Short Story / The Garage Sale
Man, you meet some characters. When I was younger I’d go with my mom to garage sales all the time; spending the remnants of my allowance on 1980s baseball cards, Jim Davis books, or used Matchbox cars. I distinctly remember the treasures I collected but the characters I met, well, they slipped through the walls of my childhood psyche. Maybe now since my role is reversed I spend more time focusing on the people. I watch them pace up and down the concrete driveway and I make assumptions; the elderly, grey bearded retiree looking to escape his banal wife will probably purchase a green, dilapidated bicycle that my dad last rode in the early 1990s; the young, perky elementary school teacher will find the mountable, singing bass which will probably be used as a gag gift for an end-of-the-school-year party. They parade their findings up to the card table I stoically sit behind and hand me money for my family’s junk (O, let the clichés rain down!). Most people leave with a smile on their face, taking home what they believe to be the next star of Antiques Roadshow.
What a deal though; the house gets a nice summer cleaning and my family makes a few bucks in the process – if it wasn’t for the week of preparation, I could get used to sitting in the shade six hours a day. But man, the characters; even after the trinkets, furniture, pillows, blankets, and whatever else you can imagine have been tucked back into the garage for the evening, I still think about them. One man, sporting jeans and a tucked-in plaid shirt, found a painting of this early 20th century ship, the RMS Mauretania. He walked up to me, his wrinkled brow glistening from exposure to the sun, and asked: “Do you know what this is?” I didn’t, so naturally I lied. As I answered his question I saw his salt and pepper moustache twitch; he knew full well I had no idea what I was talking about – family heirloom, yeah right, my mom probably bought it at a garage sale herself a few years back. “This ship,” he went on, ignoring my sentimental explanation, “was the ship that my mother and her two sisters came to America on from Finland. Without this ship, I most likely wouldn’t be here today.” And I wouldn’t have made four dollars. He went on about his ancestry and the Mauretania; I flattered him and listened intently. Minutes later he walked away with his arm around his wife of 41 years (oh yes, I learned that too); I couldn’t see his face but I could tell by his mannerisms that he was smiling, and in turn a slight grin found its way to my face.
On the opposite end of the customer spectrum there was Superstar. Superstar was not his actual name (I’m pretty sure), but he reminded me of Molly Shannon’s socially awkward character in the SNL skits, so in my head the nickname stuck. I knew from the beginning Superstar was a bit off. He walked up the driveway with a sling over his left shoulder, but his left hand was tucked in his pocket, his arm getting no use from the sling. My mom, who had been overseeing the garage sale along with my dad and yours truly, asked Superstar what the point of wearing the sling was if his arm wasn’t supported. “Well,” he started, “people won’t bump my arm, you know?” My mom just nodded. He didn’t buy anything, he just fiddled with stuff. He picked up a Black and Decker Dustbuster, which ironically had been collecting dust in a basement closet, and asked if it worked. I told him it did and he proceeded to separate the front of the device from the end, covering the table and every trinket within a one foot radius in dust. “Woops,” was all he said, and put the two pieces of the Dustbuster back on the table. He then found a lamp which he professed could have used mercury bulbs. It didn’t. Nonetheless, he managed to lecture my dad for several minutes on the use of mercury bulbs in our school systems, using words like Proepalpus and Quitalia, which I’m pretty sure have nothing to do with mercury poisoning and sound more like some genera of animalia. The whole time Superstar, stroking his puberty goatee or scratching his buzzed blonde hair, didn’t blink, he looked completely serious and, if he were a close friend, I might have believed his story. But he wasn’t and I didn’t; I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t either. For all I knew, he was involved in neighborhood espionage; a saboteur sent from another local garage sale to dissuade customers from buying our valuable goods and divert them to this other garage, wherever it was. Then again, I thought, this wasn’t Elizabethan England, and Superstar didn’t seem to have the moxie of Francis Walsingham. Either way, as Superstar left my driveway, no longer a threat to the sanctity of the garage trinkets, I pointed him in the direction of a sale up the block; now I was the saboteur.
Wow, I thought as I climbed atop the striped bed sheets of my basement futon. The garage sale was over for the day and I was just settling into my night time routine of TV watching and a phone call to my fiancée. Wow, some of the characters. I ran through the memorable ones in my head – Mr. Mauritania and Superstar were there, as well as dozens of others. Once again these characters became real to me, and every one, even Superstar, made me smile as the back of my head began to mold to the groove in my pillow. I turned my head towards the TV, hoping to catch the end of the Nuggets game. Before my thoughts became distracted by the grace of Chauncey Billups and the facial hair of Pau Gasol I thought to myself: maybe, one day, when I’m older (days, years, perhaps decades older) I will get a hankering to visit a garage sale and maybe, just maybe, I will become someone’s memorable character and will be the reason someone lies awake at night with a smile on their face. Oh, if I could be so privileged.
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The atmosphere is pretty good here. Most people can relate to a similar situation, so the scene is drawn effectively. There were some perspective insertions, and a few questionable passages. As a short story there isn’t really any sort of story arc, but it works well as a character study.
Here are some critical notes:
(Man, you meet some characters.)
(O, let the clichés rain down!)
These two lines should be cut from the first paragraph, they remove the reader and add an ambivalent voice that doesn’t play any sort of role in the story.
(But man, the characters… about them.)
This is another telling line that needs to be removed. Don’t telegraph and explain that there are eccentric characters, just show these people and let the reader make the decision on whether or not said people are “characters.” The forward moving action of introducing the first man, without this line, makes for a more interesting read.
(naturally I lied. As I answered his question)
Include the line about the heirloom.
This dialog needs a little formatting, remove it from the paragraph bodies.
(Wow, some of the characters.)
Every time the first person says something to this effect they become thoroughly unlikeable. It makes it seem like an “us vs. them” argument against, so far, a man that seems to have a more interesting personality than the character’s own and someone borderline mentally disabled. It leans towards patronizing language for a story that seems to be a sentimental meditation.
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I enjoyed all of the intense details and rich, colorful descriptions. It was almost too much, though. You have an awesome, clear voice in this piece and your personality is very contagious. It’s almost overwhelming.
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