Garage Sale

Saturday morning, 7:30 am. A rare fog suffocates the tiny district of LA known as “Little Israel,” nestled between Fairfax and La Brea just south of Melrose Avenue. Our mission: to get rid of as much junk as possible in the smallest amount of time, which could prove challenging as almost every article of junk bears an Old Navy tag and is “ribbed” in quality.

What we’ve done to prepare: two $4 coffees from Starbucks to alleviate the head-melting hangovers; 100 in cash, large bills, not a single dollar bill between the two of us; fingers crossed and really hoping that although we’ve done nothing to advertise Our Little Sale, someone somewhere will need a women’s wool-blend turtleneck sweater or a long-sleeved split-neck tee (or scoop-neck if they prefer, we do indeed have the variety), and will drive around aimlessly until they find the mound of clothing we’ve piled on the side of the street.

By 9:30 am, 75% of our stock is gone, even the women’s twill patch-pocket pants with the mustard stains on the knees. Overcome with the momentum of the insanity, I begin throwing around women’s slant-pocket stretch skirts, three for 25 cents. At 10am, everything but the lamp with no shade is gone. We’re $150 richer.

Highlight of the morning: a tiny Latino woman, all smiles, who speaks no English walks up to the sale wearing a black tee-shirt with the words “In Memoriam” underneath a large print of Kurt Cobain’s head.

God bless America.