SPIKE AND I GO TO A YARD SALE

I have a brain tumor, and until I get accepted by Medicaid, the tumor will have to stay where it is; and since I’m going to be stuck with this morbid mother for the foreseeable future, I’ve decided to name it. So meet Spike.

Spike and I hit the yard sales this morning. It was a weird ride. Thirty-seven degrees outside and we’re looking for hot deals. The plan was to start on Easy Street, across from the Fish Trap Restaurant. They had advertised books, and I’m always looking for a rare first edition, so I pointed the truck north and off we went. Now, I’ve been on Easy Street. And I’ve taken a few meals at the Fish Trap, but I couldn’t find the joint this morning. I don’t know if it was because of the cold, or because of Spike. He was pitching a hissy-fit, like it was my fault I couldn’t find the damn place. Twenty minutes later I stopped at a convenience store, bought a pack of Marlboros, and asked for directions.

Turns out, Spike and I were in the wrong town.

Ten minutes later we make the turn across from The Fish Trap. No yard sale signs anywhere, and the road dead-ended, which just pissed off Spike. I wasn’t too happy myself. I whipped the car around and headed back home. On the way, Spike spotted a sign for another sale so we checked it out. Three signs outside the house, nothing set up in the yard, and no one in sight. The garage bay doors were down. I wanted to leave but Spike dared me to knock on the door. Bastard wouldn’t let up, so I knocked. I was told the sale was in the garage. We checked it out and found a side entrance with a post-it-note yard sale sign. I let us in. Three guys were hunched over a camp style gas heater. I’m hearing Dueling Banjos, and that got Spike to giggling something fierce.

The sale was a bust, but I asked if anyone knew where Easy Street was.

The guy with the most teeth says, “Sure, you turn across from the Fish Trap. Go down two streets, turn right, take the next left, and the next, and then two more rights. Can’t miss it.” I didn’t tell him he was wrong.

We found the place. I bought three Dark Tower books by Stephen King. Not exactly Blackbeard’s treasure, but I made out better than Spike. He broke a grime covered plate and had to pay the lady a quarter. He bitched the whole way home.