Crenshaw

42

Selling your stuff at a yard sale is a weird experience. It’s like walking around with your clothes on inside out. Underwear on top of jeans, socks on top of sneakers.

The insides of your apartment are spread out for everybody to see and touch. Strangers finger the lamp that used to be on your bedside table. Sweaty guys sit in your dad’s favorite chair. Little stickers are on everything. Five dollars for your old tricycle that still has sparklers on the wheels. Fifty cents for the Candy Land game.

It was a sunny Sunday morning. Lots of neighbors were selling stuff, too. It almost felt like a party. My mom sat at a card table with a little box to hold money. My dad walked around while people bargained with him and said how about two dollars instead of three.

When he got too tired to walk, he sat in a folding chair and played songs on his guitar and sang. Sometimes my mom would sing harmony.

My main job was to carry stuff to people’s cars and to keep an eye on Robin. She was pulling someone’s old wagon that had a $4 sign taped to it. In the wagon was her trash can with the blue bunnies, which my parents had promised she could keep.

It wasn’t so bad, watching our things get sold. I told myself that every dollar we made was a good thing and that it was all just meaningless stuff. And it was nice to be with our neighbors and friends, drinking lemonade and talking and singing along with my parents.

Around noon, we’d sold almost everything. I watched my mom count up the money we’d made. She looked over at my dad and shook her head. “Not even close to what we need,” she said quietly.

Before he could respond, a skinny man with a ponytail approached my dad. He pulled out a fancy leather wallet and asked my dad if his guitar was for sale. My dad and mom exchanged a glance. “Could be, I suppose,” said my dad.

“I have one that’s for sale, too,” my mom added quickly. “It’s back in the apartment.”

My dad held up his guitar. Sunlight darted off its smooth black body. “It’s a beauty,” said my dad. “Lotta history.”

“Dad,” I exclaimed, “you can’t sell your guitar.”

“There’s always another guitar around the bend, Jacks,” said my dad, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Robin ran over. She was still towing the wagon, which nobody had bought. “You can’t sell that!” she cried. “It’s named after Jackson!”

“Actually,” I said, “I was named after the guitar.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Robin’s eyes welled with tears. “That’s a keepsake for keeping. Here. You can have my trash can for free, mister. Instead.”

She thrust her trash can into the skinny man’s hands. “I, uh—” the man began. “I … it’s a dynamite trash can, sweetie. I really like the … the bunnies. But I’m more in the market for a guitar.”

“No guitars, no way,” Robin said.

My dad gave the man a helpless shrug. “Sorry, man,” he said. “You heard the lady. Tell you what, though. Why don’t you give me your phone number? In case we have a change of heart. I’ll walk you out to your car.”

Together, my dad and the man headed toward a sleek black car. My dad’s left foot dragged a little. Sometimes that happens with MS.

They exchanged scraps of paper, talked, and nodded. The skinny man drove off, and I had a feeling that my dad’s change of heart had already happened.