Curious passersby looked on from the other side of the lawn as an early morning June breeze rustled the leaves on a nearby sycamore. Two men in hazmat suits jostled a blue-gray rubber storage bin down the walkway and into a waiting vehicle at the curb. Behind her, a pair of policemen hulked at the front door. A reporter stood in front of a huge, somewhat run-down brick house, where yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the front yard. I started to turn off the TV and return to my writing when a local newsflash broke onto the screen. “We’re going to Little John’s today / To take our jewelry in and get our cash today / You will get a good deal / And you get paid for real / So bring it to Little John!” The train-wreck appeal of the commercial’s bad singing and acting had earned its originator cult status. Behind Little John, a cop, a construction worker, a cowboy, and a Native American clumsily danced and sang to the melody of the disco classic “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People.
In the breakfast room, I popped the last bite of toasted onion bagel into my mouth before grabbing the remote. In a presidential tone and tailored suit, the diminutive Filipino pawnbroker explained that gold was selling at “an awesome” fifteen hundred dollars an ounce, “but not for long.” Now was the time to sell your unwanted jewelry, he insisted.
Little John’s, near Churchill Downs Racetrack, attracted tourists from all over the world.
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