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Pawn Shop Score

Dylan Hayward

My father holds a lot of titles; father, husband, grandfather, business-owner, follower-of-Christ, beekeeper, hunter, he’s an original man with a lot of passions. But his favorite title he holds could very well be “picker” or “treasure hunter”. For as long as I can remember, regardless of where we were headed in the car, we couldn’t pass a garage sale without him stopping in for at least a quick glance. One of his sayings that is burnt into my brain is “People don’t even know what they’re giving away.”




As a result of this upbringing, Fridays are my dedicated pawn shop runs, but I’m not looking for vintage oil tins or hand-carved eagle statues (recent picks from my father), I am searching for guns that have been undervalued by either their previous owners who decided to sell them to the pawn shop, or undervalued by the pawn shop themselves.




To be as transparent as possible… I hardly ever find shit. Three years ago I found a clean Franchi O/U that probably had about a $400 haircut on it’s value. That was a good find, but it wasn’t that big “score” my father is always talking about. You know, the kind of score that becomes a catalyst for addiction. Like your first limit on Mississippi mallards that makes you contemplate abandoning all your responsibilities and buying a shack along the delta just to chase that. Been there.




Truth be told, I started to grow tired of my Friday pawn shop runs. Running through the circuit after a long work week, shuffling through junk on the walls as the pawn shop employees feed me sales pitches about how there’s more than meets the eye on a $300 pump action 20 gauge that they gouged some poor guy for $50 so that he could make his next car payment. It was defeating to say the least.




That was until this past August, when I was driving between meetings and I noticed a strip-mall pawn shop with a flickering neon light that read “Guns & Gold”. I had an hour to kill, why not stop in. Worst case scenario I could leave one of the workers my card in case anything desirable came in.




Upon entering, a scene that was all too familiar to me presented itself once again. “Remington 870 Fieldmaster $459.99” “Taurus G2C $209.99” “Henry .22 WMR $345.99”. Fine deals for someone looking for a specific model. Not the sunken treasure I was chasing. As I prepared to leave, dispirited as ever in my pawn pursuits, out of the corner of my eye I noticed what appeared to be an older semi-auto shotgun leaning up against the wall behind one of the counters. Curiosity began to rise as I noticed a distinct drop at the end of the receiver. An unmistakable characteristic, one that Browning was known for in their SA models.




I got the attention of the lone pawn shop worker, “Hey man, is this gun available?” I asked, confused as to why it wasn’t up for display.




“That ancient one? Yeah, some old guy dropped it off yesterday. Needed some quick cash, we haven’t even really priced it yet.”




“Can I take a look?”




As soon as I grabbed it, I knew I was holding on to something special. But something special with certainly a high price tag. The first thing I observed was the guns suicide safety, a feature that I knew Browning had phased out several decades ago. The “Made in Belgium” engraving lit up to me like the writing inside the “One Ring” in LOTR. May have lost some people there. The gun was flawless, as if it had never been taken out of its original packaging. And judging by the low serial number, I knew it was old. I’m not sure how old, but certainly Pre-WW2.




“How much would you let it go for?” I asked the pawnbroker, already tense as I prepared for a several thousand dollar response.




“You want that thing? It’s a dinosaur. We have brand new shotguns behind me.”




Could he possibly not know what this gun is? I mean sure, I didn’t even know the full extent of it. But whenever you mention Browning A5 to a wingshooter, specifically a 16 gauge, albeit this was before the Sweet Sixteen model was produced, their eyes light up. Alas, I may have found my big “score”.




“Would you take $800 for it?” I asked, in an unassured tone, waiting for rejection.




“$800?” The pawnbroker laughed. “That’s like triple what we gave the guy for it. Why the hell would you pay that much for this thing? Is it rare or something?”




My father taught me that when picking, negotiation is everything, so you never want to give up your position.




“You know, it’s a cool, old shotgun. And the Browning name means that it was made right. It’s worth it to me for $800.”


“If you say so, man. Let’s get your paperwork started.” Halfway through the legal paperwork and background check, the pawnbroker stops…




“Are you going to get me fired for this? Is there something I’m missing on this gun?”




“Last time I checked, making triple your money on one of your products is something to celebrate. Hell, maybe you get a promotion for this sale. Maybe I’m the idiot for overpaying.”




“Okay man. But if I get fired, I’m moving into your house, cause I’m going to lose mine.”




I walked out of the pawn shop with a full gun case in my hand, and a full grin on my face. But I knew the time for celebration was not yet. I still needed to take it to a local gunsmith and make sure everything looked right. For all I know, this gun could have been rotting from the inside. Or maybe some, if not most of the parts were not original. I knew of a gunsmith about five minutes away from my office, so I said a quick prayer, and headed straight there.




What felt like an eternity was probably more like ten minutes, as the gunsmith took apart my new-old A5 and examined every inch of it. There were a few  “Wow” and “Hmm” whispers. Each one bringing a mix of anxiety and intrigue upon me.




“From what I can tell, I don’t think this gun has ever been fired before. Where did you find it?”




“If I told you where I got it, and how much I paid for it, I don’t think you’d believe me. How old is it?” I asked, dying to know the million dollar question.




“Well, I’m not a Browning expert. But after some quick research, looking at the serial number and some of the random engravings, it’s definitely a Pre-WW1 model. Probably somewhere between 1913 and 1915. And whoever owned it, treated it better than their own child. I’d say if you paid less than $3,000 for this gun, you did well.”




Still in disbelief, I was emotionless. So emotionless the gunsmith gave the impression that I didn’t appreciate what this gun was. But I did. So much so, I was at a loss for words as to what I had in my possession. This is a gun I would keep forever. Nothing and nobody could take this from me.



I immediately called my father and told him I had just found the ultimate score. I emphasized that it was something that probably tops even his best pick. Being the man that my father is, he responded with “Meet me at my house. I need to see what you got.”




As I opened the case and pulled out a work of art straight from the mind of John Moses Browning, I could feel my fathers excitement. I handed him the gun and watched him shoulder it countless times, as if he was in the pheasant fields of South Dakota, pushing the Auto-5 to its limits.




“You know Dylan, I have been searching for this gun for as long as I can remember. Everything about it. The Pre-1940s A5s were built differently than they are today. We’ll never see craftsmanship like this anymore. I love it. Great find.”




I nodded my head as he handed the gun back to me. I then thought about all the hunts my father took me on growing up. How he taught me how to lead birds, how we prepared before every hunting season so that we were successful. The first pheasant I shot with his Browning Citori that he later gifted to me. “Damn it, Dylan. You’re getting soft.” I thought to myself as I knew what I had to do next.




“It’s yours, dad.” 

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