The Village Idiot: I brake for all kinds of junk
Over the years, we’ve all collected stuff that we are ashamed to have in the house. Stuff that is too ugly to keep, too expensive to throw out — unfortunate Christmas presents, out-of-date furniture, wide paisley ties we thought might come back into fashion. So what do we do with it? The town dump? The Goodwill? The Recycling Center? Of course not. We spread it out on the front lawn and put prices on it. We have a lawn sale.
It sounds like such a good idea. A way to get rid of six-pound wooden tennis rackets, dented chafing dishes, Carpenters’ albums, eight-track tapes, battered recliners, unused fondue pots, Dictaphones, coolers in the shape of giant beer cans; beat-up copies of “Jonathan Livingston Seagull”; embroidered linen pillowcases and stacks of “Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.”
Unfortunately, it is the exact same stuff everyone else is trying to get rid of. That’s why lawn sales are held on the weekend, so the entire mess won’t be confused for garbage and accidentally collected.
I don’t stop at lawn sales because I think I will find a copy of the Declaration of Independence hidden behind a $2 picture of dogs playing poker, I stop because I’m a snoop. There’s nothing like pawing through a table full of personal effects in the hot sun to learn how your neighbors spend their time and how they spend their money. Junk on a folding table in the driveway speaks to me.
One silver teaspoon. Did someone steal the other seven or did you always just have one? Or do spoons in a dishwasher disappear like socks in a dryer?
A cross-country-ski exercise machine for fifty bucks. They twisted their ankle trying to learn how to use it the day it arrived and then gained two pounds convalescing. Here it is out in the front yard, making them feel guilty every time they look at it. “Buy it,” it says to me, “get it out of their life.”
Lawn sales are full of kitchen gadgets that are so food specific no one ever used them. A left-handed, deep-fat frog-leg fryer. A waffle iron in the shape of Paul Prudhomme. “Nothing peels kiwis better than the New Zealander 5000!” It is still in the box. “Grill Fish In Your Hotel Room With the Fry It and Forget It!” Where do these people stay? Motel 666?
Skis, wheelchairs, hurricane lamps, roller skates, TV trays, baby clothes. You never find good stuff at the yard sales selling baby clothes. You can either have children or you can have good stuff. But there is a law of physics that you can’t have both.
Golf clubs. Tons of golf clubs. I saw a beautifully balanced putter at a yard sale, the lady said I could have it for a quarter. I told her that brand new it probably cost $80. She said she was glad it made me happy, “because it never made Henry happy.”
“He doesn’t play any more?”
“Not since he died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
I asked Sue if she’d sell my stuff after I died. She said, “What makes you think I’ll wait for that?”
(Jim Mullen is the author of “It Takes A Village Idiot: A Memoir of Life After the City.” He also contributes regularly to Entertainment Weekly; his e-mail is [email protected].)