12/20/2012 by Stephen Silke
Arthur Reynolds went out one sunny Saturday morning shopping for special deals.
He knew his antiques, his folk art, and his collectible second-hand instruments. It was a passable living working twenty-five hours a week. He visited estate and yard sales on the weekends and sold his finds on consignment in a variety of shops. On his better days he proudly emerged with 10 to 15 items for 10 to 15 dollars, and this would make him happy. Arthur was generally that way.
The only thing that bothered him was a special someone. But he didn’t have to think about that someone because he had very often and habitually given up for the time being.
He played chess with the gentleman at the park. He went to Dodgers games. He sat on the same sticky seat at the same corner bar, four nights a week, adventuring his way through every drink known to man.
This particular yard sale yielded nothing very valuable. But he knew that he could on this sunny morning get away with almost anything he wanted, and then some, for less than a dollar an item. Deep down he suspected that a dollar was the most that any of it on its best day was actually worth anyway–and maybe even only 99 cents, but he bought it all anyway and it made him happy.