the beginning of The Adult Phase—and even though it started a little earlier than I would have liked, I understood the significance and was ready to accept it.
Corey and I were always tight, from the day he was born. And within two years, Kim and I had another boy, Adam, and the three of us always managed to find a way to have a good time, even when we didn’t have much money.
Kim and I had different approaches to parenting, so there was some tension in the marriage. We were young, stupid, and having kids. It wasn’t an ideal situation. We were trying to make it on our own, and making it up as we went along. I worked for my dad and tried to hustle for money on my own, but this was back when we had the little shop. Money was tight.
Among the many things I did to make extra money: repo cars. I worked at the shop during the day and repossessed cars at night. I’m an adrenaline junkie. I love driving fast and bombing around the desert in my all-terrain vehicles. Repo work was one of the most exciting things I ever did. It was a rush.
During this time, there were used car lots all over town that had signs all over. “We’ll Finance You.” “No Money Down.” Three weeks after they didn’t get a payment, they’re calling me with a list. Get this car. Get that car.
These were low-rent operations—the street term was “slut lots”—that couldn’t afford a tow truck. But slut lots being slut lots, they always made a spare set of keys, just in case. I’d go into the lot’s office and get my marching orders: sets of keys and a list of addresses.
You know how they ask you for a list of close friends or relatives when you fill out the paperwork for buying a car? Well, that’s not for credit purposes or character references. They need those addresses in case you don’t make the payments and they need to repo the car. Those were the addresses they handed me along with the keys. If the car wasn’t at the owner’s house, I’d move to the next address. They figure if you’re not at home, there’s a good chance you’ll be at your mom’s house, or at the house of one of your two best friends.
And there was always the work fallback. They always know where you work, so if we couldn’t find the car at one of the listed addresses, we’d go to the buyer’s place of employment. I’ve never had so much fun as I had sneaking into gated employee parking lots, finding a car, and watching the gate swing open as I drove out. Those were good times.
Kim and I separated shortly after Adam was born. It could have been our immaturity combined with the pressures of having two kids at such a young age, but we couldn’t make it work. After the breakup, I was a typical twenty-year-old living in Vegas—dating occasionally but not seriously—with one exception: I was focused on raising my two little boys.
I was always busy, but it was the good kind of busy. No matter how bad the day was, the boys were always glad to see me and we always managed to find ways to have fun. There was a lot of uncertainty in my life—financially and emotionally—but my commitment to the boys grounded me.
Jumping into another serious relationship was about the furthest thing from my mind, but fate has a way of messing with plans. Eight or nine months after Kim and I broke up, I met a nice girl from West Virginia named Tracy.
We met on a blind double date. One of my friends was dating Tracy’s cousin, and the two of them decided Tracy and I should get together. This happened to take place during one of my least impressive stretches as a human being. For one thing I was struggling to raise two little boys, and I was broke, too. I literally did not have a dime to my name. For another, I was driving a car that refused to go into reverse. And as it happens, my car was deemed the most reliable transportation for this first date.
Without money—my buddy was as broke as I was—or a car that could back up, planning for this date took some ingenuity. Where do you go and what do you do if money can’t be part of the equation? Fortunately, Vegas is the best place in the world to entertain without money.
My buddy and I picked up Tracy and her cousin, and I know how stupid this sounds but it’s true: I fell in love the second she stepped into the car. I’d been dating girls or just hanging out with them in the months since my divorce, and I was enjoying my second bout with the single life. As I said, the idea of jumping into a serious relationship was the last thing on my mind—until I saw her.
I’ve always been able to talk my way through situations. I can bullshit with the best of them, whether it’s talking to a customer or a potential girlfriend. In this case, given my financial situation and my immediate feelings for Tracy, I had my work cut out for me.
We drove to the Stardust. The parking lot, like all casino lots, was big enough that I could drive way out past all the other cars and find a stall in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t tell them why, and neither Tracy nor her cousin asked.
So far, so good. We went into the keno lounge and that’s when I let Tracy know I had zero money to spend on her that night.
“OK, here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m broke, so we’re going to sit here in the lounge, order drinks and act like we’re playing keno.”
I don’t know how impressed she was, but she was a good sport and played along. We got a few hours of entertainment out of that—for nothing—and then headed back to the car. As we’re walking through acres and acres of asphalt, I’m looking at the car up ahead. My stomach sinks.
“There is no way—no fucking way,” I said.
Yes, there was a way. There had been one car in the middle of nowhere in the Stardust lot; now there were two. And the second one, of course, was in the space directly opposite my no-reverse car.
My buddy started howling with laughter. I was not so amused.
So that secret got thrown into the open.
I looked at my buddy, shrugged, and said, “OK, I guess it’s Freddy Flintstone.”
He got in the passenger side and I put it in neutral. We kicked the car back far enough that I could get it started and drive forward.
Even though I didn’t have a whole lot going for me, Tracy accepted my offer for a second date. And a third. We dated for about six months before she moved in with me. She jumped right in, helping with the boys and becoming Instant Mom. Just add kids. She was wonderful from the start, and the boys accepted her into their lives like she’d always been there. After eight more months, we were married.
It didn’t take long after that for Corey and Adam to start calling Tracy “Mom.” They first started doing it because it was easier to explain to their friends, and eventually they called her that because she was their mom.
Kim showed up and said she wanted the kids back. That, as you might expect, didn’t go over very well in my household. I’ll just say it didn’t happen and leave it at that.
Kim became the good-time weekend person, which created its own set of problems. This situation wasn’t unique—although usually it’s the father who’s the good-time weekend guy—but all the discipline fell to us. It was hard for Tracy to be the one who had to get them to school, tell them to do their homework, and get on them when they pushed back.
As it turned out, Corey became a real mama’s boy. Up until a year before he got married, he was bringing his dirty laundry over to our house every Sunday for Tracy to wash. He was twenty-four years old, and I told Tracy, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can tell him to stop coming over.”
I even needled him. “You’re a grown man. She doesn’t need to be doing your laundry anymore.”
Tracy would interrupt me. “Don’t you dare,” she’d say. “I want him to come over. I like doing it.”
It wasn’t the laundry she enjoyed; it was getting a chance to talk to him every week and give him advice on the kind of life issues guys just don’t talk about with other guys. Corey might tell you he was there because he needed clean clothes, but I think he might have been there for the conversation, too.
For one thing, her advice was solid. Corey dated a girl named Charlene when they were in middle school, but they went their separate ways for several years. During those years, when Corey was dating a million girls, mostly strippers, Tracy would tell him repeatedly, “You need to meet a nice girl like Charlene.”
Eventually, when he was about twenty-three, Corey got back together with Charlene. They dated for a little more than a year and got married.
See? Tracy was right. I don’t know how many times she mentioned Charlene, and I don’t know whether her suggestions subliminally got into Corey’s head, but I know this much: Tracy isn’t doing Corey’s laundry anymore.
CHAPTER 3
The Hard Way
I tell people the best thing about running a family-owned business is working with my family. I also tell them the worst thing about running a family-owned business is working with my family. Most guys my age talk to their dad a few times a week, and if they live in the same community they might see each other once or twice a week. Maybe they meet on a Sunday afternoon to watch a ball game or something.
Here’s another way we’re different: Guys my age are usually able to call their dad and vent about work. OK . . . you think I can do that? Or, by the same token, do you think my son, Corey, can do that?
My deal is pretty unusual. Old Man and I see each other every day, usually for eight or nine hours a day, and then we have to look at each other on holidays, too. I love him, and I feel so bad for all the stuff I put him and my mom through during my childhood. That’s why it’s so great that we can share this success, both in the shop and on television, together.
I tell Old Man this to his face, so it’s no secret. I’m heartened by the fact that I know he feels the same way about me. And you know what? I’m sure Corey does, too. We’re all in this together, which doesn’t mean we always have to agree, or be happy to see each other.
Old Man will never stop working. I honestly think he’d be dead within six months of walking out that door. He and my mom love each other and would do anything for each other, but there’s no way they could coexist in the same house all day long with nothing to do but talk and watch television. My mom’s got some serious health problems, diabetes primary among them, and she’s in a wheelchair. Sometimes Old Man just wants to get the hell out of the house.
My mom has a caretaker, so it’s not like he’s leaving her by herself, but he just gets stir crazy. Plus, he’s a hopeless workaholic. That’s his vice. He doesn’t go out. I bet he can’t remember the last time he went into a bar and had a drink with friends. Me? There are probably twenty bars in this town that I can walk into and have the bartender say, “What’s up, Rick?” And that was true before people recognized me from the television show.
Anyway, Old Man is like a lot of guys from his generation: workaholics who can’t bear the thought of not working. This is a man who has not taken a sick day since 1994. He worked seven days a week to get the shop going. As I said earlier, he’s such an old soul he earned the nickname “Old Man” when he was just thirty-eight years old.
There are a million Old Men out there in America right now. There are guys who retire from the insurance business who continue to go into the office just to make sure everything’s working OK. There are guys in every walk of life who do the same thing my dad does, but the difference is he can get away with it because it’s a family business and he still has something to offer.
Sometimes I’m the bad guy, though. He’ll be sitting around the house in the morning, drinking his coffee, and
he’ll tell my mom, “Well, I’m going into the shop. Rick tells me he needs me today.”
This isn’t true at all. I haven’t told him anything—he just wants to get out of the house. So then my mom will call me and say, “Why are you working your father so hard?”
Now that’s a great position in which to find yourself. I’ve got two choices, either rat out my dad or look like a guy who’s forcing his sixty-nine-year-old father to slave away in the family business. See what I mean about working with my family?
(It’s better than it used to be, though. Back when he had more energy, Old Man used to tell my mom, “Hon, I’m going to work.” Then he’d come into the shop and tell me, “Listen to me and listen to me good: Your mother thinks I’m working today, but today I feel like playing poker all goddamn day. So if she calls, tell her I had to testify in court and I don’t know when I’ll be home.”)
We’re different. Old Man is the micromanager, the guy who doesn’t understand why we have four or five different departments and forty-seven employees, the guy who still wants to know every single item and penny that goes in and out of the store. And here’s the great part: The better we do and the more money we make, the more he frets. The swag business has created a whole new opportunity for him to worry. There are days when he’ll walk around the office asking for hourly updates on how many T-shirts we’re selling, how many Chumlee shot glasses and Big Hoss bobbleheads. I just want to tell him, Dad, this is a good thing. It’s something we never had before, so it’s all gravy. He can’t help it, though.
I’m much more willing to delegate responsibilities and take a longer view at the overall direction of the shop. And Corey is now managing the store, taking on the everyday responsibilities of scheduling and inventory and all that. I’m more than willing to allow him to do that stuff; I’m content to sit back, have fun, and look forward to the next bizarre item that walks through the door.