Saturday morning my husband scrounged through a pile of his old clothes. He pulled out a pair of frayed worn pants with a hole for ventilation. The shirt featured a grease stain and a subtle stain from chemicals. Both were highlighted with splashes of paint, stain and varnish. After he had them on, he declared himself ready to varnish his newly finished wood project.
As he cleaned up a brush to use, I read the garage sale ads and found one with tools. “Remember that garage sale we went to last fall with all the tools? They are having another sale today. Wanna go?”
“That was a good sale,” he mused as he flexed the brush’s bristles, “I used everything I bought there.”
“So let’s go before you start working,” I invited. We headed for the car. He didn’t bother to change out of his grubbies: we were just going to that sale and come right back home.
As we drove down the street, I said, “Let’s stop at these neighborhood sales that are already open. The one we’re going to isn’t supposed to start for at least a half an hour.”
he joined me in perusing the second-hand goods. As I tested felt-tip markers, the woman at the cash box studied him intently, “Do you work at the carbon black plant?”
He acknowledged that he did. They discovered that her father worked in the same department. My usually meticulous spouse glanced down at his grubby work clothes and grimaced. “I was just about ready to varnish when we decided to check out one garage sale in town.” I quickly paid for the markers and left, stopping only to check out one more sale.
As we walked to the carport, a man with white hair emerged from behind the hanging clothes. “I know him,” my husband said under his breath to me. “He works in maintenance.” I nodded vaguely and went to check out the bargains. He smiled ruefully at his co-worker and motioned to his clothes, “I was just getting ready to do a lot of varnishing when my wife dragged me along to check out a garage sale.”
They talked. I shopped. We finally drove to his garage sale. It was closed.
I re-read the ad, “Oh. They say it will be open in a half hour,” I hesitated and studied him, “While we wait, let’s go down the street and check out a couple of others, OK?” He shrugged his agreement.
At the last place, grungy clothes and all, he sized blue jeans while I priced baby clothes. As I handed the woman the clothes I wanted to purchase, she turned to my husband, “And where are you working now?” She had recognized him from the company where they both used to work. He looked down at his stained, torn clothes, shrugged and gave up trying to explain. I waited in the fan while they caught up on each other’s lives.
It was time for his garage sale to open. It still looked closed. Mr. Grubby Clothes went to the door. The sale had been canceled. I took him home to our garage-shop where he was appropriately dressed to varnish wood to his heart’s content.