GARAGE
SALE
Copyright 1999 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/
So that you'll never be tempted to
participate in a "neighborhood garage sale," allow me to explain how they go:
Friday night you're up until two in the
morning marking prices on all the junk you're hoping people will buy. At this point you're
almost psychotically optimistic, calculating the total value of your "inventory"
at slightly over twenty-two thousand dollars. In particular, you're hoping to rid yourself
of a hideous lamp constructed from a stars-and-stripes motorcycle helmet like the one
Peter Fonda wore in Easy Rider, and you give it a bargain price of $22. Last year's tag is
still clinging to the chin strap; it reads $18.
The garage sale is scheduled to begin at
9:00am. At 6:30 a woman awakens you by pounding on your door. "I like to get an early
start," she dimples. When you open the garage door to let her in, there are seven
cars in your driveway.
By 11:30 all you've sold is a T-shirt for
ten cents. Worse, your daughter borrowed twenty bucks so she could go shopping at the
neighbors' garage sales. You mark the motorcycle helmet lamp down to $18.
At noon you leave the operation in your
son's hands and go inside to get some lunch. A stranger is in your bathroom, trying on
clothes. Another wants to know if you have "any more cake."
When you return to the garage, you find
your son ecstatic because he has sold a whole set of garden tools-shovel, axe, rake,
spade--for fifty cents each. You sadly advise him that they weren't for sale in the first
place. "I wondered why there were no price tags," he replies.
You look around. "Where's my new
bicycle?" you gasp, horrified. Your son tells you one of the neighbor kids is out
taking it for a "test drive."
A little later one of your neighbors shows
up to see how you're doing. "Hey, this Easy Rider lamp is a hoot!" he chuckles.
"How much?"
"Since you're a friend, twenty-five
bucks," you gush.
"The tag says eighteen," he
points out.
"Okay, eighteen."
"I'll give you seventy-five
cents."
"Sold!"
It's the high point of the day. Around one
there's another rush: Word has gotten out you're selling garden tools for half a buck
each. "I'll give you a dollar for your lawnmower," one shopper suggests. You ask
him to leave. A woman picking through the books you're selling wants to know if you have
anything by Carl Hiassen. When you tell her no, she asks if she can "look
inside." You ask her to leave. When you step into the house a few minutes later, your
son is showing your ties to the man who ate all your cake. "Why don't you check out
some of the other sales," you suggest to both of them.
Your neighbor calls. "My wife says I
can't keep this lamp," he reports. "I'll have to bring it back."
"All sales are final," you snap.
"Come on, Bruce," he whines.
"You can keep the money."
"If you set foot in my driveway, I'll
call the police," you warn.
You observe a young man slinking over to
the collection of National Geographics you've priced at a dime apiece. He looks a little
like a thief, and you wonder how fast he's going to be able to run with eighty pounds of
magazines under each arm. "This is my first garage sale, and I'm a little
nervous," he informs you.
"That's okay."
"I heard on the radio about this guy
who bought what looked like a worthless rock collection, and in it was a sapphire worth
two million dollars," he remarks.
"Oh?" you say politely.
"You got anything like that?"
At 6:00pm the sale is over. It's difficult
to calculate your take for the day because at some point you apparently sold the cash box.
The thought of re-stocking all your stuff back inside the house is too fatiguing, and you
begin transferring it directly to the trash can. Your son bursts in, effusive over some of
the great stuff he's bought. "Look Dad, only three bucks! Now we have a matched
set!" he trumpets, flourishing his prize.
It is, of course, the motorcycle helmet
lamp.
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