Uncle PICO

Sanford's quote-unquote "Watch Repair & Appraisals"

Nobody would ever dare call him Uncle PICO to his face. But in 1929, that's how everybody in the town of Sanford Florida that either knew him or knew of him, knew him. He was well aware of all of this, and not only did not mind, he felt lucky. 

He was known as Uncle PICO for two reasons. 

One. His storefront named 'Watch Repair & Appraisals' was located on the 1st floor of the PICO Building Block Extension that ran along Commercial Street. Neighboring the main entrance to the PICO Hotel lobby and Takach family restaurant facing Oak Avenue.

And two. He was a pawn broker. Although. In places not quite as big as the New Yorks and Chicagos, using the term ‘pawn broker’ or ‘pawn shop’ was shy'd away from in 1929. Terms like 'collateral lenders' or 'jewelry appraisers' were more acceptable. Pawn brokers were the last line of possible credit available for the brokest of the broke. In Sanford Florida that year, people were in the very early stages of reckoning of a financial double-blow of enormous proportions. First their main local bank, the First National Bank of Sanford ran out of money in July. Due to Florida's enormous real estate bubble of the 1920's whose time had come due. Overnight. Right before 4th of July weekend. Nobody could withdraw their money. Everybody's checking deposits. Savings. Gone. Vaporized. Three months later, October 24th through 29th, Black Thursday through Black Tuesday, Wall Street crashed. Big time. The first real suggestion of what would become a recession so great that it would end up named the Great Depression. Pawn brokers were sometimes referred to as an Uncle, as in a guy you call when you desperately need money but have nobody else to turn to.

"No", said Uncle PICO.

He lowered the wedding ring with the rather large diamond down from the tip of the magnification device extending from his right eye and placed it back on top of the small towel on top of his glass-top counter.

The customer pleaded, "But Robert. Mr. Brumley. Why?"

Uncle PICO's real name was Robert Brumley. And he made no effort to hide his disapproving frown. That his rough New York accent seemed to emphasize, "I've got a very expensive set of silver in the back. That I now have marked to melt down. To liquidate. Cast into bullion bars. That you should still be the owner of. That is why."

The customer wanted to be persuasive, but could not contain his unexpected and strong sense of contempt, "But is not failing to pay a final-due interest payment on a pawn broker's loan that's secured by a set of silver what a pawn broker wants?"

Robert pointed to his store's front door from behind his glass counter, "Okay my friend? Time to go."

"Please?", the customer pleaded.

Still pointing to his front door, "My friend. You wasted paying four expensive months of interest to me. Very expensive interest. Only to have missed your recent fifth-due payment. Resulting in your loss of your set of silver that you secured your loan with. And I know that you've got a wife and or a mother whose heart or hearts are broken over this. Or will be broken over this, if they have not yet come to know this. And if they don't know already, they sure as hell will know in about three weeks come Thanksgiving. Because Thanksgiving is every family's set of silver's biggest day of the year. And now you come in with a diamond wedding ring, which, again, probably belongs to your wife or mother, if not was passed down from your mother to you, to give to your wife. So go. You can likely find somebody over at the Peoples Bank Building at the 100 Block on East First Street, for a ring like that. Or, you can try your luck at the Barter and Credit Corridor as they like to call it, over on Sanford Avenue. Okay?"

His small store suddenly felt crowded. Four other men, not shaved, smelling like a brewery, dressed in nice suits that did not look pressed or even washed had built up a line behind the man with the diamond wedding ring that would not leave.

He needed a drink. But never let himself have a drink until he closed his shop. Otherwise known as the hard-nosed Uncle PICO, Robert Brumley counted his blessings. His drink would have to wait. He never closed at five if there were still customers waiting to be serviced. And this year, more so than he ever had seen, people needed his service.

The decade-long Great Depression had just started just two months prior. But it would take the entire nation about three years to know this. As in, know this. But just ninety days prior. With First National Bank of Sanford's sudden closure. When overnight, nobody nor local business were able to withdraw their money. Now this was felt. Known. Like, known. It was five o'clock. His line was growing faster than he could service it. Christmas was next month, the desperation of his customers grew as it inched closer. He needed a drink.

And to add insult to injury, it was still Prohibition. Alcohol was still prohibited. And would continue to be totally prohibited throughout the Unites States for the next three years. And his gin at home was gone. Out. Which means that after work he'd have to stop off to see his friend out by Sanford Avenue to score another batch of gin before getting home. And it was never just a quick easy hello goodbye transaction. He was never not invited in to share a drink. And there was never a good way to ever say no.

Actually, by the time Robert got to Sanford Avenue he was excited to see his friend. He sometimes would end up sort of glad to have run out, just to have the excuse to pay Marcus a visit.

The last time Robert saw Marcus was just last night. Not to re-up on gin, but for a high school football game. It seems like the entire town of Sanford was in attendance. It was a big deal. There was a parade to celebrate the occasion right before the game. The first time ever that everybody present would ever witness a football game played at night. Lit so bright that it looked like daytime on the field. The first electrically lit nighttime football game in the entire state. Things were bad. The stock market crash last month already had the worrying newspaper reading types worried about the overall US economy. But very much more so, the local crash. All the investors stuck with a half-built Spanish Mission spec home, that had to abandon their project. All the local lumber suppliers and tool stores, lingering if not already closed for good. And all the local builders and handymen that were building all these spec homes, now looking for odd jobs, and or panhandling. The bankers that just spent the better part of the last decade making bank lending to all the local spec builders, no more big sales commissions, if not already broke. Lots of unemployed workers. No replacement jobs available. A lot of new local mortgages. On a lot of brand new houses. All bought above suggested price-ranges. Because everybody knew that they could just finger snap flip it for a huge easy profit. Most now approaching ninety days past due. But, for at least this one night, nobody at this game was thinking about that.

"Holy shit is right. I would have called you a liar if I wasn't here to see this.", Marcus marveled back to Robert.

As each of their sets of eyes remained transfixed. Scanning a different section. Both studying. The perimeter. The entire perimeter. Such tall, bright lights. Too bright to be possible. The entire football field.

These lights made people forget. Gave temporary reprieve. Took the edge off. But Robert and Marcus were both already feeling great in the first place. Compared to easily most of the people found at this lit event. Not just because of the gin that Marcus makes that each of them had a full and hidden flask of. Not even because the number of drinks that they drank at Marcus' house instead of attending the parade before the game. But because, money-wise, they both were crushing it. Each, more money than ever thought possible. They almost couldn't believe it.

Robert and Marcus saw the crash of the local real estate boom coming before anybody else did.

Here's how that happened.

Four years ago. At the tiptop height of Sanford's real estate boom. Lots of lucky cities throughout the entire state of Florida. The Summer of 1925.

"I had a very interesting customer walk in to my store today," Robert said to Marcus.

As usual, Robert was at Marcus' house to score another batch of his homemade gin. And as usual, they were drinking up a storm and loud-talking. About everything from their worldview theories and opinions, to how their day at work was.

Marcus Strobart stood out in any crowd. His lion's mane of hair on top of his head. Deliberate, and successful, in its goal to make you think of Frederick Douglas. Thirty years out of style. Most black men in the 1920's wore their hair very short. Slicked straight back, sometimes tightly parted. Younger fans of the new Jazz craze were starting to wear the 'conk' drawn back into waves or a pompadour. Marcus was old school. A very dead serious man. A worrying newspaper reading type. His seriousness was charming, in the same way that gallows humor is funny.

To Robert's mention of the interesting customer that walked into his store today, Marcus replied, "Interesting how Uncle PICO? One a your customers actually kept up with their payments and got their precious expensive family heirloom back from you?"

Marcus was the only one besides his wife close enough to Robert to call him Uncle PICO to his face. It was not only not insulting from them, it was a loving inside-joke. As in, they both very much recognized Robert as a very just and fair man. Who also happened to be a very just and fair pawn broker with genuine concern for the better interest of his customers at heart. Even if he was known in town as the crusty old Yankee that profits off of other people's economic hardships.

Robert answered, "Actually? Yes. -

-And then started to take sip from his glass but noticed that it was empty. He pointed to the big glass jug with the small circle finger-handle on Marcus' table and asked, "May I?"

Marcus palmed the heavy jug on either side with both hands to lift it and filled up both their glasses.

Robert continued, "Shit is booming right now. Right? Booming obviously big-time since at least 1922. Three solid years. Which means. For the last three years. If you've been on hard times. It's because you did not want to work. Or, were too drunk to work. I say all this to say. That. For the last three years I've had mainly only two types of customers. Medical and natural disaster-driven customers aside. One, my actual normal customers that are there to actually get their watch tuned up or repaired. And two, alcoholics and drug addicts that are withdrawing, or gamblers that owe, that need cash right this minute. But today. A man that works at the bank. Actually, the one that did your mortgage on the blue house on 5th Street and Sanford Avenue that you flipped last yea-

"No shit? That guy that looks like a senator but talks with a lisp?" Marcus interrupted to say.

Robert concurred, "No shit. Him. So today. He came back to retrieve a very valuable watch. Very expensive piece. That he pawned to me just three days ago as collateral on a cash loan. Just like he said he would. The loan plus the three days of interest. All paid back in full. And get this. He pawned the exact same watch last month, also three days preceding the end of it. To borrow the same amount of money. Also paid-back exactly three days later. On the 1st of the month. Which I'm guessing is his pay day."

Robert took a sip. Stopped talking.

Marcus thought he got the point, "And? You're now asking why such a straight-laced banker like. What's his name again?"

Robert answered, "John. We call him John the Baptist. Always giving speeches about the good of Prohibition. At the Baptist church. On Park Avenue and 6th."

Marcus chuckled, "Well we. And even from the pulpit, Reverend Castle Brewer of our Baptist church over here on the Georgetown side of Sanford. We like to refer to him as Senator Lisp. John the Baptist though, that one's pretty good too. So-

-He takes a sip that empties his glass, and then continues, "So you're asking yourself why a semi-wealthy banker with no apparent bad habits like John would need a last-minute three-day cash loan? Two months in a row?"

"Very much indeed. Why?" Robert affirmed, then continued, "My guess is. Based on the two months in a row. Beyond all that I know he has tied up into his real estate investments. My guess is that he's one of the ones that lives check to check, but at a very high level. Always spending right up to the maximum possible level. You know him. Spends right to the edge to keep up appearances. Maximum possible appearances. But otherwise a good investor that we both know makes a lot of money. Right? My guess is that he's making less commissions. Less commissions due to writing less mortgages. Writing less mortgages due to the speed of sale on houses not being what they were last year. And this dip in his commissions. I'm guessing is close enough to his high cash-flow edge. That he now is beginning to fall short of before the end of each month. Three days short to be exact."

Which made Marcus say, "Come to think. One a my. Another guy that buys from me. Looks kind of like you-

Robert interrupts to joke, "You mean white?"

Marcus chuckled, "More than that. He actually looks like you. As in. Could pass for being your brother. But way more proper, like Senator Lisp. In fact works with him. Also at Seminole Bank. I've noticed. He's been coming here more than twice as often. To get more gin. Like usual, on his way home from work. But unlike usual, already smelling of it. And more notably unlike usual, he asked if he could owe me. Two pick-ups ago. Paid me back yesterday."

"Hmm. No shit?" To emphasize the curiosity, Robert added, "And you know that John the Baptist would never be caught dead borrowing money from a guy like me. Right? Just ask Reverend Brewer if he thinks that John the Bapt. I mean Senator Lisp would ever chance being witnessed taking out a collateral loan from a pawn shop. Unless he had exhausted all other more quote-unquote 'reputable' options. I'm telling you. Like musical chairs. I've been sensing that the music could shut off at any minute now. I mean damn. Now your almost matching story? Like I've been saying. This housing market. All booms. They seem like they'll never stop. Until they suddenly do. I think I might be out. Like. Micromanage my five current houses that are still under construction to their quickest completion possible. Sell them. And be done."

As Marcus refilled both their glasses with gin from the big jug, he challenged with a chuckle of disbelief, "Get the fuck. With real estate? You can't be done. Shit's still. Maybe not as up as last year. But still up. Way up. The appraised value of my three right now have me set to double. Not quite the two triples and one quadruple I had last year. But."

To his newly topped of glass, Marcus held it up like making a toast and said, "Thank you-

-Then took a sip, and reasoned, "No I agree it is still going strong. Very. Keep taking all the profit you can. As for me? I think I might get out. I'd be selling myself short of one, maybe two more years of easy money. But I am telling you. At some point. Out of nowhere. The party will end. And it will not end nicely for anybody still holding any yet-sold properties."

And that is how they came to see the real estate crash coming before everybody else.

A pawn broker. A gin maker. Like two stethoscopes. One that detected a negative cash-flow trend developing at the high cash-flow edge. The other that spotted a most buttoned-up and self-disciplined alcoholic, slipping. Fate could not have designed a better pair of diagnostic practitioners. The local real estate bubble was about to burst.

By the time Robert and Marcus witnessed that lit football game that night in November 1929. It had all played out. They each had micro-managed their respective list of construction projects to quick completion. And had all of their properties sold before the end of 1925.

That game. As each of their sets of eyes remained transfixed. Such tall, bright lights. Too bright to be possible. The entire football field. Marcus was a technology and science junkie. Would scan each morning's newspaper hoping to catch a new story about Nikola Tesla or Thomas Edison.

"Guess how much the The Edison Illuminating Company is now worth," Marcus said to Robert as their eyes still traced the perimeter, "Thomas Edison alone is worth-

A policeman interrupted. Out of nowhere. The field was bright. But they were standing in a dark spot. Watching from outside the stadium. Hidden in fact. To avoid Marcus being arrested. Because. Whites only in 1929, were permitted at this game. After the Civil Right's Act of 1964 would be later passed, Jim Crow would be no more. He would go underground. Put away his white pointed hood and robe. Replace it with a law degree. And reemerge as James Crow, Esquire. Become slicker. Would trade in the obvious seperate water fountains for more coded dog whistle messaging. Campaigns of 'Law and Order'. The Redlining of Congressional Districts. But in 1929, Marcus could be charged for the Breach of the Peace, Disorderly Conduct just for being on the property of Sanford's Municipal Field.

The policeman frowned with agitation at Robert for bringing Marcus here and head nodded 'no' back and forth as he complained, "Come on Robert. Why?-

-Then got out his handcuffs as he turned his attention to Marcus, "And you. What are you stupid? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Robert chimed in, "No no no. I know. I've been intending to get a much needed medical note from my doctor. If my new problem continues. I've been growing damn near almost totally blind at night. Starting. I don't know. But it's suddenly bad. Really bad. And I need Marcus here to guide me. And I do apologize. But there was no way in hell that I was going to miss this electrically lit game. Even if my ass is suddenly almost too damn blind to see it."

The policeman answered, "Well even with a note. Maybe. Get somebody else. To help. I mean. Damn. Jeez. Get the hell out of here guys. Go."

...stay tuned for next scene...

--- from The Once O'clock Tavern universe ---

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