I once knew a man who pawned a cherished ring at least once a month. And once a month, he came to me, begging for a small loan so he could get his ring back before someone else bought it.

It’s a variation of the same old story. The ring had been given to him years ago, by his mother, I think. It was a beloved piece of jewelry until the liquor supply ran low. Then its value was diminished somewhat to just a piece of property.

To the pawnshop he went and then to the liquor store. Days later, he was at my door telling the same story and asking for money. I handed over the dough and he always got his ring back. I hope he was buried with it when he died. I lost track of him over the years, and I have no idea if he found someone else to get him through those frantic days when his prized ring went up on the block.

There was another man who frequently implored me, not for money, but for rides to the pawnshop s. For him, there was no beloved ring or any other cherished memento that I could see. For this man, it was a box of old albums, a slightly out-of-date stereo or a tennis racquet he used when he was in better shape – and before the bottle drowned his love of the game.

A ride to the pawnshop with an item in his arms and hopes that it might be of interest to the sharp-eyed buyers behind the counter. And more often than not, the albums were scratched, the stereo speakers were blown and the racquet frame was cracked. The irony was not lost on me. It was not lost on him, either. He walked out of the pawnshop s empty-handed most of the time because his possessions had been irreparably damaged over time, much like his life.

There are those who make regular pilgrimages to the pawn stores because there are bills to pay or food to buy for the kids. There are those who simply have items lying around and they no longer need them.

But I would bet a box of albums or a stereo with blown speakers that there are many more who make those dispiriting trips because they have stomachs or addictions to feed and times have gotten lean. It’s late in the month, and the state check has all been spent. The returnable bottles have been cashed in, and that rotten brother never returned the loan.

Meanwhile, the fingers tremble like wooden pins on a clothesline because there hasn’t been anything to drink in hours. Or sweat beads on the forehead and a deep cough has developed because there is no dough for smack to pump into the veins. Or the stomach rumbles because even the bread is gone and the Social Security check is a long way off.

Pawnshop s are sad places if you think too long while you shop. The jewelry case is filled with hawked wedding bands, engagement rings, family heirlooms. Stereo equipment offered at bargain prices once graced the stylish pad of a person who cranked happy tunes on it before one calamity or another came crashing down upon his life.

The shelves at these places are like repositories for unhappy times. Bicycles were hawked for a thin pile of bills because the people who once pedaled them are no longer able, or no longer willing. The happy and healthy part of their lives is no longer there. Perfectly intact television sets were pawned for a few dollars because truly desperate circumstances forced someone to sell that last faithful friend.

The shops are filled with items that people spent years accumulating through passion, toil and ambition. The snowshoes, telescopes, skis and golf clubs were purchased during the pinnacle of happiness. They were hawked for pennies after descending into the caverns of hard times. The jewelry display cases must be filled with so many sad stories, it’s surprising the glass case doesn’t weep tears.

It’s all very melodramatic, I know. Humankind has been trading its wares since the value of property was first realized. This pawn system of commerce is no different. The hungry man or addict gets a few dollars for what items he can sell. The store owner makes a tidy profit, and the general shopper can get a VCR or microwave oven reasonably cheap.

But it’s a business generated by a lot of woe. One man’s misery, after all, is another man’s treasure.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. Visit his blog at www.sunjournal.com.