A serial garage sale
The garage sale man was at it again. Standing there in his leather jacket and Ray-Bans. New sign, new wares, new house.
"GARAGE SALE. BUY NOW. BUY NOW. BUY NOW."
I stood in front of that same table, warped in his mirror shades. He crossed his arms and cocked his eyebrow.
"You think hard enough yet?"
"Mister, I think I've seen you before."
"I'm new in the neighborhood."
"Where are you from?"
"Upstate. Grapevine. Up in Dallas-Fort Worth."
He's quick.
I turned to a table with boxes of junk. Old baseball cards in binders, unlabeled CDs, bad crime novels, that sort of thing. But I knew better. Toy cars, expensive watches, women's underwear. He was telling a customer about antique spoons, then about his time in Hong Kong, and then about butterfly knives, and then about IR blocking license plate covers. I gave up and left when he started complaining about traffic in the DFW area.
I drove by the house later that night. No tables or boxes or Ray-Bans. His newest car was gone too. Next week.
Next week.