I used to compile a route made up of yard, house, and estate sales in my area. One address in Sayville proved impossible to find. The ad, of course, was very enticing: “Colossal, stupendous, vintage. Bring your own boxes!” I was overjoyed, in late afternoon, when I finally found the street, a north/south road. I drove and drove, the road narrowing and marsh grasses appearing on one side. Finally, I encountered lots of parked cars, mostly Mercs and beemers, then a Moby-Dick-sized house, all white, sitting on a hill. I found a parking space and stumbled over. I noticed young men in tux-like uniforms directing traffic, which I thought was an elegant touch.
Once I had climbed past the circular drive, a woman offered me a cocktail. I took it, thinking, “Gosh, these people are nice!” Then I noticed that the enormous garage was open and being used as a gigantic field kitchen. I did not see any way of entering the building.
“Um, where is the house sale?” I asked the woman who was giving out drinks. “What house sale?” she asked. “This is Sal and Gina’s wedding!”
I made my apologies and backed out, trying my best to smother uncontrollable laughter.
The actual house sale turned out to be located at the southernmost end of the street: little, tedious houses butt up against the bay. After paying a stiff price for the view, the homeowners probably didn’t have much left to use for building. I think I was one of only three customers.
What did the house have? Pots, pans, utensils, falling-apart furniture, and fairly new “knick-knacks” exhibiting a truly hair-raising lack of taste. Most of it was covered with a layer of dust.
I thanked the organizers (I always did this, for some unknown reason: middle-class manners) and left.
Leaving, I passed the wedding house again. The guys in tuxedos were still guiding people into parking spaces, stuff was still frying, and the nice lady was still giving out drinks.—Kathryn Nocerino