Selling Myself on the Street

It’s a gloomy overcast morning, and I’m clutching my venti Starbucks mocha in both hands. And yes, it’s an “add shot” kind of day. My things are heaped in the driveway, no method to the madness. A washboard that I got at an antique store next to a solo red heel with a dog leash some knick-knacks a box of books… it’s an overwhelming chain. How much time and money have I spent on these items, what void or corner of my life was I attempting to fill? My things, a visual representation of the emotions I had experienced in the last decade: Boredom, insecurity, hope, desire… all of it regurgitated in a colorful mess for anyone to come and pick through.

I wonder, were he alive today, if Renee Descartes would have said, “I have things, therefore I am.” Because present company included, shopping seems to have replaced thinking these days.

I’m still trying to group like items together when the first customer arrives. He’s an older man, and I give him his space as he surveys the wreckage. It’s hard not to hiss as he touches items that have borne witness to my life. I’m still somewhat attached to them; there’s still a sense of ownership. He selects five small flashlights (Chad’s problem, not mine) and a decorative rams head with gold horns. “How much?”

“Ten dollars, they’re yours.”

He pulls out his wallet, and carefully counts the bills. I refrain from telling him the rams head cost $75 brand new.

More arrive, and I watch joyfully as a group of punk kid’s root through my massive tub of CD’s, gleefully holding up different obscure artists.

That’s right kids, I used to be cool!

They spend a lot of time sifting through my stuff and end up getting a pair of Doc Martin’s as well as about six CD’s.

“Do you have Venmo?” asks the girl with pink hair and pencil thin eyebrows, clutching my old items in her arms.

My favorite sale is to a gaunt old man. He arrived in a truck older than Chad, and stooped over to pick up something that caught his eye. He brought it over to me, “How much?” he said in a soft voice, holding it up with a shaky hand. It was a picture I’d taken, back when I was into photography. A photo of orange traffic cones, their huge shadows casting far across the grit of the asphalt. “One dollar,” I said, and before he was even out of earshot I turned to Chad, “Babe! That was one of my photos! He bought one of my photos!”

At the end of the day, we’re about $250 richer. All of the things that didn’t sell are brought to Goodwill. Stuff we’d spent thousands of dollars on over the years. There, my CD’s got a second round of enthusiastic approval from a man with rubber band ear lobes stretched to their max around saucer sized gages, and a smattering of face tattoos. He helped Chad unload the SUV, and I could hear him commenting on the various artists, probably confused since Chad does not look like the type to listen to Crimpshrine or Subhumans.

That’s right kids, I used to be cool!

No one really talks about the role stuff is supposed to play in our lives, and so most of us just amass it, keeping it because it’s ours. All that crap, that useless crap we hold on to because for some reason holding on to it is easier than letting it go.