The shelves at Spino's Pawn Shop in Waterbury, Conn., brim with mismatched goods: stereos, vacuums, saxophones, crossbows, video games, yellowing packages of Krazy Glue. The brothers who run the place pay hard cash for what people drag in, though they draw the line at anything that's alive; a fisherman once tried to pawn a string of wriggling carp. The money that the Spinos shell out is technically called a loan -- the interest is about 15 percent, the item itself is the collateral. If the loan is not repaid within a month, the Spinos sell the merchandise for two or three times what they spent.

It's a healthy business -- particularly in the winter, says Scott Spino, "when people are laid off and all the construction guys come in here with their tools" -- but that's not all it is. In a rusting postindustrial town like Waterbury, Spino's functions a bit like a cash machine for people with nothing in the bank. As good as times get, there are plenty of such folks to go around. Forty-seven million households in the United States have annual incomes below $35,000, and in the event of a layoff or a medical crisis, 40 percent of American families would run out of cash within three days. People like that, says Gene Spino, can't go to a bank. "Can you imagine? They would walk in there and say, 'I need $100.' And the bank would be, like, 'Security!' "

So who are these people and what exactly do they need the money to cover? In a day at Spino's, 18 people came in the door to pawn one of their possessions. A handful agreed to discuss their finances. These are their stories.

Matt Cianciolo received a $25 loan for his 13-inch Sony color TV.

Cianciolo, 35, holds down two jobs, one at a plastics factory, the other managing a nearby apartment complex. When he needs additional money, he'll take on temporary handyman gigs. But Cianciolo recently splurged on a used 1991 Plymouth Acclaim, and the initial costs were more than he had planned for. "I put $1,500 down," he says. "With insurance and gas and all that, I needed some money to get me through the week." Though not a frequent pawner, he occasionally uses Spino's to scrape together a few extra bucks. When a foreman can't pay him at week's end, "he might give me some tools and say, 'Make a few dollars off this,' "says Cianciolo. "I'll come down here and try to turn over a drill, anything. I might get $10 or $15."

Cianciolo hoped to get a bit more for his TV, offering to throw in the antenna for another $5. But it's tough to resell antennas in a world of cable TV, so they aren't welcome at Spino's (neither are items like VCR's and Walkmans, which have small profit margins). Cianciolo walked away with his $25 on a Tuesday morning, confident that it would tide him over until his paycheck arrived on Friday. He wound up with cash to spare. The week's supply of cigarettes had already been paid for -- he buys his Newports by the carton -- so Cianciolo's sole expenses were gas and food. He put a measly $5 in the tank and made a grocery run for some bare-bones provisions: frozen dinners, a loaf of bread, a few bars of soap.

When payday arrived at week's end, Cianciolo drove down to Spino's to reclaim his set for $30; he is one of the estimated 30 to 50 percent of customers who repay their loans. With his auto insurance taken care of through September, Cianciolo aims to avoid pawnshops for the foreseeable future. "At least, I hope to," he adds.

Tom Slekis received a $30 loan for two of his fishing poles.

Medical problems have dogged Slekis since 1979, when a car accident left him paralyzed from the waist down. Since then, he claims, he has gone under the knife 52 times; the bulk of his days are spent shuttling to and from the hospital. A former substance-abuse counselor, the wheelchair-bound Slekis, 44, is currently too pain-ridden to work. "Man, this is the brokest I've been in five years," he grumbles. "My job in life right now is to stay healthy. That's it."

Slekis was bracing for yet another operation -- the amputation of his left leg. With bills mounting and his cash flow near zero, he needed some quick dough to cover the basics. "I don't pawn," he insists. "Well, I used to, when I was drinking and drugging. But that was years ago." One of the fishing poles was a fancy model that Slekis claims is worth $100. When the Spinos offered him just $30 for the pair, he grudgingly accepted. "Hey! We're eating tonight!" he whooped to a friend, waving a 10 and a 20. He also tried to score a few extra bucks by pawning some tackle, but the shop declined. "Aw, come on," kidded Slekis, holding a Day-Glo orange lure up to his ear lobe. "They make great earrings."

The cash went quickly. His gas-guzzling Oldsmobile chugged nearly $17. He plunked down $7.99 for the grocery-store special, a rotisserie chicken and a six-pack of Coca-Cola. Cigarettes nearly wiped out the remainder of the loan.

"Man, I'll be back," Slekis says. "That's a $100 pole there. I'll never see another pole like that again." His short-term goal is modest: get out of the hospital, pick up his poles and go fishing for striped bass this fall in Long Island Sound. He has one month to come up with the $36 necessary to get the poles out of hock. Gene Spino is skeptical of Slekis's vows to return. "Everybody says they're going to buy it back," he says. "Half of them don't. You never see them again. But it doesn't matter to us."

Sharon Johnson received a $20 loan for two gold-plated bracelets and a set of silver earrings.

With summer vacation drawing to a close, Johnson, a 19-year-old college sophomore, was looking to enjoy one last lark. She had copped tickets to a concert at the Meadows Music Theater in Hartford, featuring the bands Live and Counting Crows. The Dave Matthews Band was slated soon after, and Johnson hoped to scam tickets to that sold-out affair, too. She had waitressed all summer at a local watering hole, but the tips were lousy -- too many cheapskates drinking $1.75 bottles of Budweiser.

The bulk of her earnings went toward clothes and clubbing in New Haven or Hartford. She needed something extra to finance her concert outing. "I got a ride up there," said Johnson, pointing to her beat-up Honda. "I just need gas and money for food. Burgers up there are pretty expensive." Then, coyly, she added, "I guess it wouldn't be so great if I said I was going to spend it on drugs, huh?"

The jewelry was mostly junk, low-grade Home Shopping Network fare. The Spinos rejected a watch before settling on the three other pieces. When she demanded $20, they agreed. Sensing she had made a blunder, Johnson grimaced: "I should have asked for $30, huh?" As it turns out, the extra $10 wouldn't have helped much. A friend tracked down a set of Dave Matthews ducats, but they were $65 apiece. Johnson was forced to borrow yet again, this time from an acquaintance. Add in some $5 sandwiches and a tank of gas, and the romp was scarcely covered by her pawn. "Twenty dollars doesn't get you very far in this world," she says. Still, Johnson has no regrets about hocking the jewelry. "I never wore it," she says. "You saw that bracelet my grandmother gave me. It never even came out of the box." The loot, she adds, is Spino's to keep. In fact, she has already tossed her pawn ticket.