WadeRandolph.com

6/13/05

The Worst People In The World

"Five Family Yard Sale!"  The sign says, in large permanent marker.  "The more you take, the less you pay!"  Sits next to it, in the same handwriting.  I don't have the best handwriting, but mine looks like I completed grade school.

These things can be great for finding ridiculous costumes or strange props.  So I wander through the fence.

I don't really understand the mentality of these people.  The people that think that somebody will gladly pay a couple dollars for a wig they've had sitting in their attic since Aunt June died three summers ago.  T-shirts with almost unnoticeable yellow tints under the arms are priced at just a buck.  They've been sitting in the basement in a box marked "donate" since Mary finally got Fred to go through his clothes and free up some much needed closet space.  The same marker seemingly used, warning Mary not to throw out these items.  As they meant that somebody less fortunate would be able to take advantage of her good graces.  But Mary doesn't always follow through, and there they sat.  On top of the bag of old shoes.  Waiting to give people a fighting chance in this unfair world.

"Remember when we used to have block yard sales?"  Says one of the women at the sewing circle.  They all cluck that it would be a good idea to do one again.  Mary especially could find some things in the attic, or basement, or garage that she's been meaning to get rid of.

And that's why I'm standing here, in front of a folding table, wondering if there's any reason I would ever need a folder emblazoned with a picture of the Power Rangers.  At only a dime, it's a steal.  The Sega Dreamcast games are priced to move, five dollars a piece.  There's a kid in a college dorm room somewhere, passed out, not having the slightest idea his childhood is on sale to the highest bidder.

I move on to the clothes and think about things.  When I'm done with something I throw it away.  Yes, I could buy this leather trench coat complete with fur collar, but there's no price on it.  And I'm not about to go talk to Fred and Mary, who have been longingly watching me ever since I walked in, like a dog watches his owner during dinner time.  Hoping for scraps.  Plus, after owning a coat like this for about a year, I would throw it away.  There's only so many characters that could possibly wear that thing.

It's sort of narcissistic isn't it?  I don't want to wear these fake snake skin pants anymore, but somebody will.  And they'll pay me to do so.  Even if the scales are falling off, one by one.  I'll leave the price tag off of these.  Who knows?  Maybe somebody will offer me ten bucks.

Fred's haggard golf clubs are leaned up against a few old ten speeds.  Twenty bucks.  But if you want the driver, it'll be another five.  It is, after all, a Remington Enforcer.

But Fred and Mary aren't the worst.  At least they and the other four families put some effort into it.  As I leave and drive for a few blocks, there's two sad sacks sitting in their yard in front of a rack of clothes and a fold up table.  One lousy fold up table.  The items on it not even piled particularly high.  This is Saturday.  Don't yard sales usually last the weekend?  I feel right to look down my nose at these assholes as I drive by, not even slowing down, because they don't deserve that.  That little glimmer of excited hope that a car slowing gives people putting on a yard sale is more than I'm willing to put a bow on and give these half asses.  If you're going to waste your weekend selling your old bullshit, at least have enough old bullshit to make it worthwhile.  At first I feel a little bit sorry for them and their failure.  But then I remember that they can go to hell, because they're the worst people in the world.

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