SIDEWALK SALE

A local antique store holds a truck load sale every two weeks. Store employees unload the truck, filling a small wagon with seven or eight boxes of goodies at a time. The boxes are lined up along the storefront. Nothing is priced. The boxes are full of all kinds of vintage items. Linens. Books. Glassware. Pottery. Tools. Radio tubes.

Customers are not allowed to touch anything in the wagon, and they cannot dig through the boxes, until the last box is set down. When the wagon is completely unloaded, all hell breaks loose. Arms flail, hips bump and grind, feet stomp and get stomped as customers claw their way through the feeding frenzy. If two hands grab the same item, it's a tug of war, with the plunder generally going to the beefier picker. The store's owners supply coffee, doughnuts, and band aids.

Last Friday, the crowd was particularly worked up. I saw an older woman pick up a medium sized box full of table linen. She fought her way out of the crowd so she could go through the treasure unmolested. Two women boxed her in and started pulling pieces of damask and laced napkins from the assorted linens. The older woman was game. She twisted her body with great force, trying to dislodge the interlopers. She held that box like a linebacker holds pigskin, but fingernails trump cardboard, and pretty soon the box gave way. The crowd smelled blood, and they swarmed in like locusts. When the scene cleared, the old lady was left holding a piece of tattered cardboard and one dingy, crocheted doilie.

I fared a little better. While going through one box I noticed an old, accordion style envelope. What it held was a guessing game, but I’ve found some good stuff stuffed in envelopes and small, sealed boxes. I grabbed it. As I was bringing it out of the box, I felt some resistance. I looked up, into the cold, dead eyes of my arch nemesis. The Chaplin.

We have a past, the Chaplin and I. For six months this man has stomped on my feet, he has nudged me out of the way just as boxes of goodies were laid at my feet, and a few weeks ago, he almost sent me through a plate glass window. I'm an easy going guy, and in the past I just took it all in stride. But this time Spike was with me.

Spike is my brain tumor. And he's no push-over. When the Chaplin latched onto that envelope, Spike took control. He got a good grip and tugged back. The Chaplin's eyes widened. His arms looked like road maps with thick, blue veins crisscrossing the contours of his flesh. Sweat beaded on his tightly knit brows.
I started hollering, "Give'um hell, Spike."
People stopped digging though boxes and settled in to watch the match. One guy took bets. Spike was the odds on favorite.
I don't know how long they battled, but Spike finally managed to rip the envelope free. The Chaplin hung his head and staggered past the crowd of cheering spectators.
Later, after the crowd returned to razing boxes, I noticed the Chaplin. He was standing alone, rubbing his hands. Knowing he was watching me, I opened the envelope, clutched my chest, and put on my best, "My, God, I've hit-the-jack-pot," expression. The look on the Chaplin's face was worth the dollar I paid for an old envelope full of worthless junk.