Golden dreams, disunited

"We Buy Gold!" says the big sign outside, and again on the postcards inside Executive Gold Buyers lobby, fringing a Streetsboro intersection with eight stoplights. Letters in purple and gold, various states and sizes. Place is barely bigger than a powder room.

Postcards say no one will pay me more money and that they buy jewelry & platinum & silver & coins and, in case I forgot, gold. 

What isn’t forgotten in this squat brick cube is bullet proof glass protecting the clean-cut button-downed guy evaluating the sacrificial offerings of two ladies (middle aged, maybe mom and daughter). Only car outside is a nice Ford-something so I'm thinking (condescendingly) that at least the ladies weren’t down to their last buck, needing to sell family heirlooms, and about to become phone sex operators to eat.  

Who knows, maybe they’re jettisoning the ex-husband/deadbeat dad's gold wedding band, left on the dresser 3 years ago, he now accepted as an √©migr√© to ain’t coming back land.

But I romance. Anybody might cash in their unwanted gold, that stuff that sits around getting in the way. Not me, I'm just stopping in, reporter-like. I hear the guy who looks more like a Denny’s assistant manager than a “State Licensed” gold buyer offer the ladies $140. They smile, take it and head out. I decide to seek my answers to the mysteries of gold buying for another time.  

I just wished I had some platinum lying around that I didn't want anymore. 

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