How Life Comes Today – A series of some of my more obsessive traits and observations.
The Estate Sale
I love garage sales. Who doesn’t after all, it is the soon to be discarded collections of another which can be attained by haggling and direct monetary exchange at a fraction of the items presumed retail value. While I am no hunter of these sales, I know a few that are. I have seen the treasures that these appropriators have been able to collect and in some instances I am absolutely amazed. Be it the price they paid for such a relic or the fact that anyone would give it up, I am always interested.
There is of course the annual Klahanie Garage sale that I attempt to go to and usually end up with a handful of things but much more often it is simply the ad-hoc garage sales that I notice as I drive by and see that they have hoisted the garage up, taken the time to hand write a crude sign, and doff their wares to whomever can provide the tender. The best of these sales are the houses that you have driven by countless times and seen the occupants here and there as they go about their daily lives on their property. Of course I do not know these people but it’s as if they open those doors and let you pass into the most intimate parts of their lives. For each thing you have acquired has a story and a history that led it to you as its owner. I personally believe that your soul, for lack of a better word, is a composition of experiences which have led and defined you to where you are today and the sense of existence that we all share. Along the road we acquire objects which can be attributed to the experiences that led you to them. This accumulation of objects is in a way a physical representation of your experiences and of who you are.
Some things have a low-story, which I mean to say, that it has little value to the experiences of your life. These things I find are generally relatable to junk. There are generally mounds of this stuff at garage sales and this is what you have to dig through. The Cassio Disc player was the rage in the 90’s but is of little value and probably of even less value as an experience in your life. Sure, I concede that perhaps it got you through hard times or ushered in the good as it skipped and burned over the compact disc you were playing but I would argue that the music is resonating off the compact disc was the experience vehicle and not the player. Also falling into this category would be the relatively disposable things purchased at large grocery outlets be it furniture or mass print art or anything else really. They simply do not carry the emotional weight that other objects possess. This of course leads us to the high-story, or the items of particular value, the gems in the rough, the crème of the crop, the hidden treasures. These items have generally been hand crafted or given as gifts. Each possesses a story from the perspective of both the crafter and subsequent purchaser. These items are often willed to or fought over by people upon death. It’s the couch that’s been in your families’ living room for as long as you can remember, the clock bought in Switzerland on a family vacation, the decorations from every Christmas, the wedding ring or other assorted jewelry, etc. These items go quick at garage sales. I know I personally look for such things every time I aim to be a proprietor upon the sale.
The big brother to a garage sale is of course the mighty and robust Estate Sale for which this entry is named. Unlike a garage sale, everything is for sale often even including the house. I rarely go to these as they fill me up with a lot of sorrow.
The day was partly cloudy instead of the standard slate grey so prevalent here in Seattle. The rain had already danced across everything leaving bubbles of condensation across metal and glass surfaces of parked cars but had begun evaporating from sidewalks and roads alike. I was returning from breakfast when I noticed, at the last minute, that I had passed the crude hand written signs designating that a sale was in fact going on at a residence. I quickly strummed the steering wheel into a close parking lot and directed the mechanical beast back onto the thoroughfare in the opposite direction. I entered the cul-de-sac at roughly 10 miles per hour above the designated speed limit and spit past houses on either side singing to myself loudly, as is the case when I am alone. After following the twisting arteries of the development, chewing time as I passed the repetitive symmetry of boxed construction before I was greeted with directional signs urging me to take a left or a right down the applicable paths when suddenly I had arrived. I knew I had arrived because of the rather large congregation of automobiles parked outside. The conglomeration of automobiles included high end luxury Mercedes and BMW’s as well as less savory Civics produced in the 80’s and even a Trans Am. I quickly realized that I had come to an estate sale instead of a garage sale. I knew just this because instead of having the wares spread across the lawn and driveway in traditional gypsy fashion they had decided to litter the lawn with the same crude signs I had seen as I whipped past the entry. These signs had designated that I would be entering into the front door. A real-estate agent was already putting up the house for sale by banging a sign into a hole out front of the house where the corner of the property met the road.
I sat in my car for a few minutes before deciding to venture inside; after all I was at the location and had spent the last bit of time traversing to get here.
Flipping the ignition off I stepped from my vehicle and set out across the street where a woman was attempting to buy something from another appropriator. She was offering double what the man had paid for the item but the item was apparently not out for display to aid the haggling and from the tone of the conversation, would not once again switch hands. I continued past them and had to wait in a small line that had formed for entry. Ahead of me were two older ladies one equipped with a rudimentary cane while the other had thick black Velcro shoes with inexplicably large soles; whilst ahead of these fine specimens, stood a man in a thick black leather coat and combat boots. His hair was cropped in a beautiful mullet that billowed as he looked from side to side. I knew at once that this was the owner of the Trans Am. Yet ahead of this fellow was a rather beautiful lady with endearing blue eyes and thick long blonde hair. She disappeared quickly through the portal and would remain hidden from me throughout my stay within the estate. The two older women droned on aimlessly about whatever and it was easy to keep myself from overhearing their conversation. I instead interested myself with the bearer of the mullet. Soon he too disappeared and the women paced back and forth hoping their admittance would soon come. Finally they too were admitted leaving me gaze at a red door before me which included an ornamental knocker. The knocker itself showed no signs of wear; the owner of the house must not have received much company during the duration of their stay within this abode.
My time had come and I was overcome with excitement to view the wares. A lady opened the door and warmly greeted me, stepping to the side to let me enter. Her hair was a dirty blond and she had assorted things tied to her locks, which where rapped in a red bandanna; her sweater was mottled brown and she had chosen a green dress which billowed out from her ankles and did nothing to cover the well-trod Birkenstocks which adorned her feet. She would have been pretty if I had confidence in her ability to shower and maintain a general sense of hygiene, but alas this seemed to elude her.
It was cold inside and it was obvious that they had turned off the heat, most likely to mimic the current conditions of the previous resident. People where everywhere and where haphazardly digging through anything they could to find items to purchase, despite the attempts by the sellers to lay everything out. I wiped my shoes on a floor matt that prescribed that I take my shoes off which my host quickly guaranteed that I did not. After all it wasn’t as if the previous resident would ever have to wield a vacuum ever again. My host than began to explain what areas of the house where off limits and which were not before departing to man the register and continue admitting as needed. The entire house was for sale, excluding the contents of a few closets.
I started my plunge in the den with my hands in my pockets. I chose this room because of the displacement of people favored that I start here. Shelving had been torn down and sold, the desk was gone, and most of the shelves contents where spilled onto the floor where people had rummaged and haphazardly strewn around like children’s toys. Most of which were small bobbles of little interest. The closet was full of prints characterizing mid-west farm life and I strummed through quickly before choosing to leave for the next room. The living room was next to great me as well as several people fighting over a couch that looked to have been constructed in the 1950’s. Its white upholstery was heavily stained with coffee spills upon the arm rest. The TV had already been ripped out of the entertainment stand and the ground was littered with largely outdated stereo electronics. The cords were a mess and snaked in amongst themselves impossibly. If someone wanted any single part of the components they would need to buy the whole thing. Also among the rubble where assorted clocks with flashing red zeros. Most of the goodies where still available within the entertainment stand was still decorated with bobbles but they appeared to have come from elsewhere in the house and where now perched here for attention. It was hard to see them past the throng of bidders for the couch so I simply carried on into the dining room. The table chairs where ornately carved things and where being removed by a buyer whilst I was notified that the table was still for sale, which should have been obvious since it was still full of discarded china and cutlery, some of which was identified as the proper implements to cut fowl or sides of beast via Post-It notes. I was looking for a set of steak knives to no success. The kitchen than greeted me, its counters jammed with everything that had previously resided in a junk drawer. Old can openers, assorted butter knives and forks, kitchen decorations, and things that I would have believe qualified for the waste bin. I thought about buying a set of ceramic owls in character-fully beautiful poses that must have been popular in the early seventies simply to annoy the people I share a home with but haggling didn’t seem all that appealing unless I truly wanted it. I skimmed and browsed, checked the pantry before exiting to the next room. The family room being the next destination; here the assorted rugs of the estate had been rolled and where being unrolled by people the consternation from the other hunters. Two more couches had been placed in this room but both had been labeled as sold. Here also, trinkets where spread throughout in a chaotic fashion lining the perimeter. There was so much bedlam from the unfurrowing of the rugs that I skipped past and started to head up the stairs.
I was able to get about half way up the stairs before I was greeted by the two old women that had been before me. The one with the cane was swinging it widely as she searched for purchase on each step, ensuring that both legs were firmly on the step before attempting the next. I paused at the landing to let her pass when I realized that I would need to follow her down. Attempting first flight above me was the other lady with the oversized soles. While the woman with the cane was painful, she at least went down the stairs in the right fashion, face towards the desired direction and had seen me coming. Her accomplice could not say the same. Her method was instead to head down the stairs, backwards placing one foot level before dragging the next foot to the same level, with a death grip on the railway. She had no clue that I had already reached the landing or I am sure she would not have started. I feared for her that she should fall right in front of me and be entombed as the previous owner. She was however successful and was startled by me and nearly fell when she turned back the correct direction. Perhaps I would be the cause instead of the backwards jaunt down the stairs. Luckily her accomplice was able to steady her by flicking out the cane behind her and avoid the catastrophe.
Onwards up I went. The most of the spare bedrooms had been cordoned off with yellow ‘Do Not Enter’ tape which left me with the master and one other bedroom. I chose the master first and was greeted by terrible red flowered wall paper. The bed had already been removed but the covering lay in a pile on the floor. I remember wondering to myself if they had ever even been washed and if perhaps those where the bedding that he had died in. Several printouts had been taped to the walls to designate price points in which most of the items had been crossed out, indicating that sales had been made. The owners clothes had been spilled out everywhere into appropriate pricing piles. Tweed jackets and smoking jackets in one corner, suites in another, loose t-shirts piled on the floor, and everything else including ties, underwear, socks, and anything else deemed worthy of that category into another pile. The master bath tub was full of hats each appropriately priced one dollar. The hats themselves had obviously been accrued over a lifetime as the large soaking tub was filled to the brim and encompassed every style and color. The man must have been dashing in a hat or horrified with baldness.
The final room was a bedroom off of the master and had one piece of furniture, another stack of prints, and a few more rugs. The sole furnishing was a cabinet and upon the cabinet lay a host of trophies, plaques, and awards. All of which were for sale much to my horror. Here engraved upon these proclamations of success was the owner of the house. He had been a salesman and early in his career had been of the door to door variety. Many of the trophies depicted a man with a tweed jacket, briefcase, strolling confidently with his shoulders back and hand outstretched to greet. Not one simple trophy but a host fanned out so that each would not be diminished by the other. The plaques where from different companies than the trophies but indicated that he had attained sales man of the year on multiple occasions and had been lovingly displayed at the back of the cabinet propped between the upright trophies while the awards had been strewn between all of them and indicated different levels of success in sales.
This sole cabinet had not been looted or touched, the only thing that the owner of the house, even in death, still presumed to hold as his own. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would wish to buy these, if so to what ends would you use such specific awards and acclaim, nonetheless bother to have any of them remade and etched for another purpose. Still his family chose to sell them at an unflattering price of two dollars for the trophies, three for the marvelous plaques, and a single dollar for the awards. I found myself contemplating the sheer amount of experiences that the recently deceased had to go through to merit their award, the endless pitches, the long hours of learning and attempting to sell his product to the countless uninterested parties before completing the sale. I thought of the joy of that sale and his inevitable success to lead to such a magnificent house, and the creation of a family fueled by the triumph of those sales. I thought of the happiness that their decoration must have bestowed upon the benefactor as evident by their display.
I immediately ripped down the price indication list, folded it and put it in my pocket, turned out of the room and proceeded to depart the house. The only obstacle to my fleet move was at the front door when the granola lady that had ushered me in asked if I wanted to take a look at her father’s jewelry box, aptly laid out by register. I quickly looked down to see watches engraved with his name, assorted jewelry, and a wedding ring with a toe tag style price tag well above my price point. I noticed that most of the woman’s jewelry had been removed and I scanned her fingers to no avail. I cordially responded that I would pass and took my leave of this estate.
As I approached my car I noticed that the mullet-ed bandit had scored from the garage and was piling things into his overstuffed Trans Am dropping saws, and other assorted tools on to the pavement. I cranked the key into the ignition and split from the estate, welcoming the enveloping trees that lined the road slowly turning up the volume so that I couldn’t even hear myself sing.
