When the sun goes down, everything comes alive. The belts unfurl themselves to stretch their old leathery straps and creak their buckles. The sunglasses uncross their arms and hobble towards the edge of the shelf for a better view. The rings pop up out from their velvet folds and roll across the table eagerly. The vintage glasses and china and the one ornate glass pitcher shudder to life, those of whom had been turned around by shoppers during the day rotating themselves away from the walls of the tall wooden cabinet.
Sewing machines and cassette players and other electronics so old that kids these days have no idea what they do begin whirring, some louder and more consistent than others. A huge ornate picture frame with no glass and no back leans against the wall, while some smaller frames huddle in its shadow. Busts used by jewelers to display necklaces blink awake.
All these items holding the memories of the places they’ve been and the people who’ve owned them. They dance around in the nighttime, interacting with one another, swapping places, rearranging themselves on the shelves of the small two car garage. They take stock of which items remain, knowing that no item stays with one household forever.
Sal’s vintage garage sale thrift shop has been open for just over four years now, but these items have been with Sal for over thirty years. The spoils of a first-class hoarder. He used to be a prop guy for TV shows back when the decade-long live audience multi-cam sitcom ran this town. Over the years things just accumulated, especially for Sal with his sticky fingers. But the industry is dying and studio lots that were once bustling with productions are turning into ghost towns and Sal’s collection no longer has any purpose.
But the trinkets keep him company, reminders of the man he once was. And for a long time they filled his apartment, wall to wall so you could barely pick your way through the place. And every night as the sun fell and Sal dozed off they came to life, rearranging themselves in his apartment and buzzing with the energy of a room filled with memory.
Until the day that his apartment half burned to the ground.
He had just gotten back from the doctor’s and was watching the news on a TV that teetered on top of a pile of books with a cold beer in hand, thinking damn those neighbors must be cooking up a storm it smells like something is burning.
At the end of the day nobody was hurt but an entire wall disappeared along with a large chunk of his collection. Sal had to face the reality that he can’t hold on to these things. They are just memories of a past that is no realer than a ghost.
So he turned his downstairs garage into a store of sorts, putting up SALE signs on his lawn and banners across the roof. Now he watches as people come by and buy his things and he hopes that they make them as happy as they once did him. And every night they continue their little dance, for they are just items and while they hold meaning, they themselves cannot understand loss.