A humorous short story by John DeRossett
Harold Jenkins had three rules in life.
Never loan money to relatives.
Never argue with a woman holding a frying pan.
And never, under any circumstances, let his wife organize a yard sale.
Unfortunately, on a perfectly pleasant Saturday morning in June, Harold broke rule number three.
It began at 6:15 a.m. when his wife, Betty, threw open the bedroom curtains.
“Get up, Harold. We’ve got customers coming.”
Harold opened one eye.
“Are we running a motel?”
“The yard sale, Harold.”
He closed his eye again.
“Tell them we’re closed.”
Betty yanked the covers off the bed.
“Up. Now.”
Harold had been married for thirty-eight years. He knew that tone. It was the same tone Betty used when the dog got into the garbage, when Harold tracked mud across the kitchen floor, and once when he accidentally donated her mother’s antique gravy boat to Goodwill.
He got up.
By seven o’clock, their driveway resembled the aftermath of a minor tornado. There were boxes of old dishes, mismatched lamps, Christmas decorations, three lawn chairs, and a treadmill that had served primarily as a clothing rack since 2014.
Harold surveyed the merchandise.
“Who’s going to buy all this junk?”
“People love bargains,” Betty said.
“Then why didn’t they buy it when it was new?”
Betty ignored him.
She handed him a folding chair, a cup of coffee, and a handwritten sign that read:
EVERYTHING MUST GO!
Harold stared at the sign.
“Everything?”
“Everything we’re selling, Harold.”
“Just clarifying. I don’t want somebody hauling off the refrigerator.”
At 7:12, their first customer arrived.
She was a tiny elderly woman driving a Cadillac approximately the size of a fishing boat. She stepped out, adjusted her sunglasses, and approached the table.
“How much for this?” she asked, holding up a ceramic rooster.
“Three dollars,” Betty said.
The woman frowned.
“I’ll give you fifty cents.”
“Two dollars.”
“Seventy-five cents.”
Betty crossed her arms.
“One fifty.”
The woman examined the rooster as though considering a major real estate investment.
“Does it work?”
Harold looked up from his coffee.
“Only if you wind it up at sunrise.”
Betty shot him a look.
The woman bought the rooster for a dollar.
Harold considered that a victory.
By eight o’clock, business was booming.
A man purchased a box of tangled extension cords for four dollars. A teenager bought an old typewriter because, as he explained, it was “retro.” Harold had no idea what that meant, but he was delighted someone had paid eight dollars for a machine that weighed more than his lawn mower.
Then came the treadmill.
A young fellow in gym shorts approached it.
“How much?”
“Fifty dollars,” Betty said.
“Does it work?”
“Of course,” Harold answered.
The young man plugged it into an extension cord.
The machine hummed.
The belt moved.
Harold smiled proudly.
Then the young man stepped onto it.
There was a grinding noise, a loud pop, and the treadmill accelerated to a speed normally reserved for interstate highways.
The young man grabbed the handrails.
“HOW DO YOU STOP THIS THING?”
Harold lunged for the power cord.
Unfortunately, he tripped over the box of Christmas decorations, knocked over a lamp, and landed face-first in a basket of artificial flowers.
Betty unplugged the treadmill.
The young man climbed off, pale and sweating.
“I think I’ll pass.”
Harold emerged from the flowers with a plastic daisy stuck behind his ear.
“Forty dollars?” he offered.
The young man left without answering.
At nine-thirty, Harold made his first serious mistake.
Betty went inside to answer the telephone, leaving him in charge.
“Don’t sell anything without checking the prices,” she warned.
“Betty, I’m sixty-seven years old. I think I can manage a yard sale.”
Five minutes later, a gentleman wearing a baseball cap pointed toward the garage.
“How much for that fishing rod?”
Harold glanced over.
It was a beautiful rod, graphite, with a polished cork handle and an expensive reel.
“Twenty bucks,” Harold said.
The man didn’t hesitate.
“Sold.”
He handed Harold a twenty-dollar bill and walked away with the rod.
Harold felt rather pleased with himself.
Then Betty returned.
“Where’s the fishing rod?”
“Sold it.”
Betty stopped walking.
“You what?”
“Twenty dollars. Cash.”
“Harold, that was your fishing rod.”
He blinked.
“My fishing rod?”
“The one you bought last Christmas. The one you said cost three hundred dollars.”
Harold stared down the street.
The man was already gone.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Harold quietly folded the twenty-dollar bill and put it in his pocket.
“On the bright side,” he said, “I made twenty dollars.”
Betty went back inside.
Harold suspected she was reconsidering the terms of their marriage.
Things deteriorated rapidly after that.
A little girl bought a stuffed bear for fifty cents, then returned ten minutes later demanding a refund because the bear was missing an eye.
Harold refunded her money.
She kept the bear.
A man offered five dollars for a microwave that Betty had clearly marked twenty-five.
Harold countered with fifteen.
The man offered six.
They eventually settled on eight dollars and a tomato from the man’s garden.
Harold considered the tomato a bonus.
At eleven, their neighbor, Earl, wandered over.
Earl was the sort of man who could turn a five-minute conversation into an afternoon.
“How’s business?” Earl asked.
“Wonderful,” Harold replied. “I’ve lost a three-hundred-dollar fishing rod, nearly killed a customer, and traded a microwave for a vegetable.”
Earl nodded thoughtfully.
“Sounds about right.”
He picked up a framed painting.
“How much for this?”
“Ten dollars.”
“Looks like something my wife would like.”
“Then take it for five.”
Earl examined the painting.
“What’s it supposed to be?”
Harold looked at it.
“Far as I can tell, a horse standing in a thunderstorm.”
Earl squinted.
“Looks like a cow to me.”
“Then it’s a cow standing in a thunderstorm.”
Earl bought it for three dollars.
By noon, Harold was exhausted.
The sun was hot, his back hurt, and he had developed a deep personal hatred for bargain hunters.
He decided to take a short break.
He moved his folding chair beneath the maple tree, removed his shoes, and closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew, someone was tapping him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Harold opened his eyes.
A woman stood before him, studying the folding chair.
“How much?”
Harold looked confused.
“How much for what?”
“The chair.”
“It’s not for sale.”
She pointed toward the sign.
“Everything must go.”
“Lady, I’m sitting in it.”
“I can wait.”
Harold stared at her.
She stared back.
Finally, he stood up.
“Ten dollars.”
She handed him the money.
Then she picked up the chair and walked away.
Harold stood beneath the tree in his stocking feet, watching his last remaining piece of comfort disappear down the driveway.
At one o’clock, Betty announced the sale was over.
Together, they counted the money at the kitchen table.
Three hundred and forty-six dollars and fifty cents.
Betty smiled.
“See? I told you we’d make some money.”
Harold rubbed his aching knees.
“We sold a three-hundred-dollar fishing rod for twenty bucks, a microwave for eight dollars and a tomato, and my chair for ten.”
“But we cleared out the garage.”
Harold looked toward the window.
The garage was indeed considerably emptier.
He had to admit, it felt good.
Then Betty opened a kitchen drawer.
“Oh, Harold, I almost forgot.”
She pulled out a small envelope.
“What’s that?”
“The receipt from the charity pickup I scheduled for Monday.”
Harold frowned.
“Charity pickup?”
“Yes. They’re coming to collect everything we didn’t sell.”
Harold stared at her.
“Then why didn’t we just let them take everything in the first place?”
Betty smiled sweetly.
“Because, Harold, we made three hundred and forty-six dollars and fifty cents.”
He considered this.
Then he looked at the tomato sitting on the kitchen counter.
“And a tomato,” he added.
Betty laughed.
Harold sighed.
For a moment, peace returned to the Jenkins household.
Then Betty picked up her phone.
“Oh, good. The woman who bought your chair just messaged me.”
Harold looked up.
“What does she want?”
“She says there’s a wallet tucked underneath the seat cushion.”
Harold went pale.
“My wallet?”
Betty nodded.
“Apparently.”
Harold stared at the ceiling.
“How much money was in it?” she asked.
He swallowed.
“Four hundred dollars.”
Betty was silent.
Then, very slowly, she smiled.
“Well,” she said, “at least we made three hundred and forty-six dollars and fifty cents.”
Harold closed his eyes.
“And a tomato.”
THE END
