GARAGE SALE PIRATES (PART 1)

"Onward, 2020" by Kirk Stansbury.

In the pursuit of life, love, and happiness, the best of intentions pave the road to hell. This is one such story.

Also, this story takes place not in the past or present, but in the very near future.

The sign planted in front of the inviting Holly Forest subdivision read simply: “GARAGE SALE 43 Holly Forest Way.” That was all it took to catch my wife Claire’s eye. “Look! A garage sale! Turn here!” she said excitedly.

I quickly turned right and entered the cozy, modern subdivision, driving straight down Holly Forest Way. The address was unmistakable. Folding tables stood cluttered with various used appliances, decorations, and other assorted knick-knacks.

I pulled up past the mailbox and parked. Claire and I exited White Pony—her affectionate nickname for my Super White 2021 Toyota Camry—and walked up the driveway to look at the goods for sale.

The homeowners, probably in their early sixties, seemed out of place in front of this classically two-story suburban home. He was balding with a potbelly, wearing a ratty t-shirt. She wore a faded baby-blue muumuu, their faces pale and pasty, likely from years of chain-smoking. The air was thick with the stale smell of cigarettes.

Claire and I said hello. There was no response from either spouse—only blank stares. Okay, then.

Like most garage sale shoppers, we started inspecting, seeking unexpected finds and overlooked gems. Among the clutter, I spotted:

• A rusty Black & Decker toaster oven.

• Two ancient toasters with unfamiliar brand names.

• A vintage orange Tupperware pitcher with a matching set of four glasses, all marked “Jill’s!” in fading black Sharpie on their bases.

• A 1983 “Kid Stuff” G.I. Joe book and 7” record, humbly titled “CASTLE OF THE DOOMED” in all caps, with a note inscribed on the first page, “Happy birthday, Rachel! Chris.”

• A Holiday Barbie Collector's Edition, another note inscribed on the back of the box, “Merry Xmas, April--Mom.”

• A battered but perfectly functional globe with “Player™” engraved on its base.

• The scariest-looking brown pig of a piggybank that would haunt your dreams, with “J.R.’s Horror Shop” engraved on its side.

• A strange baseball cap with a stitched patch of a baseball cap-wearing “Bigfoot.” Stranger still, when I lifted the cap, a giant, lavender-ribbon-tied lace bag of “Emily’s Potpourri” was underneath. I’d rather not ponder that.

• Two big stacks of CDs, including a lot of Jimmy Buffett, two copies of Shania Twain’s “Come On Over,” several “NOW!” compilations, and, dear God, the Black-Eyed Peas.

• Countless tourist t-shirts, used sweatpants, and a gray suit with noticeably large shoulder pads. Wide neckties, only paisley or beige.

• Candles upon candles of all shapes and sizes, strangely all yellow, many used.

• Five ostentatious lamps and one equally ostentatious full-size mirror from God knows when.

• A velvet Elvis and, to the left of him, Jesus Christ holding his hand. Elvis looks suspiciously like Elon Musk in the picture. On the back, yet another inscription: “To Gary, From Molly.”

• Only four Anna Nicole Smith posters.

• A definitely-not-fine china set.

• A tarnished set of metal salad forks.

• A black velvet bag from B.D.’s Liquor Palace full of used wine corks.

But then, heaven-sent, there it was:

THE FONDUE SET.

“Claire, will you lookat that!”

Claire’s jaw dropped. “Oh my gosh! This. Is. The. Dream.”

Plus! Not the normal six fondue forks typically supplied, but an extra set too!

The wife—we never got her name, so we’d refer to her later as Nell—had gotten up off her lawn chair and hobbled over, her movements as slow as her mood. No hello. Just straight to business. “Interested in buying that?”

Claire didn’t miss a beat. “Hi! Yes! What’s the price for the fondue set?"

“$20 for the pot. The forks are extra.”

I replied, “Extra?”

Nell shot a glance at me, her expression unyielding. “Yeah, extra. $30 each set. Take it or leave it.”

I countered, “Twelve in a set?”

She grimaced. “No, six. $30 times two is $60. Plus, the fondue pot, $80 total. Again, take it or leave it.”

Claire and I looked at each other, perplexed. This lady was rude. But I was also willing to bet she wasn’t as savvy as she believed she was.

Before I could open my mouth, Claire dove right into the fray. “No way. $30 for all.” No wonder why Claire and I got married eighteen months ago: her moxie!

Nell pivoted back to Claire, her eyes darting right. “$30? You’re out of your mind. $80 for everything.” Her eyes darted downward. “Or everything I mentioned separately.”

Claire nodded at me and said point-blank, “Frank, let’s go. We’re not buying anything here.”

We walked back to White Pony. As Claire was about to open the front passenger-side door, Nell called out, “Hey, wait!”

We both stopped and turned. Nell hobbled toward us once more. “I haven’t sold s—t today. And I didn’t sell hardly anything last week either. I’m sick of this s—t.”

Claire gave her a hard look. “How much then?”

“The $30 you offered.”

Claire was blunt. “I’ll pass.” I told you she had moxie. She pulled the door handle and put one foot in White Pony.

Nell raised her voice, “WAIT!”

Wait? Her voice lowered, “Take it all. Free. I don’t want it here. You’re doing me a favor.”

Ah, the sound of surrender.

Claire stepped back out of White Pony, exclaiming, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Nell did not reply. She simply turned around and began hobbling back toward her lawn chair. Claire was victorious but expressed humility. “Thank you!” Again, no reply from Nell.

Claire and I walked back to the table with the fondue set. I picked up the set and its forks, walked back to the car, and put the items in the back seat. I heard Claire as she entered the front passenger side, “Thank you again!” Yet again, no response from either Nell or her husband. Not looking, I assumed more blank stares. Weird.

I started White Pony’s ignition, hit the gas, and we were out of there.

We couldn’t get out of Holly Forest fast enough. “Wow!” I exclaimed. Claire was stunned too. “What a bargain!” she exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. I laughed, then, with an exaggerated tone, announced, “That’s how it’s done!”

Our laughter subsided, and as Claire and I neared the suburban downtown café that was our original destination, I had an idea. “You know, we could save a lot of money if we find more garage sales like that and negotiate the prices down to nothing.”

Claire giggled. “We could, couldn’t we?”