Mr. Howard greeted the day by clipping on his bike helmet, gliding out his driveway, and putting a foot down at the mouth of Appleberry Court. From there, east or west, he let his front tire choose. It guided him like a divining rod as he wended through the streets, scanning the sidewalks, medians, and gutters for trash worthy of a second life. Cars sometimes announced their presence with a honk, and he\u2019d waved them on. \u201cSaw you first,\u201d he\u2019d mutter. He could decipher the green of cash from that of leaves. He\u2019d plucked pennies from dirt. Somehow he didn\u2019t glimpse Sam before Sam t-boned him on the bike path downtown.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay, my friend?\u201d Sam said. A grease-spotted Hawaiian shirt tarped his belly. Wisps of white hair poked through the slats in his lime green helmet. \u201cWhoopsie-daisy.\u201d He extended a hand.<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard, who\u2019d landed on a toyon bush, picked up his bike and brushed off. \u201cI\u2019m fine. No damage done,\u201d he said. A patch of skin below his elbow glistened. He re-tucked his shirt.<\/p>\n
Sam\u2019s bike was a brother to his own: panniers saddled the back wheel and above them a milk crate was strapped to the rack. The handlebar basket held a tangle of bungee cords\u2014and a dusty but perfectly good Christmas platter. Mr. Howard understood this kook to be competition. Dirty, disorganized competition.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name\u2019s Sam,\u201d Sam said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m Moffett.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, Mr. Moffett\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, it\u2019s Howard.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay then, Howard.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, Mr. Howard. Mr. Moffett Howard.\u201d How many times had he had this exact conversation? \u201cMr. Howard is fine,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Howard, I will look where I\u2019m going next time. I get so focused on the ground\u2026\u201d Sam finished his sentence with a flutter of his hands, then rode off, jerking side to side\u2014like a first grader, Mr. Howard thought.<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard had started riding the day after he retired\u2014\u201cEarly retired,\u201d Mrs. Howard barked whenever the subject came up. The wine distribution company where he\u2019d managed shipping for 23 years had \u201cstrongly encouraged\u201d him to step down after it put him through Six Sigma training and he failed the green belt exam. No part of him could pretend shipping was karate, and he didn\u2019t warm to 30-year-olds in ties acting like a \u201ccause-and-effect analysis\u201d was anything other than bald common sense. Rescuing and reviving what people had tossed aside became both his justice and his peace, until Sam.<\/p>\n
Sam appeared the next week, and the week after, and the week after that. Each time he rolled up, tube socks stretched to his knees, he began a show-and-tell about what he\u2019d found\u2014so proud of himself\u2014like he expected Mr. Howard to be happy for him. Then he\u2019d wedge in some personal tidbit: He\u2019d been at Altamont and hadn\u2019t sensed any bad vibes. \u201cMaybe it was the shrooms?\u201d he said like nothing, like he hadn\u2019t committed a crime. He built sculptures with the trash he picked up and then sold them\u2014stoking consumerism, was what Mr. Howard thought. Sam took things that were of no use to people and made another no-use thing. Once Sam explained he was likely in the top 1% of farters, could fart on command. \u201cIt\u2019s an underappreciated skill,\u201d he said, \u201cas you can imagine.\u201d Mr. Howard tried not to.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard placed a rhinestone hairclip on the shelf in his garage labeled \u201cLadies Accessories.\u201d He tucked a gardening glove in with \u201cTools.\u201d But was a gardening glove a tool? He wavered. Mrs. Howard might call it a Ladies Accessory. She had big hands. He cleaned a silver bike bell with degreaser and a Q-tip until that nagging thought moved him to clear three fists of shelf space and click out a new category with his label maker\u2014\u201cProtective Gear.\u201d He hadn\u2019t finished enjoying this victory when his family flooded in.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe time has come, Moffet,\u201d announced Mrs. Howard, flanked by their son and daughter-in-law and Mrs. Howard\u2019s poodle.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve got two words for you: garage sale,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard stepped back into his Office Supplies overflow, crushing a spool of scotch tape. She\u2019d threatened it before, but she\u2019d never come with backup.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe could toss some of this, right?\u201d his son said. \u201cHow about this pile of Leisure Wear? Nobody wears used leisure wear.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI could take it to Goodwill on your behalf,\u201d his daughter-in-law offered. \u201cYou\u2019d get a tax write-off.\u201d<\/p>\n
None of them understood. You slap on a price tag and people want what they don\u2019t need, which was why so much ended up on the street. How many bottles of $60 wine had he shipped that weren\u2019t any better than the $20 bottles? Just because some guy probed a delicate glass with an obscene nose saying, \u2026cherries, blackberries, vanilla, cigar\u2026 old shoe leather. It didn\u2019t matter. People were easily duped.<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep a few things if you have to, but no more than will fit in your grave,\u201d Mrs. Howard said lifting a string of wicker lobster lights with the tip of her finger.<\/p>\n
He pictured it\u2014swarming strangers, touching and poking his finds, their pockets fat with cash. It gave him the feeling he\u2019d had at his proctologist\u2019s office with the doctor ahem-ing under his hospital gown.<\/p>\n
\u201cThink about it, Dad. We can pop open the garage door, set this stuff on tables in the driveway. It\u2019ll be epic. I\u2019ll grill up some bratwursts, get a pony of IPA.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBad idea,\u201d he said. \u201cNo sale. No how.\u201d He shoved his fists into the pockets of his jeans. When his daughter had left for college, he\u2019d wanted to display his World War II model planes in her room, but Mrs. Howard said she needed the space for her quilts. When his son left, Mrs. Howard said they needed a guest room and that war paraphernalia was inhospitable. \u201cBombs and guns and D-day, that\u2019s what they\u2019ll dream about.\u201d So he\u2019d been pushed into the garage like a bad dog, and his doghouse was now his empire of America\u2019s forgotten, overseen by planes that hung by fishing line from the ceiling.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s happening,\u201d said Mrs. Howard. \u201cNext Sunday. This has gone on long enough. El Ni\u00f1o\u2019s coming and I want to park inside, damn it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t want mom to haul groceries in the rain, do you?\u201d his son said.<\/p>\n
The poodle eyed Mr. Howard, cocked its manicured head to the side. Mr. Howard thought to punt it.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s a negative,\u201d he said, but they were already turning to leave, and stronger resistance, he\u2019d accepted long ago, would backfire. He could yell, You never think about what I want, because it\u2019s true, that\u2019s how he felt. But she\u2019d strike back with, Never? So you\u2019re saying I\u2019m a selfish cow. I guess that\u2019s what you think of me. You don\u2019t even like me. Over the years he\u2019d taken refuge in a quieter warfare, cooking their hamburgers to well-done when Mrs. Howard liked them medium, pretending he couldn\u2019t hear her calling from upstairs.<\/p>\n
Alone again, he walked the aisles of his shelves, considering the jewelry, dishes, clothing, books, computer components, unending one-offs\u2014a plastic Chewbacca mask, a Cuisinart blender, a sparkly purple dog purse. How many neighbors, delivery people, and door-to-door solicitors had he pulled into his garage? \u201cSee something you could use? Take it,\u201d he\u2019d say. \u201cBetter than buying a new one,\u201d he\u2019d say twice. It wasn\u2019t charity. It was a lesson: need what you have, have what you truly need. He\u2019d tell Mrs. Howard about his finds, or his kids when they called, but they\u2019d change the subject. Sam was the only one who got excited for him, but then Sam was excitable, an excitable intrusion into Mr. Howard\u2019s right-of-way. A garage sale meant Mr. Howard would have to yield the streets to Sam for at least one whole day, maybe more.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The evening before the sale, Mr. Howard\u2019s son stopped by.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to help tomorrow, you know,\u201d his son said. \u201cWe can handle it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard set down his paintbrush\u2014he was touching-up a SpongeBob SquarePants mug\u2014and consulted his nearest shelf. \u201cYou need that?\u201d he said, pointing a desk lamp. \u201cTake it while you can.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, Dad, but, uh, thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow about a socket set? Every man needs a socket set.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard had once given his son a framed Picasso print he\u2019d found leaning against a dumpster, but he never saw it hung. As it was, the art at his son\u2019s place made him question whether he\u2019d been a good father.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry about tomorrow. But this stuff\u2014it\u2019s not even vintage. You might want to\u2026 You might want to talk to someone about it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTalk to someone?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSomeone who could help.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard squinted at his son with his feral beard and form-fitting jeans, and shook his head. \u201cHow about you take those clippers. Help with that thing on your face.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNice,\u201d his son said and crossed his arms. \u201cHa, ha.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard returned to the mug, and his son stood pushing his beard up to his nose and letting it fall.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
On the morning of the sale, Mr. Howard sat in a lawn chair to the side while his family chatted up neighbors and strangers, making no effort to hide their enjoyment. He jangled the watch on his wrist as he studied the flow of his things back into society, the cat-eye sunglasses that would once again straddle the bridge of a nose, the Barry Manilow disc that would slip softly into a car stereo, the unopened package of pantyhose that would dull a gnarl of varicose veins. He figured most of it would end up tossed again, that he might find the chain and locket that just sold hanging in the grate of a storm drain three months later. This made him no rescuer, no caped man for reduce and reuse, but simply what he had been for decades, a lowly intermediary in a system of oversupply and inflated demand.<\/p>\n
He readied a last-ditch protest. Once they\u2019d sold enough to accommodate Mrs. Howard\u2019s car, he\u2019d shoo everyone home. Half a garage was better than no garage. As he imagined the crowd unhanding his things and scurrying, he heard a voice calling from the street.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey! What are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n
It was Sam, who braked and bumped into the mailbox.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh Jesus Christ,\u201d Mr. Howard groaned. He slowly stood.<\/p>\n
Sam ambled across the lawn and shook his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cI live here,\u201d Mr. Howard said and immediately wished he hadn\u2019t. Sam might target his neighborhood just to spite him.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo way, I would have pegged you for a Silver Sun Homes guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was a retirement community with a sprawling golf course. Mr. Howard took the comment as, You\u2019re soft and you like to play Go Fish.<\/p>\n
\u201cLooks like you got a lot of stuff,\u201d Sam said.<\/p>\n
Stuff I swiped from you, Mr. Howard thought. \u201cThat\u2019s right, turning my loot into cash,\u201d he said and then quickly added, \u201cputting it toward the cruise of Mexico we\u2019ll take this fall.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mrs. Howard heard this and raised an eyebrow. Mexico? she mouthed.<\/p>\n
Sam began sifting through Mr. Howard\u2019s finds, making Mr. Howard\u2019s bowels rumble. It wasn\u2019t enough to look, Sam needed to touch everything, to inspect from below, from both sides. He brought a few things to his nose and took a whiff, the spaz, and then he settled finally on a Hotwheels \u201863 Corvette. Probably a cherry for the top of one of his hippie sculptures some fool would buy for $500.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d Sam asked.<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard eyed the car but could not name a price. He was against selling, but he didn\u2019t want Sam to simply take more from him. Fifty cents was the figure that came to mind.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know, if you want to hang on to this one, that\u2019s fine by me. I wouldn\u2019t want to give her up,\u201d Sam said.<\/p>\n
Mr. Howard, ashamed now that he\u2019d thought to charge him, blurted, \u201cNo, no. You have it. It\u2019s a gift.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sam\u2019s watery eyes widened and then softened.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou sure? I\u2019ll give you a buck. I picked up thirty-nine cents already this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
The news pinched Mr. Howard, but he said, \u201cNo, I mean it. You have it, if you need it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sam smiled under his dead dandelion hair, a smile transfixed on Mr. Howard, not the toy. And Mr. Howard recognized the look, had felt it on his own face many times. It was the proud, excited look of a new find. Mr. Howard blushed.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
By the end of the day Mrs. Howard got her parking space. Mr. Howard was left with the job of re-categorizing and re-labeling, re-cleaning and re-displaying. He was a man picking up the pieces after a natural disaster, an earthquake or flood.<\/p>\n
Over Sanka that night, he told Mrs. Howard, \u201cWhat am I supposed to do with one camera and one DVD player? Put them together and call them \u2018electronics\u2019? That\u2019s a lazy word.\u201d<\/p>\n
She shrugged and blew on her coffee. \u201cYou could get rid of the rest of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll of it, huh?\u201d he said. \u201cEvery last thing. How about me, too? Get rid of me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor god\u2019s sake, Moffett, you really do think I\u2019m a witch.\u201d<\/p>\n
In the morning he lay in bed listening to the birds, thinking about Sam out on the roads, free. Mrs. Howard and the poodle were at her knitting group, so he had the house to himself, but to what end, he couldn\u2019t figure. With half the garage now brimming, where would he put new finds? He spent the day watching TV, doing crosswords, avoiding the garage where his bike leaned against a wall, an invitation he did not know how to answer. After a day of dawdling capped by a mostly silent spaghetti dinner with Mrs. Howard, he finally went to it, opened the garage door, and took to oiling the chain as the twilight faded. With the sky a navy blue, he strapped on a headlight and a taillight and rode out, leaving the garage door open.<\/p>\n
He liked the sights: families huddled at their kitchen tables, glowing store signage, the hopscotch of streetlights down the more trafficked roads. He couldn\u2019t see well enough to scavenge, and there was a calm in not having to look. Mr. Howard rode aimlessly, felt the cool night on his face.<\/p>\n
After a few miles, he realized he\u2019d wound toward Sam\u2019s place, an area on the north end of town he\u2019d avoided since learning Sam lived there. There was one large lot on Sam\u2019s street. It held a stand of towering redwoods and was bordered with six feet of pine. Mr. Howard leaned his bike against the fence, and looked in both directions. He gripped the ledge, pulled himself up, and peeked over.<\/p>\n
By the ambient streetlight, he saw a strange community. Figures, sort of, compiled from microwaves, golf clubs, skateboard wheels, cabinet doors, and other discarded things. The figures seemed at play there in the yard in the night. He dropped down and jumped back up for a better look, thinking they must be moving somehow, that they were electronic or part mobile, but they were stationary. He sensed that when he looked away, they would resume a secret game, a waggish sort of red light, green light they were playing, perhaps with him. That\u2019s what Sam had done with the things people didn\u2019t want anymore. How?<\/p>\n
Aware someone might think him a prowler, Mr. Howard let himself down. He took a seat in the weeds and rested his back on the fence where his own garage came to him, all the things Sam could probably use. An umbrella\u2014he had one with colorful panels. Or a folding chair\u2014it could be broken down and repurposed in a thousand ways. He thought with some shame of the finds that sat unclaimed on his shelves, even after a full-day\u2019s sale. All those years since they\u2019d been used.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d be back to see Sam\u2019s sculptures in the daylight. He\u2019d bring offerings on his bike, could say since no one bought them at the sale, Sam could have them, no big deal. As he pedaled home, the moon still low in the sky, he imagined saying, \u201cThis old stuff? You take it.\u201d He rehearsed different versions, considering what might sound the most natural, until his mind quieted with a thought. He wouldn\u2019t need to bring or say anything. He could show up on Sam\u2019s doorstep empty-handed and purposeless, and Sam would welcome him in.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
None of them understood. You slap on a price tag and people want what they don\u2019t need, which was why so much ended up on the street. How many bottles of $60 wine had he shipped that weren\u2019t any better than the $20 bottles? Just because some guy probed a delicate glass with an obscene nose saying, \u2026cherries, blackberries, vanilla, cigar\u2026 old shoe leather. It didn\u2019t matter. People were easily duped.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":18868,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[3020,3021,3022,3023],"class_list":["post-18301","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-bicycles","tag-junk","tag-old-guys","tag-worth","writer-kara-vernor"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18301","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18301"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18301\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18870,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18301\/revisions\/18870"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18868"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18301"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18301"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18301"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}