I’ve never understood what led me to believe that the garage sale would be a good idea. Nobody ever seemed to come by my street. If they did happen to take the short, quiet road that it was, they would either walk right on by, or merely glance my way and give me a friendly gesture. My only real excuse for doing it was to kill some of the endless summer time, and to get rid of the things that cluttered my house. Most of the items I had collected over the centuries were cheap, plastic, and probably took the entirety of two minutes for some person or machine to assemble.
I guess I could have warned any speedy bicyclists about the huge crack in the sidewalk, where some of the pavement was raised more on one side of the divide than on the other. But at that point I wouldn’t have been much help, considering that I hadn’t been able to save many people’s now-scarred knees from that crack.
So you can imagine it really came as a surprise when a stranger hesitated on the sidewalk in front of me. It was a tall man wearing a trench coat — which I found extremely odd for a warm July day. But I ignored it, and called out to him with a hello.
He turned toward me and loudly asked, as if he were interrogating me, “Is this object for sale?” His hand was outstretched and a single pale finger stuck out of his oversized sleeve, pointing toward a worn stuffed duck. The duck was severely discolored and missing multiple limbs.
I completely forgot that I had set it out to be sold, and I clearly hadn’t been thinking about what I was trying to get rid of. I couldn’t quite recall how I got the duck in the first place, which frustrated me. That duck seemed so important to me, yet I couldn’t dig up any previous memories of it. Selling it wasn’t an option at this point.
“Ohhhh. You know what . . . that’s my bad. I’m not planning on selling that,” I told him, “but you can take a look-see at my other things . . .”
I tried to stay calm and friendly, but he gave off an underlying sense of danger, which for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on. He seemed uninterested in my unorganized plethora of dice and random toys, and remained focused on the duck.
“I’m afraid — I’m afraid —” he mumbled, “I’m afraid we need it. How much does it cost? Name your price.”
I had been creeped out before, but the fact that he wanted this one stuffed duck so badly scared me even more.
“Sir, it’s not for sale,” I repeated.
“Why not? It means much more to me than it does to you,” he said, raising his voice.
“Sir, like I said before, it’s not for sale. Not earlier, not now, not later. Have a great day.”
Just then, a jogger trotted straight by us, ignoring both of us completely. When I took my eyes off the man for a single second to catch a glimpse of the jogger’s interesting shirt, the man in the trenchcoat used the opportunity to snatch the duck. I was so taken aback that I immediately stood up, knocking my folding chair backward.
“Hey!” I shouted, as the man sprinted off past my house and the jogger. I took off running after him, speeding down the narrow sidewalk.
I almost collided with the jogger, barely managing to avoid them. My focus was on catching the man, and I regained speed. I didn’t register that I had forgotten one thing: the crack in the sidewalk on which I had seen so many people fall before, which I was rapidly approaching. It was too late to try to stop myself, plus I was gaining on the stranger. I attempted to rearrange my feet and lift them over the crack — and I did, but in the next couple of steps, I wasn’t so lucky. I lost my footing and slowly tipped forward, catching myself with my hands. I stayed in that position for a second, feeling the sting, before looking ahead and noticing that the stranger was completely gone.
No. I couldn't let this memory go. I couldn’t let her go. Not again.
“You can’t — you can’t . . . you can’t take her away from me again!” I hollered. I flipped myself onto my back and stared at the rolling clouds, squinting through my tears.
I guess I could have warned any speedy bicyclists about the huge crack in the sidewalk, where some of the pavement was raised more on one side of the divide than on the other. But at that point I wouldn’t have been much help, considering that I hadn’t been able to save many people’s now-scarred knees from that crack.
So you can imagine it really came as a surprise when a stranger hesitated on the sidewalk in front of me. It was a tall man wearing a trench coat — which I found extremely odd for a warm July day. But I ignored it, and called out to him with a hello.
He turned toward me and loudly asked, as if he were interrogating me, “Is this object for sale?” His hand was outstretched and a single pale finger stuck out of his oversized sleeve, pointing toward a worn stuffed duck. The duck was severely discolored and missing multiple limbs.
I completely forgot that I had set it out to be sold, and I clearly hadn’t been thinking about what I was trying to get rid of. I couldn’t quite recall how I got the duck in the first place, which frustrated me. That duck seemed so important to me, yet I couldn’t dig up any previous memories of it. Selling it wasn’t an option at this point.
“Ohhhh. You know what . . . that’s my bad. I’m not planning on selling that,” I told him, “but you can take a look-see at my other things . . .”
I tried to stay calm and friendly, but he gave off an underlying sense of danger, which for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on. He seemed uninterested in my unorganized plethora of dice and random toys, and remained focused on the duck.
“I’m afraid — I’m afraid —” he mumbled, “I’m afraid we need it. How much does it cost? Name your price.”
I had been creeped out before, but the fact that he wanted this one stuffed duck so badly scared me even more.
“Sir, it’s not for sale,” I repeated.
“Why not? It means much more to me than it does to you,” he said, raising his voice.
“Sir, like I said before, it’s not for sale. Not earlier, not now, not later. Have a great day.”
Just then, a jogger trotted straight by us, ignoring both of us completely. When I took my eyes off the man for a single second to catch a glimpse of the jogger’s interesting shirt, the man in the trenchcoat used the opportunity to snatch the duck. I was so taken aback that I immediately stood up, knocking my folding chair backward.
“Hey!” I shouted, as the man sprinted off past my house and the jogger. I took off running after him, speeding down the narrow sidewalk.
I almost collided with the jogger, barely managing to avoid them. My focus was on catching the man, and I regained speed. I didn’t register that I had forgotten one thing: the crack in the sidewalk on which I had seen so many people fall before, which I was rapidly approaching. It was too late to try to stop myself, plus I was gaining on the stranger. I attempted to rearrange my feet and lift them over the crack — and I did, but in the next couple of steps, I wasn’t so lucky. I lost my footing and slowly tipped forward, catching myself with my hands. I stayed in that position for a second, feeling the sting, before looking ahead and noticing that the stranger was completely gone.
No. I couldn't let this memory go. I couldn’t let her go. Not again.
“You can’t — you can’t . . . you can’t take her away from me again!” I hollered. I flipped myself onto my back and stared at the rolling clouds, squinting through my tears.