How Much For The Wise Men Candles, And Will You Take A Check?

I don't think you can afford it. Okay, twenty bucks.

OJ watched from behind her tables, as the flock of professional yard-sale junk-hunters grew to over two dozen - within the first 90 seconds of the 9AM opening time her parents had written on the fluorescent pink signs they had posted on every telephone pole within a three-mile radius. OJ's mother had warned her to be prepared for the pros - she called them vultures - who show up at yard sales the second they open - often before the posted start time - searching for the one or two real deals being offered, in order to scarf them up before the rabble would arrive. She was right. There were several vultures wandering the backyard by eight-thirty, when half of the Blacks' junk was still in the house. One couple had been so aggressive in their attempts to purchase a pair of OJ's grandmother's old lamps - going so far as to double the written price - that Mrs. Black had chased them away and put the lamps back in the house.

It was a great relief to OJ that the early birds all cruised by her tables with hardly a second glance at her things. She was seventeen-and-three-quarters and heading to college out of state in... 42 days - not that she was counting - and she just wanted to get through the next six hours with a minimum of haggling over the prices of crap she could just as soon throw in the trash. She also wished - hard - that none of her friends or their parents would see her there, peddling the contents of her childhood bedroom, and that of her older brother's ex-room (now Dad's office).

Her wish was granted. For an hour. Then, squinting into the morning sun and regretting the placement of her pair of tables - as well as her decision to forgo sunglasses because they would have obscured the "profound blackness" of her over-the-top eye makeup that her parents had finally learned not to call "goth" because goth kids were losers and OJ was not a loser - she saw some older dude in Levi's. He was dad-walking straight from her mom's baked stuff table, toward OJ's "curiosity shoppe."

"Oh, shit," she muttered to herself. "Whose dad is this?"

"No one's dad," he assured her. "Your embarrassing yard sale secrets are safe with me."

"Oh. You heard me. Super. You can have everything on both tables - plus the tables - if you'll just kill me now."

The older man (much older - like, 30) smiled. "Wow. Dark. How 'bout nobody gets killed, but maybe I give you ten dollars for that Key Largo Club sign? Does the neon still work?"

OJ looked at the tag her father had affixed to the faux-art-deco neon clock/bar sign. $20.00. "It works. My dad has an extension cord out here somewhere to test stuff. But what is it about yard sales that makes everyone think it's cool to just go around offering half the asking price on everything?"

Her prospective customer seemed genuinely taken aback. "I'm sorry," he said, "I thought that was supposed to be part of the fun. I just... Um, this is the first yard sale I've been to since I was a kid. I like your eyeliner, by the way. It's so..."

If you say "goth," I swear to Peter Murphy I will cut you, she thought.

"So... profoundly black," he said.

Thank you. "Just until they come out with something darker," she said, matter-of-factly. She waved across the yard to her mother. "Hey Mom? I need the extension cord for a sec - so Daddy Warbucks here can try out Danny's old neon thing..."

"In a minute, OJ," Mrs. Black called back. "Your father's using it to demo the old Cuisinart."

OJ turned back to her would-be buyer. "Feel like getting into a bidding war over a twenty-year old food processor?"

"That's tempting, but, no. I'll take you at your word that this thing lights up. I'll just pay full price. What's OJ stand for?"

"Obsidian Jade. Obsidian Jade Black. But don't tell my parents that. They're really committed to the vile lie that it's Olivia Jane, or some such bourgeois nonsense. And just so you know - this thing was my brother's. I don't do neon - unless I'm being strictly ironic."

"Nice," the man said with a nod. "I'm Darkness O'Hauntington, but don't tell my driver's license, which is convinced that I'm Brian Helton."

She wanted to feel thoroughly creeped-out by this guy, but instead she was only cautiously half-creeped-out. "Are you here alone?" Before he could answer, she added, "Are you a pedophile?"

"Yes alone, no - not a pedophile. Damn - am I giving off a vibe? I just want to buy some junk for my niece. She's heading off to college, next month. Sorry if that makes me a creep."

Obsidian Jade Black fought hard to not look like she felt a tinge of guilt, but she felt a tinge of guilt. "I'm sorry. It's just that you zeroed in on what is basically the kids table, and... whatever. I'm sorry. Here's your weird fake bar sign. Thanks for shopping at OJ's Curiosity Shoppe. All sales final. I'm supposed to say that."

"That's okay." He looked absently over the spread of junk for sale that lay between them when his gaze landed on a large plastic bin, and his eyes went wide. "Wait. Is that what I think it is?"

"That depends," OJ said quietly. "Do you think it is a tub of eastern region trilobites?"

"You mean, trilobite fossils, I assume," Darkness O'Hauntington/Brian Helton said.

"Oh sir - If I had meant trilobite fossils, really, I would have said trilobite fossils. These here are actual living trilobites. Five bucks each, or the whole bin for fifty. You want 'em?"

"Bullshit."

OJ blinked a him as slowly as she could manage. "You want 'em?"

"Yeah, I want 'em. How is that even possible?"

"It's not, technically, but what are you gonna do, right? Anything else?"

"I'll take the mobius strip Hot Wheelz track for five dollars..."

"You want the cars that came with it?" OJ asked, "Or, for an extra five bucks, I am authorized to throw in the limited edition Hasbro Rad Rods cars, including the 1985 4-door Cavalier (in beige), and the '83 K-car wagon (also beige)."

Brian was already nodding emphatically. "Yes, yes. All of it. Done. And the signed Yars' Revenge Atari cartridge, for a hundred..."

"We're not sure if it works," she cautioned. "Full disclosure, or whatever."

"That's cool."

"Anything else?"

"The Howard Sprague napkin rings."

"Two-fifty. That it?"

Would you mind blinking for a nanosecond? I'm fixin' to vanish...

"How much for the little green lizard?" he asked.

"What? Oh, shit. How'd he get out here? That's Klaus Nomi, and he's totally not for sale."

"How about the-- wait. What's the lizard's name?"

OJ tossed her head as irritatedly as she could, resulting in the maximum coverage of face with her asymmetrical black, blue, and purple bangs. "Klaus Nomi.He was a genius. If you make an AIDS joke, I'll tell my dad you tried to grab my tits..."

"No, no, no, no. I know who Klaus Nomi was," Brian Helton said, making a great show of how unconcerned he was with her disproportionate response. "I'm just surprised that you've heard of him. No offense, but you seem too young to know who Robert Smith is, let alone Klaus Nomi."

"No offense, but you seem too old to know who Robert Smith is, mister wannabe cool uncle Darkness."

"Yikes. Touché! Anyway... speaking of things from way before your time - you really think you'll get fifteen bucks for this Cabaret Voltaire t-shirt?"

"It's only been worn, like, once."

"Done. I'll take it."

"All too easy," OJ sneered, in her best version of a Darth Vader voice that sounded like she wasn't trying to do a Darth Vader voice. "But for the discerning collector, I can't in good conscience sell you the CabVolt shirt - which I only part with because my budding bosoms have rendered it unwearable - without first--"

"I'm pretty sure no one ever called them 'CabVolt' but--"

"...without first showing you this mint-condition 1980 Betamax, with a pristine copy of 'The Apple Dumpling Gang Rides Again' inside. It's stuck inside, but it plays. One hundred even. Whaddaya say?"

"Nah," Brian said coolly, "Sequels are never as good as the original. I actually had my eye on the Pants Corral box."

"Two bucks," she said flatly. "Are you deliberately wasting my time?"

"Not at all. I've been meaning to ask - what's with the box of used combs and brushes?"

"Four-fifty," she declared. "What?"

"Gross."

"I know, but so much DNA, no extra charge."

"Gross," he repeated. "I'm also curious about the reel-to-reel tape recorder. If it still works, it's a steal at twenty dollars, but..."

"But what, cool uncle Darkness dude?"

"Well, I assume you'll be off to college, next year..."

"Next month, man."

"Wow. Really? Good for you," Brian said. "So, I imagine you'll want to bring  your old-old-old-school reel-to-reel with you to school, to show how non-digital you are, or whatever."

"Who are you, man?" Obsidian Jade said.

"No one. Anyway, people are starting to stare at me and act like they're not. I'm out of cash, but how much for the three wise men candles - and will you take a check?"