Merchandise - A Short Story

by Michael Wright

MERCHANDISE

  BY MICHAEL WRIGHT

  Copyright 2011 Michael Wright

  “Merchandise is an excellent book—a real page turner. Read it in one sitting.” – Kurt Frazier, author of 49098 to 36575

  I

  AS JIM Shoemaker walked down the road, the pounding hammer ahead meant absolutely nothing to him, but it would soon come to mean a lot more than he could have ever imagined—not in his worst nightmares.

  His white T-shirt was growing a ring of sweat around the collar, outlining his head in a most unique way, and his wind-pants were rustling as he moved slowly down the road, following the white line to his right down the road. The uneven shoulder was great walking ground; he found the ground easy enough to walk on. It wasn’t the easiest, but that gave him a bit more of a workout.

  The clouds on the horizon danced in the wind, their tremendous forms shifting and changing moment by moment, The burning eye of the sun glared down on him, bringing warmth to his exposed arms and the back of his neck, stopping right where the shaggy ends of his brown hair, which was held down with the first fruits of a hard sweat, met the skin.

  He slowed as he came up on a man standing by the street, a signpost in one hand and a hammer in the other. He swung it hard, with a force that didn’t seem like it could possibly come out of a man his size, but the post was set in only a few moments, and there was hardly a drop of sweat on his face.

  Jim took a glance at him and took in the neat, ironed khakis and the white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled about mid-forearm, the tanned skin that was exposed was obviously the work of a tanning bed. His face was almost unlined, except for the creeping marks on his forehead and near his eyes. His face was just as tanned as his forearms, probably by the same tanning routine. His black hair was swept back in a deliberately suave manner, not a single strand out of place, held in place tightly by, no doubt, several hair care products. He was a picture-perfect man, and that was probably the point. Jim approached the sign and stopped to catch his breath a moment.

  The man smiled and tapped the post that he had just finished beating the devil out of, and said something to Jim.

  Jim held up a finger and pulled the earbuds that were spitting out music from his iPod, which hid deep inside the labyrinth of his pocket.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I was just saying that it’s a beautiful day for a walk.” The man said.

  “That’s what I thought.” Jim said, “Gotta take as much advantage of this weather as I can. It won’t be here forever.”

  “You do a lot of walking?” The man asked.

  Jim nodded, his eye catching the shining head of the hammer still clutched firmly—very firmly—in the man’s hand. “Yeah, at least three times a week.”

  “Really? Surprised I haven’t seen you before. I’m here a lot of the time, work out of home, you know.”

  Jim nodded, trying to be as polite as he possibly could.

  “Starting up a little bit of work on the side here,” he thumped the sign, “one of Linda’s new work-at-home ideas. I think it’s pretty good, you know?”

  Jim looked down at the sign. At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at, even though it was very self-explanatory.

  WHATCHA NEED: NEVER-ENDING YARD SALE

  WE SELL ANYTHING.

  “That is something else.” Jim said. “I’ve never seen one of those before.”

  “Well,” the man started, “Their growing in popularity in some places, it’s basically like a store outside that you can find a bunch of used odds and ends at. We go around and select some things from used bookstores, pawn shops, thrift stores, and just collect all the best stuff and sell it here.”

  “Quite the idea. What is it you sell?”

  The man tapped the sign again. “Anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, anything.”

  Jim looked back down at the sign and at the man’s front yard, seeing nothing there at all. The grass as very nicely cut, and there were a couple of gnomes that were more creepy than cute, tucked by the decent sized trees that had sprung over the years long before the other couple had ever moved in.

  Where do they keep the stuff? He wondered.

  The man stuck out his hand. “My name’s Bram Cain, by the way.”

  Jim snapped his eyes back to the man—Bram—and he took his hand. “Like Bram Stoker?”

  “No,” he laughed, “like Abraham in the Bible. My parents were real religious, you know. I just never took to being called ‘Abraham.’ Bram works for me.”

  “Jim Shoemaker.”

  “Great meeting you, Jim.” The man let go of his hand. Jim couldn’t help but notice how rough the man’s hand had felt, like it was made of sandpaper instead of skin. Jim didn’t exactly have soft hands, caring for a garden and spending plenty of time working with wood had seen to that, but this man’s hands were a lot rougher—like the skin wasn’t human. It reminded Jim of a dried fish’s skin.

  “You want to browse our stock before the other customers come?” Bram asked. “We put an ad in the paper and all, so we’re expecting a good number of people.”

  Jim took another glance at his front yard.

  Bram looked behind him at his own front yard, “Oh, we don’t keep the stuff in the front, it’s all in the back. Our privacy fence makes sure we keep thieves and such out, and it doesn’t mess up our front yard this way.” Bram was smiling hugely; his teeth were almost blindingly white, as if they were made of plastic.

  “Maybe later. I don’t have any cash on me, so…” Jim began.

  “I understand completely.” Bram said holding up both hands.

  The hammer was raised high.

  “Come back anytime though. We’re open from Monday to Saturday. And hey, go ahead and pop by sometime after business hours, be nice to get to know you a little better, Jim. Linda I’m sure would like you.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yep. My darling little health nut.” He looked back behind him, “She’s probably setting some stuff up still. But she’s like you, faithful walker. Do you work out any?”

  “Couple times a week at the Planet Fitness.”

  “Yep, she would like you. She’s not big into weights or anything but she’s a bit of an exercise freak, kinda sorta. Well, you’ll see.”

  Jim reached down for his earbuds and pulled them back into his hand. The white cord snaked into his pocket and connected to the iPod, hanging on for dear life. “I’ll see you later, Bram.”

  “Sure thing, Jim. Go ahead and come back soon, ya hear?”

  Jim nodded and began to walk away. He felt eyes on him but tried to ignore it. He slipped his earbuds back into his ears and passed a large Ford truck parked by the sidewalk. A glance in the rearview mirror told him what he was thinking.

  Bram was watching him from the spot where he had been standing.

  The hammer was still gripped firmly in his hand.

  II

  JIM WASN’T sure what to think about the idea of the never ending yard sale as a business venture at first, it seemed like a small dose of absolute insanity if you asked him. Who in their right mind would think of a yard sale as a business?

  Apparently that was somebody who was pretty smart.

  People were there almost every day. The first day he had seen cars pulling up in couples, from the usual soccer-moms looking for some odds and ends to grumpy old men who perpetually wore clothes for golfing that simply browsed. Occasionally he would see an odd person wandering around there, dressed in T-shirts that loudly advertised a punk band who had a thing for purple hair, and a woman who looked like she had just walked off of some fashion runway. The idea of junk appealed to a w
ide variety apparently. Jim didn’t understand what the fascination was, it was just junk.

  Jim had never been a big one for the idea of yard sales—ever. Maybe it was his parents’ disdain for them that had somehow trickled down to him as well—who knew? But he never really liked the idea of digging through somebody’s junk that they were trying to sell to you. Something about that just seemed really weird, but apparently it was very lucrative if you did it right. How many people cleared out their attics with yard sales ever now and then? Granted, Bram and Linda’s strategy was a little different, they were going to clean out everyone else’s attics, and make a profit at it.

  I really wish that I hadn’t promised to come back.

  But he did. There was no escaping it; his word was his bond and all that. Plus, he didn’t want Bram showing up at his front door with a…

  Hammer?

  …plate of goodies wondering why he hadn’t come back to visit and demanded that he come for dinner that would be cooked by his darling wife. Maybe they could watch a movie after and shoot the breeze awhile.

  He kind of felt like a jerk, showing up at their house for the