It started because my neighbor Carol decided we should have a neighborhood yard sale.
Carol is one of those aggressively organized people who owns a label maker and actually uses it. Her garage contains matching storage bins. Her Christmas decorations are sorted by color. She probably has a folder somewhere labelled IMPORTANT FOLDERS.
So when Carol announced that Saturday would be our “Community Yard Sale Extravaganza,” I should have known there would be casualties.
I decided to participate because I had approximately 900 things in my house that I hadn’t touched since the invention of Wi-Fi.
At 7:00 a.m., I dragged everything onto the driveway.
At 7:03, a man appeared.
The sale started at eight.
He looked at my stuff.
He looked at me.
“Are you open?”
“No.”
He picked up a lamp.
“How much?”
Apparently we were open.
“Five dollars.”
“I’ll give you fifty cents.”
It was 7:04 in the morning.
Sir, I hadn’t even emotionally arrived at the day yet.
“Four dollars.”
“One.”
“Five.”
“You said four.”
“Prices are rising.”
He bought the lamp for four dollars.
Capitalism.
By eight, the street was packed.
Carol was walking around wearing a fluorescent vest.
Nobody had asked her to.
She had a clipboard.
Again, nobody had asked her to.
Across the street, Gary was selling tools. Gary had apparently decided his yard sale was Home Depot: Driveway Edition and was giving every customer a forty-minute explanation about each screwdriver.
“This one’s got excellent torque.”
Gary.
It’s a screwdriver.
It screws things.
Please release these people.
Meanwhile, I had placed an old bread maker on my table for ten dollars.
A woman picked it up.
“Does it work?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you selling it?”
“Because I’ve owned it for eleven years and made bread once.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“What happened?”
“The bread.”
She bought it.
At approximately 9:15, things began deteriorating.
A child found an old karaoke machine at someone’s house.
Unfortunately, it worked.
For the next hour, the neighborhood was subjected to a seven-year-old screaming what may or may not have been “Let It Go.”
There was no melody.
There was only commitment.
Carol approached the child’s mother.
“Maybe we could turn that down a little?”
The child immediately turned it up.
I liked him.
At ten, a woman approached my table holding a decorative ceramic rooster.
I don’t remember buying the rooster.
I don’t know why I owned the rooster.
But apparently Past Me had once looked at it and thought:
Yes. This represents who I am as a person.
“How much?” she asked.
“Two dollars.”
“Would you take one?”
“Absolutely.”
She inspected it.
“There’s a chip.”
“Seventy-five cents.”
She turned it over.
“It’s dusty.”
“Fifty cents.”
She frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“Ma’am, please take the rooster.”
She eventually paid fifty cents.
I watched her walk away carrying it.
Freedom.
Sweet freedom.
Ten minutes later, she came back.
My heart sank.
“I changed my mind.”
There are no refunds at a yard sale, Barbara.
This isn’t Costco.
“You can keep the fifty cents,” she said.
And she put the rooster back on my table.
THE ROOSTER HAD RETURNED.
Apparently I was cursed.
At eleven, Gary wandered over.
“Nice rooster.”
“Don’t.”
He bought it for a dollar.
I nearly hugged him.
Then disaster struck.
Someone’s dog escaped.
Not a dangerous dog.
Worse.
A Labrador.
He came barreling down the street with the joyous expression of an animal who had just discovered an unsupervised outdoor buffet of other people’s possessions.
He stole a stuffed dinosaur.
Then a flip-flop.
Then someone’s hot dog.
Then Gary’s gardening glove.
Gary chased him.
The child with the karaoke machine chased Gary.
Carol chased the child.
Three other children joined because apparently this was now a parade.
The Labrador was having the greatest day of his life.
Then he ran directly through Carol’s carefully arranged table of “Vintage Home Décor.”
Carol screamed.
The Labrador emerged wearing a decorative wreath around his neck.
He looked magnificent.
At this point, I had stopped trying to help.
I was sitting in a lawn chair eating chips.
This was entertainment.
Around noon, a man approached and pointed at my lawn chair.
“How much?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Five dollars?”
“No.”
“Ten?”
“No.”
“Fifteen.”
“I’m sitting in it.”
He shrugged.
“I can wait.”
I respected the strategy.
Then Carol appeared.
“We’ve got a problem.”
I looked toward the street.
Two women were arguing over a slow cooker.
Apparently both had grabbed it simultaneously.
“It’s mine.”
“I saw it first.”
“I was holding it.”
“You weren’t holding it.”
Folks.
It was a twelve-year-old Crock-Pot priced at six dollars.
This was not the last helicopter out of Saigon.
Carol stepped between them with her clipboard.
“Okay, ladies—”
They both turned on Carol.
This was a tactical error.
Carol retreated.
The Crock-Pot women continued negotiating international peace agreements.
Eventually one paid eight dollars just to win.
The original price was six.
Somewhere, an economist felt a disturbance in the Force.
By two o’clock, I had made $63.
Unfortunately, I’d also spent $47 at other people’s tables.
I now owned a waffle maker, three flowerpots, a blanket, two books, a birdhouse and something Gary assured me was “very useful.”
I still don’t know what it is.
So technically, I had spent seven hours outside moving my unwanted possessions into other people’s houses while bringing their unwanted possessions into mine.
Commerce.
At three, Carol announced the sale was officially over.
Everyone began packing up.
I looked at my driveway.
Somehow, I appeared to have more stuff than I’d started with.
Then Gary walked over.
He was carrying something.
The rooster.
“No.”
“I decided I don’t have anywhere to put it.”
“Gary.”
“You can have your dollar back.”
“Gary.”
He placed the rooster gently on my table.
“I think it belongs with you.”
And walked away.
I stared at it.
The rooster stared at me.
Seven hours.
Hundreds of strangers.
One escaped Labrador.
A Crock-Pot custody battle.
Sixty-three dollars in revenue.
Forty-seven dollars in terrible financial decisions.
And somehow…
I STILL OWNED THE DAMN ROOSTER.
Carol walked past carrying her clipboard.
“Great turnout! We should do this again next year!”
I looked at Carol.
I looked at the rooster.
I looked at the waffle maker I didn’t need.
“Absolutely.”
She smiled.
“Really?”
“No, Carol.”
I picked up the rooster.
“I’d rather move.” 😂
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