G-Sale

by Randy Nargi

  “Here’s an old engraving you might be interested in,” the assistant town historian said as he flipped to a marked page in an old historical tome. “It’s from an 1884 edition of The Bogwood Journal.” He slid the book toward Ed, who leaned in to study the engraving.

  The image showed two men in a canoe on Lake Bogwood with a fearsome serpentine creature rising up from the water behind them. The sea serpent’s coiled body was many times the length of the canoe.

  “This was the first documented sighting, although the legend of Okonopo has a long oral tradition with the Snosnupawamish.”

  “Interesting,” Ed said. “But I am looking for more info about modern sightings… say, in the past five years or so…”

  Mr. Leung replaced the book on the shelf. “Yes, well, now we’re getting into an area surrounded by a fair bit of controversy. There have been alleged eyewitness accounts and even some supposed photographic evidence popping up every couple of years since the mid 1970s, when a guy named Rich McKee, the self-proclaimed “Discount Furniture King of Bogwood,” coined the phrase “Boggie” after he supposedly shot a photo of what others had been calling the Lake Bogwood monster. He hired some museum exhibit people to create a full size fiberglass replica of the creature which he had on display at his furniture store in North Bogwood for years.”

  Ed was scribbling notes as Mr. Leung spoke. “Are there any photos of that?”

  The assistant town historian shook his head. “Not here. We don’t really consider those kind of publicity stunts to be of historical significance… but you might check out the McKee’s Furniture Emporium. They relocated to an industrial park near the airport, but they might have taken the Boggie model with them.” Mr. Leung smiled at Ed. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll sell it to you. I’ve heard that since IKEA opened up here, those old time furniture stores are really hurting. It’s a shame if you ask me.”

  Ed thanked Mr. Leung for the lead and took his leave. Driving down I-405 he wondered about the old fiberglass Boggie. That would be a heck of a find. Especially since Ed was pretty sure he’d seen the real thing from the shores of Lake Bogwood just a few weeks ago.

  24. The Calling

  Malcolm Urnbaden, Bogwood’s town historian, was indeed in the state capitol that day—and he did have official business with the state. Malcolm was a citizen advisor for a joint legislative committee on the interpretation of the U.S. Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act as it might pertain to petrified human remains found in Washington state bogs or swamps which predated any known Native American settlements. Normally, Malcolm found the subject fascinating and was often called upon to work side-by-side with archeologists assigned to monitor commercial construction sites in case significant artifacts were uncovered in the course of, say, laying the foundation for an upscale condo building. But during today’s session, he was distracted by thoughts of his next appointment.

  After leaving Olympia in the early afternoon, Malcolm drove to the Saint Giblet Seminary which was located in a remote area twenty miles north of Olympia known as “Upper Mushroom Corner” due to its proximity to a large mushroom farm.

  The unpaved road which led to the seminary was winding and muddy and typically did not see a lot of traffic as most of the occupants of the seminary lived pretty much in isolation. Saint Giblet’s itself was a former boarding school from the 1920s that had been converted into a seminary in the 1950s for tax reasons.

  Monsignor Dradelle, a tall, thin, very pale man met Malcolm at the front door of the main building and suggested they retreat to the garden.

  “This is not a decision that should be undertaken lightly,” the Monsignor said as they entered a walled area filled with overgrown ferns and Japanese maple trees.

  “I am well aware of that, Your Excellency,” said Malcolm. “And indeed I have meditated upon it for many months.”

  “Have you, my son?”

  “Yes, Monsignor. Yes indeed.”

  The Monsignor made a harrumph sound and sat down on a stone bench beneath an ancient red maple. Malcolm wasn’t sure of the protocol. Should he sit next to the Monsignor? Was that too presumptuous?

  The question was answered. “Sit, my child.” The Monsignor patted the bench next to him and looked up at the dark, swirling clouds overhead. “Tell me why a distinguished man like yourself… a man of letters… would forsake everything and join the seminary?”

  Malcolm sat next to the thin man. They had been through this many times over the past three months since Malcolm began petitioning the Monsignor to allow him to join Saint Giblets. But Malcolm was a patient man. He ran through the reasons in his mind. The fact is that at age 43, Malcolm had come to the realization that his life did not have a lot of meaning. In fact, if tomorrow he was struck dead by a bus or fell into a bog or even was abducted by aliens, he might be missed by friends, family, and perhaps some co-workers—but there was no one whose life he had directly improved. No one who would be worse off for having not known him. Sure, he could go back to school and become a real teacher. (Malcolm didn’t count his lecture series at the community college as qualifying him as a “real” teacher). But he ultimately decided that even a teacher might be forgotten. He wanted to touch hearts as well as minds as well as spirits. And to do this he had to transform his life and his career. Malcolm either had to become a rap artist or a man of the cloth. And, well, since he couldn’t really bust a rhyme or whatever the kids were doing these days, that left the clergy.

  Of course he didn’t tell the Monsignor all that. Malcolm simply told the thin man that God had told him to become a vicar. And then he picked a banana slug off the Monsignor’s frock and carefully placed it on the ground. “All creatures, great and small…”

  25. Ali

  “How’s Boston?” Vicky Bell asked the video image of her daughter Ali on the computer. They Skyped every Thursday since Ali moved to the East Coast in January.

  “My law professor is such a pompous idiot,” Ali said.

  “They all are, dear. I think it’s a requirement.” Vicky smiled at her daughter. Ali was getting an advanced real estate degree at East Central Plymouth University right outside of Boston. Her daughter loved the pace of the East Coast, but Vicky secretly hoped Ali would return to Bogwood after college and join the family business.

  “How’s it going with you, mom?”

  “Not bad. Rona Hendricks went out of business, so that’s good.” Rona was one of Vicky’s few competitors on the estate sale side of things.

  “What happened?”

  “She didn’t have enough people at the front door at a sale in Bogwood Heights, the line got out of control, someone lost an eye…”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Well, the worst part is that Rona let her insurance lapse. So this one thing just about wiped her out.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow is right, hun. That’s a lesson for you. Never skimp on insurance. How’s it going with Renaldo?” Renaldo was an aspiring mortgage broker that Ali had been dating for the past five and a half weeks.

  “Good…”

  Vicky could swear she could see her daughter blush on the video conference. “Uh huh… and when am I going to meet Mr. Twenty Percent Down?”

  “I don’t know, mom. We’re just kind of hanging out…”

  “You could do a lot worse than a mortgage broker… although rates have been a little soft lately.”

  “Mom!”

  “Well, have you thought about helping me out this summer?”

  “Renaldo and I were sort of talking about going to Hawaii…”

  “Hawaii? Really? Well, that’s a little more serious than hanging out, don’t you think?”

  Ali sighed. “Just kind of as friends, you know. Do you want to join us?”

  “That wouldn’t be very romantic. Bringing your mom along to Hawaii. Besides the summer is my busiest time. You know that.”

  “C’mon, think about it. Maybe you’d meet someone…”

  Now it wa
s Vicky’s turn to sigh. “I’m too old to meet anyone.”

  “Duh, no you’re not! Plenty of guys would want to hook up with a vivacious, successful woman like you!”

  “Hook up?!”

  “You know what I mean, mom.”

  Vicky and her daughter video-chatted for another twenty minutes and then said goodbye. As she was shutting down Skype, Vicky looked around her empty house and couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever have a man in her life again.

  She went into the bathroom, a sprawling room with granite counter tops, a soaker tub, and one too many vessel sinks. Vicky splashed some water on her face and forced herself to think about the Fenwick’s estate sale—which was just two days away.

  26. Friday Morning

  The two days went very quickly for the Fenwicks. With Xavier’s help, Clayton finally got the garage under control on Friday—the day before the sale. They ended up making two trips to the dump in a rented U-Haul, but by 11 AM, they were done. To celebrate (and also to get out of Vicky and her team’s way), Clayton fired up the Eldorado and he and Xavier drove into town to catch a Mariners game.

  Doris watched, a little overwhelmed, as Vicky’s crew raced around the house, doing last minute pricing, laying down protective paper runners on the floor, sealing off spare rooms with “Do Not Enter” tape, bringing in first-aid kits, setting up stanchions in the driveway, and attending to a million other little details. “My word,” Doris told Vicky. “I’m getting exhausted just watching you!”

  Vicky smiled and took a sip of the Red Bull she’d been toting around all morning. “Just another day at the office for us, dear. But you look like you could use some air…”

  “That’s not a bad idea…” Doris admitted. She grabbed her purse, her sun hat, a glass of iced tea, and her yarn bag and retreated to the back deck to do some crocheting.

  The sun came out, went away, and came out again—struggling against the oppressive May clouds. Doris was almost finished with her Thanksgiving themed crocheted toilet tank cover when a shadow loomed over her. Doris looked up to see her neighbor Marie with a grim look on her face.

  “Hello, Marie,” Doris said.

  “Hello, Doris.” Marie glanced around the deck. “Is Clayton at home?”

  “No, he took Xavier to the ball game. They won’t be back until supper.”

  The other woman smiled. “Good.” She sat down beside Doris. “I believe you have something for me.”

  Doris nodded and reached for her purse. She removed a thick envelope, which she passed to Marie.

  Marie thumbed through the contents of the envelope. It was $200 in cash. And she counted every bill.

  “Don’t worry, Marie. It’s all there,” Doris said. “Believe me, it was worth every penny.”

  Marie smiled again. “My performance worked?”

  “It most certainly did.” Doris smiled back. “Clayton’s like a tiger in the bedroom.”

  “Nothing like a little intrigue to spice up a marriage.”

  “It’s plenty spicy now.” Both women laughed.

  27. Skyvold!

  That evening Helen prepared a veggie lasagna while BJ tuned the satellite TV to a Swedish women’s basketball game. Much to the chagrin of their neighbors, BJ had installed a trio of gargantuan satellite dishes on their roof for the sole purpose of getting European sports broadcasts. On game nights, she preferred to eat in front of her massive flat screen TV. Helen would keep her company even though she got bored watching sports—especially basketball. Instead, Helen would take her laptop to the couch and browse around on Facebook or check email.

  “Wooohoooo!” BJ cheered as one of her favorite players charged forward and hit a layup. She got so excited, bits of veggie lasagna flew from her lips.

  Helen just shook her head and went back to her email. “Jenniphur emailed us a cool estate sale. From Bell,” she announced.

  “Uh huh…”

  “East Bogwood. Fern Hill area. Near where Leigh Anne and Shelly live.”

  But BJ was immersed in the game. They were profiling her team’s six foot one center Layla Skyvold, an attractive, lanky blonde from Norway who had been recruited to play on a Swedish team. “This woman is incredible. Pure distilled athleticism.”

  Helen ignored her. “Jenniphur says they have teak.”

  “Skyvold!” BJ cheered, as the game resumed.

  “And some Kartoffel office stuff.”

  “No one can say that Norwegian women can’t play b-ball. She’s got this young Cloris Leachman thing going. Look at that!” Skyvold made a spectacular free throw and the crowd cheered, along with BJ.

  Helen just rolled her eyes. After a few minutes, during a lull in the game, Helen tried a different tack. “Should I bake us some cupcakes?”

  “Huh?” That caught BJ’s attention. She was obsessed with cupcakes.

  “I’m thinking lavender vanilla with that citrus creme filling…”

  BJ muted the game for a second. “Are you serious? Lavender…?”

  Helen shut her laptop and snuzzled over to BJ. “What’s it worth to you?” she teased.

  28. Dinner at the Fenwick’s

  The sun was setting on the Fenwick’s subdivision as the family sat down for a late dinner. Xavier flipped through the The Bogwood Journal while his mom served her latest concoction: some sort of poached egg dish in a soupy red liquid.

  Clayton surveyed his plate. “What the hell is this?”

  Doris sat down and placed her napkin on her lap. “It’s Ouefs en Meurette.” She sampled the dish.

  “Urfs?” asked Clayton.

  “Ouefs. Eggs. It’s French. Mmmm. Try some.”

  “French?” Xavier looked up from his newspaper.

  “I’m taking a French cooking class with Judy.”

  “Who eats eggs for dinner? It’s not civilized!” Clayton said.

  “The French do.” Doris took another bite. “I think we should go to Provence. With the money we get from the sale.”

  Xavier turned to his father and tapped the newspaper. “There you go, Pop. You’re famous.” He handed Clayton the classified section.

  Clayton fiddled with his reading glasses. “What’s this?”

  Doris was still imagining a vacation to France. “A little farmhouse. The markets…”

  Xavier took a bite of eggs. Not bad. “That’s the ad for your sale,” he told his father.

  Clayton fingered the newspaper with his fingers. “Would you look at the crap paper they’re using now. It barely holds the ink.” He scanned the paper for the ad.

  Doris turned to her son. “Do you want to come to France with us, Xavier?”

  “Can’t leave the country, Ma. You know that—”

  “Goddamn it!” Clayton slammed down the paper.

  “What?!” asked Doris.

  “It says estate sale. I told that woman, no estate sale. Everyone’s going to think we’re dead now.”

  “Clayton, no one’s going to think we’re dead!”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, Pops.”

  They paused and took in what Xavier said. After a somewhat awkward silence, Doris changed the subject. “So Xavier have you decided about moving the company?”

  “Yeah, Ma. Still thinking about it. Boise’s getting a little hot, so it wouldn’t be bad to relocate.”

  Clayton perked up. “I still have a lot of business connections here, son. You let me know whatever you need.”

  “We don’t use a lot of paper, Pops. I told you, it’s all on the computer.”

  “Bah, computers,” Clayton frowned. “Nothing will ever replace a good typed memo.”

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. Xavier got up and walked to the back of the house. It’s something he always did when the doorbell rang—since he was a teenager.

  Doris went to the door and opened it. Who could be calling at this hour? It was far too late for those young men in the white shirts, ties, and backpacks.

  The man at the front door was in his 40s and he
didn’t have a bible.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, my name is Ed LaSalle and I was wondering if you are the folks who are having an estate sale tomorrow?”

  “We’re not dead, you vultures!” shouted Clayton from the other room.

  “Do you think it might be possible if I could take a look at some of the…uh…merchandise…?” asked Ed.

  Doris wrinkled her brow. “Oh, I’m not sure. Is that permissible…?”

  The door opened a bit more to reveal Xavier, munching on a brownie. He gave Ed a hard stare. “What the hell do you want?”

  “I…uh…”

  But it was too late. The door slammed in Ed’s face. Which was probably for the best.

  29. Doddridge County

  Despite the popular advice to the contrary, Dick believed that a good 30 minute workout right before bed was a healthy thing to do. He had one of his spare bedrooms set up as a gym, with a bevy of machines and free weights, and at least three nights a week, he pulled on his tank top, shorts, and headband and got in some intense exercise. He found it especially helpful the night before a day of garage sale-ing.

  He had done ten minutes on the elliptical and three sets of lat pull downs. Now he was working on his biceps with a pair of 20 lb. dumbbells. As he did a rep, he called out a name.

  “Wetzel…Marion…Taylor…Preston…Calhoun…Roane…Lincoln…Nicolas…

  Greenbrier…Monroe…Mercer…Garrett…Mingo…”

  He took a deep breath, momentarily exhausted. But then he pressed on. “Logan…Mason….Jackson…Marshall…Cabell…Braxton…Doddridge.”

  He was counting off the reps by reciting the names of counties in West Virginia, where he grew up. Dick found that not only did it help his concentration, it also kept his memory sharp. And that was another good thing if you wanted to be competitive at garage sales.

  Dick exercised for fifteen more minutes, then took an ice-cold shower. He read somewhere that lowering the body temperature not only helped with weight loss, but it also made you fall asleep quicker. Of course, at his age Dick didn’t need a lot of sleep. Which was good. He also had a built-in mental alarm clock. He could just think of a certain time in the morning and it was like setting an alarm. He’d wake up at exactly that time—to the minute. It even worked on days when the time changed because of Daylight Savings Time.