Guy is standing there, guarding two of those rolling RSR milk crates that people fill with all the brochures and catalogs that they could download from websites instead of check as overweight baggage, while his buddy is off taking a leak or buying a corn dog or slice of convention center pizza or whatever.
Both milk crates are stacked to the brim with the little manufacturer logo tote bags being handed out, twenty and thirty apiece of Aimpoint and Nikon and Springfield Armory...because these can be used for shopping bags back at the store, see?
Guy's shirt is unbuttoned to the xiphoid process, medallion resting in his chest pelt, thick gold bracelet, and fistfuls of rings...he's a wide collar away from looking like an extra from Saturday Night Fever.
And I'm standing there myself, waiting on someone to get back, spending the longest three minutes of my life having to bite my tongue to keep from asking "So what's the name of your pawn shop? I see. And where in Jersey did you say it was?"