Mantovani and the Eggplant

Free-for-all on Avenue of the Fleas

Garage sale lines never fail to amuse me. The fact some junk collectors are so desperate to purchase a stranger’s overpriced castoffs that they form an iPhone- release-in-China-grade queue simply boggles my mind. Not only does such occupation require considerable energy cross-referencing Craigslist and Google Maps, but it means forsaking the precious weekend sleep-in. No, no one in their right mind would subject themself to such a waste of time. Accordingly, I ponder what I consider to be one of life’s greatest mysteries: Why the heck am I waiting among all these lunatics?

Having lived near Palm Beach, land of the rich and celluloid, I’ve seen my fair share of garage sale lines. Typically, they’re reserved for estate sales, those sad occasions when some little old socialite departs for that Saks Fifth Avenue in the sky and leaves behind a trust fund for her pocket pooch and a collection of gaudy brooches and glassy-eyed mink stoles for paying commoners.

I’ll never forget one Palm Beach estate sale I attended on Seabreeze (or Seaspray or Seaview) Avenue because the commoners venturing to “The Island” from the west side of the Intracoastal –where “normal,” middle class people live – actually stormed the gate and sprinted toward the Italian luxury linens and cockeyed Tiffany lamps. I couldn’t stop laughing; everyone knows it’s more dignified to speed walk.

Lines create a sense of anxiety and urgency by emphasizing the reality of a limited supply of something (however questionably) desirable; each person positioned in front of the seasoned estate sale plunderer serves as a physical representation of the ever-increasing possibility the good stuff – chipped teapots, wobbly, moth-infested arm chairs, Mantovani Christmas Carol LP’s -- will expire before they’ve had a chance to paw through them. And that’s precisely how those early bird bastards made me feel Saturday upon my arrival at 820 Alameda de Pulgas in Belmont.

The sudden removal of the Craigslist ad should have served as my first clue something was amiss; one minute my bookmarked link worked, and the next, it did not. But I recalled the pretentious road name (Google Translate tells me the Spanish translates to “Avenue of Fleas?!”) and there was no mistaking the address when I neared it: A restless mob had assembled at the end of the driveway, and several mob members were pacing in front of two folding tables serving as a barricade to block their way. By luck, I scored a parking spot directly across the street from the mayhem. I crossed the Avenue of Fleas and joined the hornet’s swarm to assess the competition.

"Neckbrace" and "Eggplant"

Naturally, the six-foot-tall woman in size “gargantuan” purple jeans caught my attention. She was shaped like an eggplant, rounded purple posterior to boot. And then there was the middle-aged Asian man in the neck brace. And the bearded hipster in the tweed hat; he could very well be my rival for any classic rock vinyl. But was there any vinyl to be had? Beyond the Eggplant, I spied rows of tables covered in extinct technology, tchotchkes and individually priced silverware. The records, if any existed, were probably in the open garage.

Realizing I would likely have to battle, mano-a-mano, with the cretins around me, I naturally grew huffy and sought solidarity from one of them. I turned to the woman beside me. She was slight but sprightly; perhaps she could run interference for me as I sprinted for the garage.

“So, what happened to the Craigslist ad?” I asked, careful to direct my eyes skyward so as not to betray interest in any particular sale item.

“I know! It disappeared,” she said. Friendly but useless.

Perhaps the organizers saw this crowd and figured they had garnered enough attention already, I thought.

“Sign the list!” said another woman, the one sporting a black puff vest atop a matching pajama set. She wore her hair tied into a loose bun atop her head, a style I typically associate with ballerinas and grandmothers. Pajama Gram shoved a clipboard into my hands.

This was new. List? List for what? Exactly what brand of junk had they got in there?! And, most importantly, how could I have wasted an entire minute allowing stragglers to sign it before me?

“They’re only taking 10 people at a time,” Pajama Gram explained.

Not willing to divulge my full identity, I scribbled “Megan W.” in the No. 17 slot.  I returned the clipboard to the bouncer, a 60-ish man in a Giants ball cap. He seemed more like a helpful neighbor than the typical, hard-nosed estate liquidator.

“Did someone die?” I asked.

“No, the owner’s just really old, and she’s unloading some of her stuff,” he said. “This will probably be the first of several sales.”

None of the people arranging wares on the tables appeared “really old,” and I wondered if a wizened face might suddenly peer from one of the green shuttered windows above to mourn the loss of the innumerable treasures below.

“Why are there so many people here, waiting?”

But it was 9 a.m. and time for the Bouncer to begin consulting his list.

“Steve? Nancy? George?”

The Bouncer ticked the names off as, one by one, their owners pushed between the two folding tables. I gathered Eggplant was actually Nancy, as she was second to squeeze through the gap. Once clear, she by-passed Steve and began to gallop for the jewelry display cases.

“Run! Run!” I shouted after her, perturbed into catcalls by her head start.

The Bouncer had read off 10 names, but somehow 11 bodies had slipped past him. The add-on was Neckbrace, and he was making a beeline for the box of gilded frames near the garage.

“Wait!” the Bouncer shouted. “You have to wait your turn!”

But there was no stopping Neckbrace; he moved with surprising speed for someone with an immobilized head. Realizing his list contained but 18 names anyway, the Bouncer declined to give chase and instead stepped aside to let the rest of us funnel through.

Over at the jewelry display cases, Eggplant was stuffing her mitts with bejeweled trinkets, anxiety visibly building on the face of the table attendant with each addition.

“Stop,” the attendant said. “That’s too many. We can’t keep track.”

Hoarding the old lady’s beads and baubles? For shame, Eggplant. For Shame.

Meanwhile, Neckbrace was shoveling 35mm camera equipment into a shopping bag. Another attendant rushed to his side.

“You need to pay for that stuff before you put it in a bag!” she said.

The goods

I waded through the chaos to the garage and the vinyl collection inside.  As I entered, a middle-aged Asian woman was exiting, a miniature wood sled firmly clasped in her hands.

“Look at this, George!” she said.

Both George and I appraised her find and neither of us was impressed. The cheap woodwork made the sled look more like a stage prop than an authentic, vintage three-quarters-sized replica of a vintage toy. I turned my attention back to the records and began pawing through a sea of Mantovani. Man, how I’m sick of seeing that penguin suit-clad smug mug.