After 40 years of marriage, you'd think he'd learn by now not to drive past a garage sale when I'm in the passenger seat, but yesterday he did. He thinks i have enough boxes in the basement already, he thinks i have enough books, enough records, enough everything .... when I tell him he has enough beer, he usually shuts up.
Anyway, I can drive, so when we got back home and unloaded the groceries, I just turned right around and headed out again.
'Where ya off to now?'
'Nowhere.'
Seemed as good a response as any.
Of course he knew where I was going. It was just as well for him to go clear away a spot in the basement. However, he didn't know that this was going to be the last time I'd head out for an elusive treasure.
The weird thing was, I drove around for almost an hour, backtracking, detouring, my brain spinning as fast as the tires on the truck, and couldn't find the damn house. And it shouldn't have been hard to find, not a weathered barnlike edifice that stretched from fence to fence in a rambling fashion, a tall tower sprouting from the middle like a giant beanstalk. I couldn't believe I had never noticed it before, and thought there should have been a whisper of fog shadowing the giant elms bracketing it. I was just about ready to give up and go home empty handed, when all of a sudden, I noticed the silhouette of the tower against the huge harvest moon.
I was just as surprised to find the gates wide open, and extra lights hanging over the outdoor tables. There didn't seem to be any other prowlers there, nor did there seem to be a seller, but I parked anyway, and headed over.
I wasn't surprised to see the regular stuff - chipped dinnerware, tarnished flatware, boxes of shoes tangled up in a last dance, but one thing did catch my eye. It was an old box radio, the kind my grandpa listened to way back in the days of the Great War, and right away, I knew it was going home with me. Assuming, I thought, if the price is right.
'How much is it worth to you?' Well, I almost jumped right out of my skin. I don't know how, or from where, but he had sneaked up to my right shoulder, and I could only thank God I hadn't peed my pants right then and there.
I turned and looked up ... and up ... at his face. He seemed to be around 7' tall, but then, I always swore I'd make a lousy witness. Sleek locks of black hair surrounded pale cheeks and a pointed chin; a high seamless forehead sat above two thin eyebrows, and eyes as dark as a raven's wing stared
unblinking at my face. A shiver of cold air danced around my ankles, and for once in my life I was rendered speechless. Sort of.
'Um ... um .... ' I stepped back. He stepped forward. I had the crazy thought that he was keeping me in his shadow, but even though he was standing in front of a hanging light, there didn't seem to be a shadow. I turned my head around slightly, just enough to see my cowardly freaked-out shadow shaking warily behind me. I blurted out, 'I've only got $20, would you take $20 for it?'
He finally stepped back, and grunted. Or laughed. I'm not sure which. 'Yes, madam, $20 was my asking price. With pleasure.'
I grabbed $20 from my ass pocket, and he reached over, picked up the radio, and passed it to me.
'A fair trade is no robbery,' he continued, 'I wish you many years of listening pleasure. But remember, what was, will always be, and what is to be, will always be.'
I almost threw the money into his hand, and hightailed it to the truck. He had frightened the bejeesuz out of me, and let me tell ya - I was pretty glad to get home.
For once, my hubby was a tiny bit interested in my find. I placed it on the only available space on my kitchen counter (I'm an appliance junkie), and plugged it in an outlet. After a few seconds, a faint hum eminated from the front speaker.
Grabbing my readers, I popped them on the end of my nose and bent down to see the dial, really wanting to get the sounds of the Golden Oldie station drifting from this baby. However, this vintage dial didn't have numbers, so finding YAH(Young At Heart, fyi)102.3 wasn't as simple as you would have thought. Instead of numerals, there was a big blue dot in the middle, a black one about an inch to the left, and a red one to the right. Odd. Really odd.
I turned the knob until the hand stopped on the blue dot. Right away I heard the current forecast from an unknown station, but one obviously from nearby, as it was giving the lowdown for our town. Clear skies, calm winds, temps hovering around 18 degrees ... ho hum ho hum. I heard all that on the radio on the way home, although obviously not from the same weatherman. This voice had a very unusual accent, one I could almost but not place. Strange.
As I was pondering the accent, the dj (I don't think they're called djs anymore) started spinning records (although I'm pretty sure they don't do that any more, either) and yes, this was a country music station. The kind of country music station that plays only new country. Luke Bryan. Sam Hunt. They're fine, but not so much for a Merle and Waylon junkie. So I decided to go hunting myself, and turned that dial a little towards the black dot.
Just a little. And found a bit of Alan Jackson, who isn't old old, but somewhat old, and fits my ears well. I decided to listen for a bit while I puttered around the kitchen, doing the dishwasher thing, the watering the plants thing, and the broom thing. But what made me stop in my tracks was the 8 o'clock News bulletin .... and the top story of the day was President Bill Clinton declaring 'There is not a sexual relationship or any other kind of improper relationship.', and then going on to his argument that his statement 'depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is.'
I reached over and unplugged the radio. I turned on my computer and googled this piece of historical fiction, and yes, this was the news of the day ... in 1998.
I don't usually drink, but I do have an emergency bottle of gin I keep in the freezer, for times like this when I figure I'm losing my mind anyway. I'd just as well finish the bottle before I end up in the care home.
By this time, my early-to-bed-early-to-rise (which by the way, makes one neither healthy, wealthy, nor wise) husband was already fast asleep, so I decided I would just leave this radio alone for a night. If I was indeed losing it, I would just as well finish losing it in my own bed, beside my snoring husband, with a light coating of gin lining my stomach.
The next morning, as I downed my toast and coffee, I noticed that radio staring at me as if I were possessed. I gave into its beckoning, and plugged it back into the outlet. Bending over a bit, I twisted the dial a little more to the left, towards that magical black dot.
Waylon Jennings. Willie Nelson. Kris Kristofferson. My own personal perfect Trifecta. I lost myself in that good old 70's music, until the clock struck 9 and once again that news bulletin cut in.
Oh Lord. George Harrison is now organizing a benefit concert for Bangladesh. My son is in his 30's now, but I remember telling him to eat all his supper, because there were a lot of children in Bangladesh with nothing to eat.
For once, I didn't care that Willie Nelson was on the road again. I hauled that plug out of the wall, grabbed my purse and headed to the mall. I hate malls, but at that moment, anything was preferable to sharing the same air as my garage sale treasure.
I didn't find it hard to finish my day. I window shopped, tried on clothes I had no intention of buying, and had a Tim Horton's coffee and a Krispy Kreme donut for lunch. Then I went to a movie and had a small popcorn, diet Pepsi and a pack of Smarties. By then, I knew my husband would be home, and we could spend a nice quiet radio-less evening watching The Weather Network and The Food Network.
But of course, when I did go home, he was in the kitchen, making a stir fry for supper. For some reason, I wasn't really hungry. For another reason, my stomach was rocking and rolling - to the sounds of Hank Williams. Not the Third One. Not even the Second One. But the original one. And then came Kitty Wells.
I rushed into the bathroom and threw up all these snacks, my mind wavering between all these calories I was getting rid off (thank God), and what the hell was happening with that radio. When I went back into the kitchen I was met by a confused glance from my husband, as he stood with one hand on his hip and one hand on my new pink spatula. He turned to the radio again, as intent as if he were seeing the news unwind in front of him.
... assassination attempt on President Truman ....
Once again that plug gets ripped out of the wall. I'm amazed it's still attached to the cord, to tell the truth.
And I'm even more amazed my husband asked me what was going on. Half the time he thinks I'm not very smart anyway, so why did he feel I was smart enough to figure this out? We did have quite a short discussion though, which I won't go into here. He got the last word.
'Throw that damn thing out..'
And now he's gone to bed. And I'm just sitting here, looking from the dial to the plug that's nestled comfortably in the socket. Wondering what would happen if I turned that dial to the right, all the way past the innocent big blue dot at the top of the dial.
