1946 Cyarts

There was this pawnshop Goldfarb liked to go to in Miami. It was owned by a French Canadian who had moved to Florida after retiring from his job at the Molson’s beer plant. This man, Daniel Lafleur, was his name, lasted about three weeks doing nothing on the beach. And so, fulfilling a lifelong dream, bought himself a pawnshop from a Cuban man whose lifelong dream was to do nothing on a beach. Goldfarb came across the pawnshop, which had the very un-pawnshop-like ‘The Flower Pawnshop’, because it was a block away from a place where he bought Dominican cigars that he then passed off as Cubans to the starters at our golf course. Goldfarb had this whole scam going and both Lewberg and I benefitted from it because we played most of our rounds with Goldfarb who now got very preferential treatment.

Goldfarb rarely bought anything, but the pawnshop was a reality show in real life and he was fascinated by the characters who staggered into the store with what were likely ill-gotten wares. Goldfarb talked about hockey and all things Montreal with Lafleur and was not surprised to learn that what he missed most were the smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz’s on boulevard Saint-Laurent. Goldfarb too was an aficionado of the cured meat and the next time he went to the store, he brought Lafleur a sandwich from Schwartzman’s - which was a deli in Boca, fifteen minutes from our club, which had brazenly named itself in a manner that implied it was affiliated with the venerable Montreal charcuterie. Which was not very kosher but it turned out the smoked meat was nearly just as good.

Lafleur was thrilled and, in return, he let Goldfarb anchor himself in the store for an hour or so and once, even let him behind the counter while Lafleur tended to an errand.

Goldfarb would then come back and regale Lewberg and I with tales of misfits, ne’er do wells, and desperados.

It wasn’t schadenfreude, but Goldfarb did seem to take a little of perverse pleasure in hearing and seeing other people’s woes and misery. It was all frankly a little sad but Goldfarb brought us smoked meat sandwiches too so it was a small price to pay.

One day, while about to tee off on number 7, Goldfarb turned to me and said, “the Flower got a radio today.”

I striped my drive down the driveway and then turned to him and asked, “really? Do you know what kind?”

Goldfarb then stepped up to the tee, hit his drive over the fence and nearly onto the Turnpike, declared he was taking a mulligan, and then said, “nope.”

“Well, can you describe it,” I asked, “was it wood?”

“It was a radio,” he said poking his club at the bushes in the left side of the fairway.

“Goldfarb,” Lewberg said, “your ball went way over.” He pointed to the Florida Turnpike.

Lewberg and I then waited in the fairway while Goldfarb, having squeezed his ample body through a crack in the bushes, foraged the long grass, steps from the bustling highway, looking for his ball. As usual, his ball did not emerge but he retrieved seven others to take its place.

Now cheered up by his new bounty, he became a little more talkative.

“It was blue,” he said.

“Painted?” I asked.

“How the hell should I know?” he exclaimed. On 14, Goldfarb fished four balls out of the pond.

He was cleaning them off when he said, “I took a picture.”

And I said, “what?”

Goldfarb said “I took a picture. Sorry I completely forgot.” He grabbed his phone from the cart, scrolled through his album, and handed me the phone.

I recognized it right away.

It was the 1946 Cyarts.

In blue.

When I first started collecting radios, I created a wish list. The Cyarts was on the top of list.

It was manufactured with unusual materials - Plexon and Lucite.

It was bullet-shaped. Because of the translucent Lucite, the radio was absolutely stunning when lit up.

I had never seen one.

Had never even heard of someone having one. Decophobia had 4 in their sold radio data base but had a huge waiting list for the next one.

In time, I removed it from my wish list.

It was like having Mila Kunis on your wish list.

Goldfarb and I drove down to Miami after golf. Lafleur said he wanted $200 for it.

Goldfarb, who had been a proverbial fly on the wall at hundreds of negotiations, said, “we won’t give you a dollar more than $100.” Lafleur countered with $175.

Goldfarb shook his head and said, “it’s not even wood. Made of cheap plastic. Probably made in Hong Kong.”

We settled on $166.

In the car I said, “it’s stolen right.”

And Goldfarb, barely able to contain his glee said, “oh yeah.”

The radio sang like a siren. And all lit up? Well, all lit up, it looked like a heavenly beacon.

Now I'm not sure what the Florida law is and I only have a vague understanding of Talmudic law but I knew I had to do the right thing. Now the right thing was to call the police and tell them I had just acquired a rare Cyarts radio from a pawn shop in Miami which I was pretty sure, the radio not the pawn shop, had been stolen.

Which is what I did.

It took me several tries and a long hold period before I got to the right person. I’m guessing the Miami police department has more pressing issues than missing old radios, even those that lit up, because the person on the other line did not show a lot of interest and I was pretty sure she wasn't writing anything down.

Of course, when she said, “a blue 1976 cyborg,” I just said, “yes,” because, you know, there’s the right thing, and then there’s the smart thing.

But, in order to have a completely clean conscience, I also added a note next to the picture of the Cyarts on my website.

‘Bought at pawnshop in Miami. Please contact with proof if this was stolen from you.’

Now, to say my website does not get much traffic is a little like saying I don't make many eagles and so I figured I was in the clear. But a week later I received an email with a picture of the blue Cyarts with a note saying he was a Miami collector and the Cyarts, along with a few other rare radios, had recently been stolen. He included a copy of the police report. He lived a few blocks from the pawn shop so it all made sense and the next time Goldfarb went down to Miami, he brought the radio and dropped it off.

So that was that.

I didn't have the Cyarts or Mila Kunis but I had done the right thing.

Which is something, I guess.

I also had a pretty good story. The story you are reading now.

So, I typed it up in all of its glory and send it along with the photos of the Cyarts to Helen, who lays out the stories and designs the books.

In addition to being a great designer, Helen is a good friend and she is always quick to compliment my work. This time was no exception and she said ‘Great story!’ which was very nice but then she sent me another email. And in that email, she said, ‘I don’t think it’s the same radio’

She then attached a bunch of photos and had circled the areas in the photo I had originally on my website with the one the guy who said it had been stolen sent me and, even I, who did not have the greatest eye for detail, could see it was not the exact same radio.

‘Could it be the light or the angle the picture was taken?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she replied, ‘they are two different radios.’

Then I said, ‘Hold the presses.’

No, I didn’t really say that.

One of the security guards at our gate is a former police officer. She is way too classy for donuts so I usually bring her croissants. I brought her the copy of the police report and she laughed in my face.

I said, “not real.”

And she said, “no, Honey. Not even close. Thanks for the croissant.”

Now I knew what the right thing to do was but that had not really served me all that well. Instead, Goldfarb and I decided to do the wrong thing.

Now, I can’t really get into too much detail because we may have broken a law or two, but the wrong thing was going back to the pawn shop, asking Mr. Lafleur to let us know the next time the guy who had pawned the radio to him came in, contact the guy, who was very proficient in relieving people of their possessions, and... well, I can’t really say much more. Only that Goldfarb knew where the scammer lived and let’s just say he didn't have great security at his house.

I don't have the radio on my website any more.

But, if you drive by my house one evening, you can see it shining brightly in the window.

And if you listen hard, you can hear it singing its siren song.

The End