Sunday’s always the weirdest day for garage sales.
I found this out for myself after running several of them over the years.
I’m glad I’m not doing that anymore.
If you run a sale Friday/Saturday/Sunday, each day has its own flavor. It breaks down like this:
- Friday: Resellers stocking up for their own permanent garage sales, ads on Craigslist, shipment via pickup truck to Mexico, or for their spot at the flea market/swap meet at the local drive-in. They show up early, buy in bulk, and negotiate everything to the last dime. It’s a business thing for them.
- Saturday: Traditional garage sailors. Young families, shopping addicts, students and young marrieds, the destitute, and “antique” hunters. Basically, just a cross-section of America. Most will hem and haw and try to negotiate, but the seller has leverage. One sales day left, and he might decide to keep it after moving it back into the house at close of the day’s business.
- Sunday: Absolute, unbelievable, unconscionable weirdos.
On Sundays, and only on Sundays:
I’ve had creepy, toothless thugs in leather jackets case my garage.
I’ve had long-haired guys in surgical gowns and underwear stumble around my yard looking through used home appliances.
I’ve had angry fat guys in gym socks, shorts, and sandals publicly berate me for not coming down to $1 on a half-broken desk lamp they had spied on the previous day priced at $2, which I refused to do specifically because they were assholes.
I’ve had an older woman nearly go into emotional breakdown in fear that the $10 decorative banjo with water damage might not meet the expectations of her daughter, who was returning after a long absence –presumably at a famous banjoist school.
I’ve had young, oily-haired entrepreneurs rush up to me and urgently run down a checklist of everything they thought could be resold at a profit, then sneer and snap at me when I told them I didn’t have anything on their list.
I’ve had fucking guys in fucking cheap-ass striped polo shirts pull up to my street full of half-million dollar homes, stiffly and suspciously emerge from their chickenshit little blue Chevy Cavaliers, make a show of locking their cars when they’d never be more than ten feet from them, then parade around with some chickenshit pistol like a .32 strapped to their chickenshit fanny-packs, cocking their chickenshit golf caps on their chickenshit balding heads, lecturing me on their experiences with FM receivers almost like the one I had for sale, but not quite.
I’ve had . . . uhh. . . full-figured lesbian couples stand in front of me and my wife-at-the-time just making out, presumably as some sort of advocacy statement. They didn’t even bother looking closely at what we had for sale. Presumably, they were spreading joy and acceptance wherever they went, slobbering on each other one suburban yard at a time. I wondered where they saw the “No gays or lesbians served” sign on my house. I don’t recall putting one there. Maybe it was just their kink: “Let’s go and french at some yard sales today, Gladys. It’ll be hot!”
Anyway, Sunday is not a good day for garage sales.
It’s the garage sale hell.