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barrettchase.com
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Sun, 26 Jun 2011

It's 9am when I call my dad to see if he wants me to help fix his crumbling front steps, a chore I was kind of looking forward to. If I'd been asked to do this when I was 15, I would have said, "Sorry, Dad, you'll have to do it alone. You always taught me to wear out the old tool before starting to use a new one." But I'm an adult now and hopefully less of a dick.

"No, I can't do it today!" he says. "I have a gun show to go to."

"Okay," I say, thinking: Hm. I must've missed seeing a flat surface that doesn't have a .357 magnum on it last time I was there. Can't leave the bathroom sink undefended and unarmed! That's the most vulnerable spot in the house! "We can do it tomorrow or something."

Normally, I'd just go home and refresh my Google Reader over and over until I fell asleep. But I was mentally prepared to do something outside. Driving home, I noticed that there was a lot of yard sales going on in the neighborhood. I figured I'd go home, then walk around the neighborhood under the guise of shopping for junk but really just taking advantage of an opportunity to wander around snooping in people's garages without getting arrested.

Yeah, the thing is, I think, I don't have any cash. And even if I did, I'd probably end up finding something I wanted, then I'd have to try to carry it home on foot. This idea sucks.

This is how I end up driving to the bank to cash a check, then driving to a rummage sale a few blocks from my house.

"I'm only interested in one thing!" an out-of-breath old man says jogging down the alley toward the sale. "String instruments! Do you have any guitars?"

"I've got guitars," says the guy manning the sale. "Lots of guitars. None of them are for sale."

"Okay, okay," says the old man. "Can't talk — I've got 20 more sales to go to."

Finding nothing interesting at the sale, I decide to drive over to Superior, Wisconsin to the Vinyl Cave and look at records. This is what I've been spending money on lately. Records. It's kind of become a nightly ritual in our household to listen to records while we make and eat dinner. There are worse vices.

But Vinyl Cave had nothing for me so I decide to hit Retro Mall, a new antique store downtown. (Is that an oxymoron? I'd don't think so ... new ... antiq— never mind.) This place is awesome. Moments within entering the door I find two records I want to buy, in near mint condition, for $3 each.

"Do you have a record player at home?" the guy working at the store asks. "I'm looking for one of those portable ones where you can listen to records in a stack."

"I have two," I say. "They're just normal, average record players."

"You can't play them in a stack? I want to play them in a stack. They don't make music anymore. When those synthesizers came out — I thought no one would ever make music again. That it would all be done automatically. I guess people make music but it's all that rap stuff. People talking to themselves."

The rest of the store is a maze of old costumes, furniture, and weird junk. I literally get lost twice. Another time I end up looking at a section I've already seen, without even noticing it.

I take my records up to the front of the store to buy them. "You want to buy those?" the guy asks. I nod. "Okay. Right after I make this phone call."

What the hell is he serious? I think. Then I realize that this is way preferable to the insincere, corporate glad-handing customer service they dole out at chain stores. Hi, I'm Chad and I'm here to maximize your shopping experience. This guy at least speaks my language.

He picks up the receiver on an antique Goofy phone and dials a number. I browse the stuff near the counter while trying not to eavesdrop, but it's impossible since he's yelling everything he says.

The gist of the conversation is this: There seems to be an estate sale going on this very minute. The people there have come into possession of all their grandparents' antique stuff. There are some quality items. They have no interest in making money. They just want to get rid of the stuff. He repeats the address — I want to be conservative in my estimate here — thirteen times.

I figure this is fate telling me that I need to go to this estate sale. I jump in my car and speed off, repeating the address out loud over and over.

It isn't until I get to the place that I realize it's in the worse neighborhood in town. Duluth doesn't have "bad" neighborhoods, really. Still, every city of this size or larger is capable of ranking neighborhoods from best to worst, and this is block is definitely in contention for being the worst. I'm not sure what could be so great or desirable in any of these houses, which seem like glorified tarpaper shacks.

Plus, there are almost no cars parked on this street. I thought an estate sale was going on? There should be tons of cars lining the block. I look around for a sign advertising this estate sale and can't find one. Finally I locate a sheet of green paper tacked to a telephone pole near the alley, a note written in pen in a hand too small to read unless you are standing right next to it.

The entrance to the house is in the alley. I drive down the alley slowly, thinking, there is no way I'm going into this house. This is some kind of a setup. This is how you lose a kidney.

I get to the house and notice that the entryway is on the second floor, at the end of a staircase that is half-staircase/half-ladder. We're talking about, I'd say, a 75-degree incline. Rickety. Paint flaking off. Dry rot.

Once again, I think, I'm not going in there. Then I notice my friend Jamie descending the staircase.

Jamie has his two kids with him. The place seems less ominous suddenly.

"How is it?" I ask. "Any cool stuff."

"One thing they have is an old jukebox full of country records," he says. "But this place, this place is ... well ... just go look at it."

So I park my car in a vacant lot alongside some graffiti that expounds the virtues of cannabis and climb the rickety ladder stairs into hell.

The first thing I notice is the smell. At first I think, did they even bother to move their grandparents' bodies out before having the estate sale? But after being exposed to it for a second or two, I realize the aroma isn't as much decay as it is a burny, chemical smell. Meth lab? Or maybe just an extra plasticky house fire.

Inside the door, an enormous man sits in a kitchen chair, leaning forward to block entrance into the apartment. "Excuse me," I finally say. He lazily looks up at me before sitting back to allow me access to the goods inside. At this point, the chemical smell is in full force. I start to cough. There is junk everywhere, and some of it is even cool, but I want to bolt. I don't know why I can't bring myself to bolt, and the only reason I can come up with is politeness. For some reason I need to be polite to this guy who doesn't even realize that he's blocking your way, and doesn't care one way or another anyway.

I poke around for a bit, even though I would never bring any of this toxic stuff home no matter what the price. I find the jukebox, which is turned on and operational. I find a stack of old 78s. The record on top has a plain white label with ancient handwriting that says, "newspaper headlines." As intriguing as this is, I have to bolt.

I scamper down the ladder stairs without even saying thank you. When I hop in my car, I realize that I can still taste the apartment in my mouth. I roll down the window and hawk some spit into the vacant lot. It doesn't help.

Around the corner I see Jamie and his kids walking down the street. I pull over and say, "That place was poisonous!"

"Yeah it was," he agrees.

All the way home, I keep swishing spit around in my mouth and hawking it out the window. I can't shake the taste. When I get home, I brush my teeth for about five minutes, then use mouthwash.

It helps a little, but the taste is still there.

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