by Randy Nargi
G-SALE
by Randy Nargi
Bogwood Press
bogwood.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Bogwood Films, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, translating, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
for Jessi
1. Meet the Fenwicks
One Friday afternoon, retirees Clayton and Doris Fenwick stared at their garage in Bogwood, Washington—a large suburb of Seattle. The garage was filled, floor to ceiling, with over 30 years of accumulated junk: rusted gardening tools, boxes of their son’s college textbooks, sports equipment, old games, scrap wood, unused furniture, and more. Much, much more.
“It just needs tidying,” Clayton exclaimed in his perpetually loud voice. “Tidying!”
Doris glared at him. “Tidying? Clayton, really! There’s 800 square feet of junk in this garage alone. Not to mention another 2400 square feet of refuse in the house. That’s 3200 square feet of stuff. You tell me how we’re going to fit all of this into an 1100 square foot condo?”
“Errr… you may have a point, dear.”
Doris patted her husband’s arm. “Of course I do.” She began to steer Clayton out of the garage and back toward the house. “Now, Judy said she read something in the Bogwood Reporter about a lady who specializes in this sort of thing.”
“What? Hauling?”
“No, silly. Garage sales. She takes care of everything. The organizing. The advertising. The selling. We just sit back and collect the money.”
Clayton’s eyes brightened under his bushy brows. “Money?”
“Sure. This stuff might be junk to us, but to someone out there, it’s valuable. We just have to get it into the hands of the right people.”
“Yes.” Clayton started seeing the possibilities.
Doris gave her husband a peck on the cheek. “I’ll take care of everything. Now get washed up for lunch.”
2. Dick Nickerson
Early the next morning, a tall, older gentleman named Dick Nickerson wedged himself into his banged up old Mini Cooper and drove from his West Seattle beach bungalow toward the suburban wilds of Bogwood. Dick had been up since 5:30 AM, which was typical for him. Sleep is over-rated, especially when you’re not very good at it. He took a gulp of home-brewed coffee from his travel mug and raced north on the highway at a decent clip.
At this hour, the I-5/I-90 interchange was blessedly uncongested, unlike the other 23 hours in the day. In Dick’s opinion, Seattle traffic was actually worse than Los Angeles traffic. But he was making good time.
Dick drove along I-90 across Lake Bogwood on a pontoon bridge, which (if his memory served correctly) was the longest “floating bridge” in the world. The highway itself actually floated on permanent pontoons which gently bobbed on the surface of the lake. A marvel of engineering.
Lake Bogwood, situated directly east of Seattle, was a massive body of water, stretching over eighteen miles long and thirteen miles wide. The lake was named for Dick’s destination: the city of Bogwood, once considered a boring suburb of Seattle, but now a locale that held the distinction of the “Garage Sale Capital of the USA.”
When he arrived in the Seattle area three and a half years ago, some friends who knew Dick (and his interest in collectibles) suggested that he make the drive out to Bogwood one Saturday morning to experience garage-sale paradise for himself. And he was not disappointed. Not in the least. That first Saturday, he probably visited more than fifty garage sales in an area less than 30 square miles.
Several weeks later, intrigued with this unique municipality, Dick attended a lecture at the community college. The topic was the history of Bogwood. The gentleman presenting the lecture was the Bogwood town historian, a fussy man named Malcolm Urnbaden.
Mr. Urnbaden started the lecture with a projected computer slideshow of photographs and maps from the 1800s. Bogwood was indeed built on a bog in the late 1870s as Seattle was expanding as part of the timber and paper industry boom. He projected a large geological map of the area and then zoomed in to a zone on the east side of the lake. This whole area was once downtown Bogwood, back over a hundred years ago, but now everything here is under sixteen feet of peat and sphagnum. The bogs kind of come and go. There's a natural ebb and flow to the water table. Luckily today the entire area is regulated by a series of sluice gates which channel the bog water to various regions in the area. We have some of the most sophisticated groundwater control systems outside the Low Countries. Computer-controlled sluice gates. State-of-the-art drainage tunnels. Solar-powered hydro mechanisms. It's quite amazing what we can do nowadays.
Urnbaden changed slides and projected a hand-drawn map of Old Bogwood. Around 1881 there was a general store/provisioner and the town square. Over here, or just about there, was Peter Caldwell's farm house. He was one of Bogwood's founding fathers. Not exactly sure where it went. Of course, now we know to build on higher ground.
The next slide showed a contemporary photograph of a small log cabin with an even smaller outbuilding. This is the oldest standing structure in Bogwood. The Porter Cabin—built in 1879. And you can see right around here…the garage. Of course, it wasn't really exactly a garage as we know it. But they used to store extra household items in here. Old butter churners, baskets, fireplace implements…
That naturally led to a question from the audience about Bogwood’s status as the Garage Sale Capital of the USA. Urnbaden smiled and explained that one of the reasons for this accolade was the simple fact that Bogwood has more garages per capita than any other city in America. I think the current figure is around 3.8 garages for every man, woman, and child in the area. That number has actually been trending upwards over the past few years as we've been trying to increase the density of the area. Some neighborhoods in Bogwood have actually been experimenting with eliminating the house all together and putting just garages on the plat. We could get up to five garages per person in the not-too-distant future.
Being a history buff and amateur historian himself, Dick was fascinated. Especially when Mr. Urnbaden launched into the story of how a particular dance step was born in Bogwood.
Yes, the “Bogwood Two-Step.” It’s not really a dance-step, per se. Back around the turn of the century, downtown Bogwood presented some special challenges to the pedestrian. We didn’t quite have the sophisticated drainage systems we have today, so as a result there were quite a lot of puddles. Puddles. Sinkholes. Standing water. And so the early residents of Bogwood were always kind of skipping, and jumping over the puddles—which gave them a funny little walk. It became known around the Pacific Northwest as the “Bogwood Two-Step.”
3. Ed LaSalle
Ed LaSalle drove an old Ford Taurus through the suburbs of Bogwood. He checked the clock on the dash. 8:57 AM. He’d already been to two g-sales—in and out like the pro he was. One of the sales just had kid stuff which really pissed Ed off. Who wants to drive all the way across town for kids clothes, cheap plastic toys, car seats, and other junk? But it did give him an idea that he was able to use at the second sale.
The second sale hadn’t even officially been open yet, but he convinced the people running the sale that he was on his way to the airport to pick up his pregnant wife and just had two minutes to run through and try to find her a certain stuffed bear she loved. He ended up passing on the bear, but nabbing a vintage Scrabble game.
Ed did have a wife—Katie—but she hadn’t b
een pregnant for six months. Right now, she was home taking care of their infant son, Ben. As far as Ed knew, Katie didn’t like stuffed bears or Scrabble games. She certainly didn’t like garage sales, so Ed went alone—which was actually better because he could move faster. No ball and chain to weigh him down. Most days little Ben kept the “wife aggro” down by occupying Katie until ten or eleven. Sometimes longer if he was sick, bless his little heart. And by that time, Ed was on his way back to their Renton subdivision—since everyone knew that all the good stuff from garage sales was gone well before noon. Especially in Bogwood.
4. Angela Cocci
Angela Cocci was an attractive, green-eyed blonde. A pleasant woman in her 30s, Angela nonetheless was difficult to speak with—as she was constantly distracted by her pet, a fluffy dog named Cocoa. The dog was with her round-the-clock, which led to several job changes precipitated by employer pet policies—as well as several relationship changes due to boyfriends (and fiances) not happy with being number two on Angela’s list of affections. Because of her tumultuous life, Angela often self-medicated with white wine, although wisely not at the moment, since she was driving. And it was 8:55 AM.
Angela drove a Subaru Forester, which in Bogwood had the distinction of being the unofficial car choice of lesbians. Angela did not identify herself as a lesbian (although honestly, the thought had never crossed her mind); she liked the Subaru because it was a good dog car. And naturally, Cocoa came first.
On this particular Saturday morning, Angela was on her way to indulge the second of her passions: finding vintage treasures at garage sales that she could later sell online. Her five year plan is to make enough money from “garage sale-ing” to quit her day job as a focus group moderator.
Deep in the suburbs of Bogwood, Angela scanned the street as she drove. This is a good street, she thought. Streets are very important. You've got to know the neighborhoods. Her last stop left a bad taste in her mouth. The people holding the garage sale were “giffers”—professional sellers. Angela could tell just by the merchandise. These folks had a garage sale just about every weekend. They imported stuff from the Far East and re-sold it. Giffer stuff. Cheap crap. Fake Pokemon. Fake trading cards. New earthenware that they scuffed up to make it look vintage. Mass-produced stuffed animals. It was a disgrace.
Angela recalled the time last summer when an out-of-state couple (amateurs!) actually accused her of being a giffer when she pounced on a vintage 70s owl figurine that was selling for $1. She wasn’t a giffer; she was a flipper. There’s a big difference. She re-sold items that she found at garage sales. That owl earned her $18 on Etsy. Score!
5. BJ Harwood & Helen Ziegler
On the other side of Bogwood, another Subaru Forester (festooned with rainbow bumper stickers) made its way through a newer subdivision. BJ Harwood, a stout woman, drove aggressively around a slow-moving mini-van, while her partner, Helen Ziegler, a pretty brunette, checked Google Maps on her iPhone.
“Should be right around here,” Helen said.
Last night, they got an email tip from their friend Jenniphur who works in the classified ad department of The Bogwood Journal. Apparently, there was a mix-up in the ad for a big estate sale and not many people knew there was a preview for folks in the trade two hours before the doors opened to the general public.
As owners of the retro-modern boutique “Moddities,” BJ & Helen were definitely in the trade. And if BJ had her way (and she usually did, thought Helen), they wouldn’t leave without four or five spectacular pieces that they got at rock-bottom prices. Helen smiled at BJ and reflected on how much life had changed in the past two years. Before she met BJ, Helen ran the store by herself—and it didn’t sell retro-modern furnishings. It specialized in Mexican/Texan housewares with lots of wrought iron, terra cotta, folk art, handmade rugs, and imported Mexican furniture. Helen remembered BJ’s first reaction when she saw the store.
“What’s with all this Tex/Mex stuff?” BJ asked as she inspected a ceramic burro.
Helen corrected her. “It’s actually ‘Mex/Tex.’ The food is called ‘Tex/Mex’ but when you refer to the design style, it’s ‘Mex/Tex.’ Inverted…” Helen was a former English teacher, so she tended to be precise about language.
BJ, however, remained unimpressed. “Whatever. It’s a little… I don’t know… farty.”
A few weeks later, BJ took Helen on a weekend getaway to Palm Springs to show her a design style that was very much in demand and that BJ believed would stay in demand for a good long time: retro-modern.
“Retro modern is also called ‘mid-century modern.’ It’s just another name for the same style,” BJ explained over breakfast at Lloyd’s, a hipster diner in downtown Palm Springs. “It’s basically furniture and other home furnishings from the 1950s through the 1970s.”
“Early seventies,” came a voice from the next table over. It belonged to a very tan, well-dressed man in his 60s, who looked like a gay Hugh Hefner.
“Excuse me?” said BJ.
“Once you get into 1973-1974, you’re out of the retro modern period.” The man poured a little milk in his tea, English style.
Helen watched as BJ grabbed her orange juice and went over to the other side of the booth to sit across from Hugh.
“What about the mushroom lamp?” BJ dared him.
Hugh sniffed. “Please…”
“The Costello-Faber mushroom lamp in orange was manufactured in 1974.” BJ slammed her orange juice down on the table. “It's a classic retro-modern piece.”
“Debatable,” Hugh said.
It turned out that Hugh (whose real name was Gerald Maissely) owned a retro-modern antique shop there in Palm Springs. He invited BJ & Helen to visit, and by the time they left six hours later to find a U-Haul, BJ had put $40,000 worth of merchandise on her credit card. “Inventory,” she explained to Helen as they drove away. “I’m your new partner. We’ll call the store ‘Moddities.’ What do you think?”
They’d been together ever since.
6. “We’re Not Dead Yet!”
The Fenwick’s doorbell rang precisely at 2 PM on a sunny Monday in May. The woman ringing the doorbell was nothing if not precise… and punctual. Her name was Vicky Bell and she was a prim, well-put-together, 42-year-old businesswoman.
The door opened and revealed Mrs. Fenwick, who smiled at her visitor.
Vicky smiled back and introduced herself with a business card. “Hello. Vicky Bell, Bell Estate Sales. Are you Mrs. Fenwick?”
“Yes, I'm Doris Fenwick. Please come in.”
Vicky smiled again. She knew that people liked and trusted those who smiled, so she smiled at every opportunity. As she entered the foyer of the Fenwick house, Vicky looked around, eyes slightly open and smiled again. It was an expression that she practiced in front of the mirror. “What a lovely home!” she exclaimed. Actually, it was a lovely foyer. You couldn’t really see much of the home.
From the other room, a man bellowed something that sounded very much like “We’re not dead yet!” Vicky tilted her head, ever so slightly, like a Pomeranian who wasn’t quite sure what she had just heard.
The foyer opened up into a wall of glass windows and it almost seemed to Vicky that she was looking out at the back porch. If this was true, this would be the smallest and narrowest house she’d ever set foot in. Then suddenly the windows made sense. She was looking into an open air atrium at the center of the house. Hallways turned to the left and the right and the house spread around the atrium. “This is nice,” Vicky said, actually meaning it for once.
Doris Fenwick smiled at the compliment and was about to elaborate on the architecture, when her husband Clayton stomped into the hallway and glared at Vicky. “I said, ‘we're not dead.’ Why the hell would we have an estate sale?”
“Clayton, stop it!” Doris said, mortified at his rudeness.
Vicky brandished another business card in Clayton Fenwick’s direction. “I'm Vicky Bell. Bell Estate Sales… Nice to—”
Clayton waved the c
ard away. “Why don't you come back when we've passed on. I'm sure Xavier—”
His wife cut him off and turned to their guest. “Let's go in here, Mrs. Bell.” She set off toward the living room.
Vicky smiled at Clayton and used her best “soothing voice” on him. “Don't you worry, Mr. Fenwick, we conduct many estate sales for clients who are very much alive. It just means we're going to be selling everything in the house.”
“Our condo is fully furnished—” Doris reminded her husband.
“You're not selling my moss collection! That's coming with us!” Clayton shouted.
Did he really say “moss collection?” Vicky wondered. These folks were easily the weirdest people she ever worked with. Still, the confusion about terminology was fairly common. The term “estate sale” did suggest a death.
As Doris began a tour of the house, Vicky remembered explaining the issue to that reporter from The Bogwood Journal a few weeks ago while she was being interviewed for the article. A lot of people get confused by the nomenclature. On the East coast—especially the Northeast, they are called "tag sales." The Midwest calls them "yard sales." Down South they're called "porch sales" or "gimme sales." Here in the west, we call them "garage sales"—or “g-sales” especially here in Bogwood.
After the tour, Vicky sat down with Clayton and Doris in the kitchen and asked them to talk about themselves. This was something Vicky had learned from experience (or possibly from a sales seminar—she couldn’t remember which). The basic idea is that people love to talk about themselves and so the smart businesswoman creates that opportunity early on in the sales process. It was as easy as sitting down and saying those magic words: “So tell me about yourselves.”
Clayton immediately brightened. “I am a paper rep. Retired now. But I had the whole northwest as my territory.”
“And I’m a homemaker,” Doris said. “We have one child, Xavier, who will be coming in from Boise and staying for a few weeks to help with the sale.”
