Yard Sales

I played Nintendo a lot when I was a kid. I got the bundle package one Christmas that came with the system, Super Mario brothers, and Duck Hunt. I loved that Nintendo. Battletoads, Kid Icarus, Mega Man, Metroid, the Mario’s, oh and Contra. Who could forget Contra with its infamous code. Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, b, a, start. I used to walk down to the local video store and rent a game every Friday night with my allowance which was three bucks a week. The game rentals from the store lasted for only two nights, so on the weekends I spent all day and night trying to beat whichever game I chose to rent. Most times I would beat the rented game in the allotted two days, but sometimes, I wouldn’t. If I got hung up on a certain level or had trouble completely beating the game, I’d get really heated. So much so that I’d be throwing the controller at the screen and getting way too pissed off. When my dad heard me stomping around and throwing controllers violently at the television screen he’d march up the stairs and tell me to go outside. But I didn’t want to. After all, I only had a couple of days to beat the game so going outside was not even an option. In fact at this time in my life, going outside just didn’t make any sense. Why would I want to experience real life things when I’ve got to save the princess. Silly father. In the words of the Fresh Prince’s number one hit from 1989, “Parents just don’t understand.” Over time, I got a little quieter with my video game tantrums, but occasionally I just couldn’t keep the frustration bottled up and I’d still burst with anger and the controllers would fly. And when I’d hear my dad’s footsteps coming up the stairs I’d grab the controller I’d just thrown and try to simmer. I’d put on my best hunkey-dory-ho-hum face and act like everything was just fine. But when he opened my bedroom door and saw me sweating and panting and pretending like I was having a good old time he’d take one look at me and shut me down. I was a bad actor. He took the system away once as punishment for being a little gaming bitch. That worked for a little while until I cornered my mom, made her feel bad for me, and I got the system back in my room. Within hours of being shut down, I was playing again. Video games it seemed also helped me refine the art of inter-parental political maneuvering.

The best times gaming were when my parents weren’t home. That’s when the expletives as well as the controllers would really take flight. Video gaming at such a young age alone in an empty house helped polish my use of all words vulgar. Things that should only be heard in R rated films were flying out of my mouth at such a young tender age when I couldn’t beat the boss at the end of the level. “Bowser, you mother fucker!” Those are just a few of the choice words that I’d let rip when my parents were out. I got bored with the nintendo after a while. Especially when I had to blow in the cartridges until I passed out just to play an old game I beat ten times over. But my youthful love affair with gaming was rekindled when I went to a friends birthday party and he was playing a SUPER Nintendo. I fell in love again with a new system to bitch at. Those were innocent times.

I was young and innocent and invincible of course. I knew it all, my likes, my dislikes, and what I wanted to be when I grew up. At that moment in time it was a toss up of being the first white Michael Jordan or writing video game reviews for nintendo power magazine. I only wanted to eat pizza and I could never have enough ice cream. I was a student at St. Joseph's grade school and had to wear a uniform every day. I always hated those uniforms. I excelled at math, enjoyed gym, and loved art. Unfortunately, art class was only once a week. There was no real art room in the school. That’s what happens when the budget goes to Bibles. But we Roman Catholics still make it happen one way or the other. Unlike public schools that can’t get budgets passed properly so the students end up having to whore themselves out as weekend car washers to pay for their football and cheer leading uniforms, Roman Catholic schools still funded the arts and sports. Some things were sacrificed though. But it wasn’t the kids weekend time or dignity. A set, designated art classroom was the first sacrifice. And there would be no bitching about this or anything else for that matter because in every room in the school there hung a crucifix reminding us all of true sacrifice. If it was hot in a classroom during mid June when you could smell summer just around the corner and all of us were itching to go home, God forbid someone had the nerve to say, “It’s hot in here.” The poor bastard who spoke those words would have pointed out to them the Crucifix, hanging right above the clock. And usually a, “Do you think Jesus was hot on the cross when he died for your sins”, was added. This is standard operating procedure for a Roman Catholic grade school teacher.

“I have to go to the bathroom Mrs. Smith.”

“Do you think Jesus had to go to the bathroom when he was hanging on that cross?”

“Mrs. Smith I’m thirsty.”

“Oh really, you’re thirsty? Jesus was probably thirsty too when he went for forty days and forty nights without water, plus he died on the cross for your sins.”

Jesus was like the older brother who could do no wrong. It’s as if he walked on water. Oh wait a minute, He did, but back to the point. Jesus didn’t have a classroom designated for art and neither did we.

Our art teacher’s name was Mrs. Wing. She was a large lady with coffee stained teeth. She smelled like musk and wore really neck to toe smocks which were splattered with paint stains. Her office was an old broom closet with nothing but a dim light bulb and some shelving which she stored the art supplies on. With no classroom for herself, she’d push around this dresser/desk on wheels from room to room. Art class occurred once a week for an hour. We always knew when Mrs. Wing was on her way to teach us art because the wheels on the mobile dresser would squeak as she pushed it down the hallways. Apparently St. Joseph’s didn’t have any WD-40, but neither did Christ, so we rolled with it. Mrs. Wing always had this little radio/cassette player that she’d have playing in the background while we’d work on our art projects. One day she had some country music on. I told her that the music she was playing wasn’t good. She asked me what I listened to. I told her, “anything but the crap coming out of that radio.” The, “crap” playing was Willie Nelson. She told me that Willie was a good man and that I should give him a chance. But I knew what I liked. Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer, The Fresh Prince. You know, top forties radio. Willie wasn’t on their playlists.

Another summer was once again spent playing video games. The Super Nintendo this time around. I begged and begged and santa brought it the previous December. Added to the repertoire of R rated curse words were the sexually explicit, straight up vulgar, X rated words. I stacked them right on top of the old “go to” vulgarity I learned from playing the previous system. “Bowser you cock sucking mother fucking ass licker!” Beautiful isn’t it? It’s amazing that a plumber collecting coins and mushrooms who hops on turtles in a digitized fantasy cartoon universe can bring out the worst language and temper of a kid.

That summer was the same old same old but a few things changed. In addition to the possibility of being the first white Michael Jordan I was also content with possibly being a professional skateboarder. And, once again, if all else failed I could still write video game reviews. My dad got a little slicker with me that summer when it came to prying me off the Super Nintendo. He’d often pop into my room and ask if I wanted to go get ice cream on a Saturday morning. There was pretty much only one reason I’d drop my controller and power down the super nintendo, and that reason was a large vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles. The power of an ice cream cone over a kid is phenomenal. It’s like your parents are some enchanters when they speak the words, “ice cream.” As recent as the other day I was at a department store waiting by the dressing room. A tired father was leaning against the wall waiting for his daughter to get done trying on some jeans.

“Maybe I should try on the other two pairs I saw”, the daughter said.

The dad checked his watch. It was late. He was frustrated but fatherly.

“When you’re done we’ll go get some ice cream okay?” , he said.

She scrapped trying on the other two garments and made do with what she had because she was out of that dressing room in a flash. The dad had a son appear out of no where. He heard his dads voice say the magical words, “ice cream” from across the store. He popped up and said, “Dad are we really going to go get ice cream?”

Ice cream was the way to my heart too when I was young. Now when my dad heard my feet stomping and controllers flying he’d pop in my room and say, “Come on Eric, we’re going to get some ice cream.” I’d power off the super nintendo and hop in the car with my parents.

The ice cream place we’d go to was about three miles away from my house in a town called Mabbetsville. There’s also a town pool in Mabbetsville. When I was a really little guy, before I could read, I’d always get excited to go to the town pool. I’d be in the back seat of the car saying, “We’re going to Rabbitsville! We’re going to Rabbitsville.” I’d say to my parents, “Do you know why they call it Rabbitsville?”

“Why”, they’d reply.

“Because there’s lots of rabbits there.”, I said.

“That’s right Eric, there are lots of rabbits in Rabbitsville.”

Fast forward to the first year I could actually read. Sometime around first grade, maybe Kindergarten. We were on our way to the town pool. I saw the green sign that had the name of the town we were entering on it. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read, “Mabbetsville.”

“Mom, the sign says Mabbetsville.” My parents were all excited that I had read the sign.

“Good job Eric that’s right.”

“Why is it Mabbetsville?”, I said.

“Because that’s the name of the town we’re entering.”

“But I thought it was Rabbitsville?” This was the first major disappointment of my life. Everything I thought I knew about Rabbitsville was wrong. This may sound crazy, but I think it took me a long time to enjoy reading because of this moment. I can’t remember the first book I read or the first word I recognized, but I do remember the day that I found out that Rabbitsville was actually Mabbetsville. Not an enchanted land with an excess of bunnies, just a hamlet with a community pool and some ice cream. When my parents outed santa, I was okay. And when I found out the easter bunny was a farce, I was cool with that too. The presents still rolled and the candy kept coming, but Rabbitsville was actually Mabbetsville. Now that was a let down. For weeks, if I saw Sesame Street and it was brought to me today by the letter, “M” I’d say, “fuck you, ‘M’. You’re a little fucking bitch, ‘M.’ Now, “R”, that’s a real fucking letter.” I got over it eventually. Probably because Mabbetsville minus bunnies still had Ice Cream.
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Some ice cream. That’s what we’d go out for on a Saturday morning when my dad got me to power down that Super Nintendo. I’d buckle up in the back seat and get ready to order my vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles. My dad would start driving and then, something would happen. We’d pass a sign reading, “Yard Sale, next left.” My mom would say, “Oh look Ron.” And then my dad would put the blinker on. And so began our epic journey.

My mom loved yard sailing and my dad loved driving around. It was a perfect match for their weekends. I loved ice cream and video games so their little departure from the destination of Mabbetsville would cramp my style. They would always forget to mention that they were going to go criss cross dutchess county looking for yard sales before I’d get that vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles. My mom would stop at the sales and buy some stuff if she liked it. My dad would walk around most of them never buying much. When we got back in the car, he’d usually say, “a bunch of junk.” My mom on the other hand would be holding a lamp that she negotiated from five bucks down to a dollar. It was pretty funny when her friends came over to the house. They’d often look at something in the living room and say, “oh wow Joyce I like that.” My mom would say, “Oh I got it at a yard sale for a buck. Here, you can have it.” As much as she liked finding cool shit at yard sales, the only thing she loved more was giving the cool shit away. Maybe it was to clear the inventory in the house so she could still go yard sailing. Maybe she just loved giving it away. I think it was a little of both.

Yard sales, garage sales, multi family yard sales, estate sales, moving sales and everything must go sales. My mom ate it up. And on and on we went hitting up yard sale after yard sale until we hit up one too many “bummers” in a row with nothing but an old woman at a dilapidated farm trying to sell rusted tools. The only other way we’d stop and head back towards Mabbetsville, the land of ice cream not rabbits, was when the car was finally full and I was holding my mothers yard sale treasures on my lap because there was no more room in the Honda. Then and only then would we start heading back towards Mabbetsville to get that vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles. And by that time we’d be an hour away from the place. And I was in the back seat, leg room-less and pissed off balancing three lamps on my lap wishing I didn’t say, “yes” to the ice cream. This happened numerous times, over numerous weekends. Ice cream punked into blowing an afternoon rummaging through some junk in peoples yards. Wasting away my weekend and my two day rental in the back seat listening to my dad tell the same jokes and stories and my mom getting excited for yet another yard sale sign. The clock ticking, half a days rental gone. I might not be able to beat that game, I thought. Regretting putting the controller down in the first place because I heard the words, “ice cream.” I say God damn, the power of ice cream.

A funny thing happened from then till now. Quite a few years have passed. I thought I knew it all. Those “likes” of my youth have eroded with time. But a few of those them have stuck around. I could still eat pizza for breakfast lunch and dinner. I still can’t have enough ice cream. But I gave up on that basketball dream when I tried out for the JV team in high school. The team was already picked. I was never invited to those open gyms monitored by the coach the six weeks leading up to the tryouts. MC Hammer and the Fresh Prince aren’t played on my stereo anymore. Top forties radio is kind of drag now a days. I have a new favorite artist. New in the sense that he’s fairly new to me. Willie Nelson is listened to on the regular. My favorite albums being Red headed Stranger and Always on my Mind. I guess I was too young to understand Willie when I first heard him on Mrs. Wings’s stereo. I hope to run into my art teacher again some day and apologize for dissing the pot smoking peace loving farmer with an acoustic guitar. I got a chance to see him with Bob Dylan in Fishkill, NY. He blew me away.

I don’t play video games anymore. I had a job in my early twenties for four years or so selling video games. I thought it would be a fun way to be involved in the video game industry. But I was just a young kid who thought he knew it all selling parents the new game systems so the next generation can develop and maintain their vocabulary with vulgarity. I got fired from that job. It was the worst day of my life at the time, but in retrospect it’s one of the best things that ever happened to me.

What reminded me of all of this was a yard sale. It was a Saturday morning and I was out cruising around Poughkeepsie when I passed a sign. “Yard Sale, next left”, it read. I made the left and stopped in at the sale. This particular yard sale had a Nintendo and a bunch of games. Contra, the Marios, the Mega Mans, Duck Hunt and the light gun. I picked up those games and looked at them. I stood there on a Saturday morning holding in my hands the very games that I needed to play every weekend so badly when I was a kid. And I was holding them at the very same event that ripped me away from the games on the weekends in the first place. I used to rent those games for three bucks. At that yard sale I could have owned them all for a quarter. Funny how things can change.

Some yard sales are like a time capsule to me, but it’s not a time capsule buried in the ground. It’s a time capsule spread out on a blue tarp covered with morning dew. A giant graveyard of all that was cool when I was a kid. A lawn covered with pogo balls, hot wheels, Fresh Prince CD’s, and Nintendos. A testament to the shallowness of marketing but the power of it too. I “needed” this stuff. Kids “needed” this stuff. But now the kids flew the coop and their parents are left behind hocking the leftovers of their spent youth that somehow made it this far, to this yard, for this sale, on this morning.

Some yard sales can be sad. Those “bummers” with the rusty tools get me the most. The “bummers” are always at an old house that was once beautiful but is now falling to pieces. You can tell the tractor sitting in the yard with the flat tires hasn’t been run in a few years. And the overpriced rusty saws were probably the old lady’s husbands. But he’s gone now. And although he parted this world a while ago she can’t part with those rusty chisels and saws he used to work with so she marks them at too high of a price. Maybe she throws the yard sale so she can have some visitors. Maybe she does it to pay the property tax. Who knows.

I end up cruising down back roads and hitting up yard sales instead of throwing controllers on the weekends now. I was able to find Willie on vinyl. My record collection is growing as I waste away my Saturdays and Sundays in search of bargains. In search of those bargains my mom used to go hunting for.

I wish I could rewind the clock and enjoy those times with my parents. I thought I knew it all. But with age comes the realization that the pogo balls and the Nintendos are vapid. I’d trade them all to go back in time and be bored as fuck, ice cream punked, listening to my parents gibber jabber, passing cows and farms and hitting up every yard sale along the way. I’d love to sit in the back seat of that Honda holding three lamps in my lap with no elbow room and listen to my dad tell the same old jokes and stories he’d always tell over and over again. If I could go back, maybe I’d change the past a little. Throw a little Willie on for the car ride and say, “hello” to the old ladies with the bummer sales.

This summer

I missed two hundred phone calls. I missed the Olympic games. I missed a reunion show. I missed a class reunion. I missed the sun set. I missed the ocean. I missed some old friends just trying to catch up. I missed every new movie I wanted to see. I missed the drive in. I missed the fair. I missed a good parade. I missed my friend Brandito. I missed sleeping in. I missed some Saturdays. I missed the time. I missed a vacation. I missed the chance to not miss all these things...