Garage sale or bust
Well, it’s getting harder to write these as my right hand shakes considerably anymore. Pisses me off more than anything. People at work try to ignore it, but when I wave across the room to someone at their desk, I look like one of the Beverly Hillbillies letting you out the door at the end of the show. Speaking of which, Max Baer dated Sharon Tate and Donna Douglas dated Elvis Presley. Four horrible actors that made a lot of money and only Jethro Bodine lived to tell about it. So, as I was saying, this Parkinson’s thing makes your hands shake but not as bad as some. I went to a Parkinson’s convention this year and who did I find myself in the restroom between? Mohammed Ali and Michael J Fox. I picked a bad day to wear sandals. Anyway, there were lessons on how to fall and as usual the guy on stage needed a couple volunteers. I went up with the lady that lives down the street. Even in her condition, she still likes to show off and because she loves to drive, I rode with her. His lecture was on balance and he asked us to stand on one leg near the edge of the stage where the orchestra pit is widest. He then set off one of those horrible bull horn alarms and (we’ll call her Mardi) Mardi accidentally fell into the orchestra pit into the drum riser. Mardi bounced off two timpani drums that had recently been tuned to provide optimal recoil and were tuned high to low and finished her percussion solo into some 28 inch cymbals and a chimes rack. It truly was an accident but I had to grab on to something when that horn alarm went off and Mardi was the closest stable object. The cab ride back to the house was pleasant enough but I knew I would see Mardi during the neighborhood garage sale the following weekend.
Mardi showed up to the garage sale pissed off. I tried to lighten the mood and asked her if she had any tunes stuck in her head. Mardi didn’t blink. She couldn’t blink. Apparently, one of the cymbals had creased her right eyebrow just enough to cause some noticeable but not permanent nerve damage. Mardi limped over to a card table that had two rows of coffee mugs on it. A couple were obviously Florida coffee mugs because on the side they had: It’s not an olive it’s my nipple; Outta my yard: Fish whisperer; Bingo!; I’m surrounded by assholes; Just one more wrinkle and I could screw my hat on. Mardi then turned to stare at me and picked up a coffee mug and dropped it in the middle of the driveway. She picked up another mug and dropped it in the middle of the driveway. Who started laughing? Me. I couldn’t help it. I told her I could name that tune in four notes. Mardi was even more pissed off. By then, some other neighbors and some customers had begun to gather about. She picked up two more mugs and dropped them in the middle of the driveway. I couldn’t stop laughing and told her that I thought that I knew the tune but didn’t quite have the rhythm and that she could use the drum machine that was for sale to her right. I told her it wasn’t the same as a tympani and it probably wouldn’t support her weight. Just then her husband (we’ll call him Tater) Tater was driving by on his way to work. He circled back on his Harley and got off. Tater was pissed off. He went up to Mardi and asked: why are you breaking the coffee mugs I brought over for the garage sale last night?
Tater was about to ask her another question but I interrupted. I said, “Tater, you probably should let her go home. She left a pot of coffee on the stove.” On with the sale. Prior to the sale comes the signs that must be placed on the street with arrows and the address of the big sale. The signs are generally tacked to a phone pole or simply placed on a yard stick and set next to the road. Unless…We had a neighbor that had the “idea” for the neighborhood sale and ( we’ll call her Kitty) Kitty knew another neighbor that had constructed signs for a prior sale. So Kitty introduces us to ex-Marine, (everyone knows there’s no such thing as an ex-Marine), Sarge. Sarge orders us to pull to the end of his driveway first by using flag signals designated by the Army Air Corp as identifiable from the air circa 1941 and then by smacking the truck to indicate when to stop. My Air Force training came in handy after all these years foolishly believing I’d never have a need for such antiquated information. Parking fortunately only required 4 maneuvers. Having just learned to drive, this was greatly appreciated. Next, the tailgate was lowered and Sarge leapt spryly into the truck bed where I was then ordered to hand him the signs so that he could stack them properly. Having never loaded a truck bed with items of this nature, this was greatly appreciated. After Sarge leapt from the truck bed in a fashion reminiscent of Vic Morrow and securing the tailgate, we had formal introductions and artificial and feigned commitments to get together for cocktails and BBQ. I was then directed away from the Sarge’s driveway to place the signs in the best locations to the benefit of the neighborhood and their respective sales.I didn’t like the signs because they just weren’t marketable. Garage sale signs should read like: Crap for sale; Your future crap is in my driveway; House purge buy my unwanted sheet. Also, I had placed an ad in the paper in the garage sales section. To attract a certain clientele, I additionally advertised “Free Water”. Naturally, with a newspaper ad and start time, there were 3 resourceful idiots knocking at my door an hour and half early. 2 of the resourceful idiots had waited for me to open the garage door and then offered to assist with the setup. I told them if they would like to assist that they could help the most by getting me a cup of Indigo Plaid coffee extra large, triple cream, tripled sugar twice, and low fat hazelnut whipped cream. One of the idiots stated that the only Indigo Plaid coffee shoppe he knew about was in Orlando. I said, correct. The sale itself went fine. There was the usual dickering and some amazing life stories people feel the need to tell me for some unknown reason. Meanwhile, there was the most confusing thing that happened all day. I had set out a lawn chair with an umbrella attached and a sign across the seat that read: FREE ICE COLD WATER. Remember, I did this in the newspaper to attract a certain clientele. So what was the question of the day? Hey! Is this water free? I don’t have to buy nothin’ do I? Can I have one of these waters for my kid? Where’d you get the free water from? How come it’s free? Hey, how much is the free water? Is it free for neighbors too? We just bought water from the 7-11. Can we still have 5 bottles? We never see free water in Canada. Really! Canada Dry! I think they drove all the way from Moosejaw, Saskatchewan to tell me that one. Moosejaw is just a little bit south of Saskatoon. So I sold almost everything in the sale and I have 2 cases of water left over. Almost on cue, Mardi shows up to apologize for her tantrum. I told her all the coffee mugs sold and that 2 guys would be along shortly to buy up the sale leftovers. They had to make a stop in Orlando first. Mardi started to tear up but couldn’t blink away the tears out of her right eye. So I went to get her a handkerchief. I did find a rag that was actually the back side of some old cut up Grave Digger Monster Jam jockey shorts that had worn out. We hugged tightly and I feel this starting to rev. The revving was Tater. He pulled her shirt and bra off and told me he liked to watch. You know how the rest goes…
Looking couples, 3somes, foursomes, moresomes. Beach couple for fun and good times. NO Drama.
