Tag Sale

On Wednesday night an elderly man pulled his van into our driveway, turned off the engine and slouched back in his seat. I watched him from the window, partly in fascination but mostly in fear. Had he mistaken an address? Was he a burglar? Not being resourceful or brave enough to think of anything so simple as going and asking this fellow why he was there—and oh, by the way, would he please move the van—I did what came naturally: I called the police.

“You’re having a tag sale on Saturday?” the desk clerk said.

“Yes.” How did he know this?

“That’s probably why he’s there… Yup! I have that license plate listed right here. Miller. He’s a regular at these things. He’ll be parking by your house for the next few days. But he can’t park on the street overnight—village rules.”

Too astonished to remember how cowardly I was, I hung up and went outside to bang on the window of the van.

“Are you here for the tag sale?” I demanded, startling the occupant, who, I now saw, was actually two teenaged boys devouring a Happy Meal.

“Yes, Ma’am.”   The driver rolled down his window and smiled at me with greasy lips. “We’re holding Mr. Miller’s place on line. He wants to be first.”

“Who is Mr. Miller?”

“Oh, he has a shop in Brooklyn. He hired us to keep his spot.”

“So you’ll be here until Saturday??”

“Not us, but someone will. We work in shifts. Haven’t you ever been to a tag sale? We do this all the time.”

I had never been to a tag sale. As far as I knew, none of my friends had ever been to a tag sale. I had never even thought about a tag sale until we decided to move and found we had too much stuff to take with us. I had called Amy, a professional organizer recommended by our realtor, and a week ago Amy had shown up with cleaning supplies, a Rolodex and a box of small white stickers and set about furiously arranging everything. Now my house had been converted into a sort of private store. I went back inside to reflect upon the tables and countertops overwhelmed with the detritus of my suburban life and sighed heavily. What had I done?

Thursday morning the van was back out on the street and the teenagers had been replaced by a heavily muscled man. I saw him standing at the end of the driveway, marking up slips of paper and handing them around to a small crowd. I raised the dining room window.

“What’s going on now?” I called. “Are you Mr. Miller?”

“No, Lady, but I’ll be here today. The kids come back tonight. Don’t worry, it’s all under control.

Perhaps it is, I thought, but what does that mean? I called Amy.

“Some person, some Mr. Miller—“

“AH! I forgot to tell you about that,” she gasped. “I’m sorry. He’ll be there until we open. There might be a few more people—“

“A few more people? He’s handing out slips right now. Are those numbers for them to line up by?”

“Exactly! It means we’re going to do very well. It’s a good sign, don’t you think?”

I didn’t know what to think. No—I did know: I thought this whole business was getting bizarre. I poured some coffee into a thermos and took it out to the sentry who was now alone, slouched under a tree, smoking.

“Where’s the crowd?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I gave out forty numbers, that’s it. The rest will just have to wait behind those forty. I’m done with my end.”

Throughout the next two days I would seem them coming and going, folks who knew why the van was there and wanted details about the sale. They never came to my door; no, they all knew whom to ask, which was whoever was on duty at the time. The teenagers assured me that for the most part folks who came to tag sales were a pretty savvy lot. That was comforting.

Late Friday afternoon Amy arrived for a final walk-through. She carried a clipboard as we toured the open rooms and taped NO ENTRANCE signs on the doors of those that would be off-limits.

“Just make sure,” she cautioned me, “that NOTHING is out which you don’t want to get rid of. Believe me: everything is fair game.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I hung out at the upstairs window, idly watching the kids in the van playing cards and shaking their shoulders to music from the car radio. I considered going down to engage them in some conversation just to pass the time, but then thought better of it. What kind of lunatic comes out in the dead of night to chat with paid place holders? I thought about the overseas phone call earlier in the day from my husband, who had conveniently scheduled a business trip for the duration of this whole ordeal.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he had said, “but don’t be surprised if nobody comes.”

“Someone has been parked by the house for two days already. So far forty people have taken numbers to line up, and others stop by all day long to get details.”

Silence. Then, “What are you talking about, numbers? What’s going on there?”

My husband had never been to a tag sale, either.

Saturday morning Amy and her crew arrived early and when I opened the door it seemed that the entire village had gathered on my block. They were all talking and laughing as if this were a party. I caught a glimpse of a frail, elegant man, first on line, leaning on a cane…Mr. Miller, no doubt.

“Okay, out,” Amy barked. She knew that having the homeowners around always disrupted a sale, as they were usually more attached to their stuff than they realized.

“Just let me wash my hands,” I pleaded, and before she could refuse I sprinted upstairs to the master bath and locked the door. I needed a few minutes to compose myself for this strange event which I would not be attending. Lovingly rolling soap over my fingers, gently caressing my wrists under the running tap, I recalled how well I had prepared the downstairs powder room for this day. I had put out my best hand towels and fancy soaps, a bottle of cologne and hand lotion in a little basket. The counter was dressed with a sprig of lavender and an unlit scented candle. It looked welcoming and serene…a nice reflection of my own poise and thoughtfulness. I was a good tag-sale hostess, despite being a complete novice.

Finally ready to leave and let the day take its course, I walked calmly down the stairs just as the first customer was approaching the cashier. I craned my neck to see what the prized item would be, silently smiling that someone had beaten Mr. Miller to the bounty. Would it be my silver candlesticks and desk set? The Waterford vases or the cashmere throws? But no. As I watched in speechless awe, a woman in a trench coat hauled up the basket with the cologne and the soap from my powder room, into which she had stuffed the candle and all the hand towels.

“How much?” she said to the cashier, who smiled at her warmly. “These things have no price on them.”