The Estate Sale - Seeing The Best & Worst of Humanity

I stumble out to the sidewalk, the desert sun hitting my face.

Whoa, that was close — the garage walls had been closing in on me, the mountains and mountains threatening to envelop me.

The feverish look in that woman’s eyes … the way that life-saving item was snatched out of my hands, the frenetic energy as I was shoved aside … that feeling of life and death.

It was war.

How did we get here as a species? Where did humanity go wrong?

How can something feel so fun, so good, and then feel so horribly wrong within the next moment?

I need a Clorox wipe.

My kingdom for some hand sanitizer!

Can I please have some water? Just some nourishment?

My soul has been depleted, my being is in shock.

I’m standing alone in the driveway, sucking in some fresh air, but still a little too close to the action and the disgusting magnetic pull to go back in.

Don’t do it!

Will I ever erase the images now ingrained upon my brain? The seven deadly sins on full display? How will I sleep at night now that I’ve seen this side of American life?

And when did I become this person? This person who visits Estate Sales?

If you’re a seasoned bargain hunter or reseller, you probably already know about estate sales — and the dichotomy of joy and pain involved.

I’m a proud thrift store shopper and the occasional swap meet or yard sale junkie, so I rarely understand the point of paying full price for most things. Retail sucks my soul dry.

But my friend Stephen, a true bargain shopper and reseller, turned me onto the estate sales and the sometimes amazing finds, so I became at least intrigued.

My partner and I have recently relocated to the Palm Springs/Palm Desert area of California, an area that some derisively refer to as “Heaven’s Waiting Room” due to the huge aging population, and so not coincidentally the estate sale happenings are often, almost daily.

We’ve scored a few nice items — rarely-used CD players, a great southwestern rug for the wall, some garden tools and pots.

But the more we’ve gone, the more we’ve come to dislike the carnival atmosphere. Unless you score mightily, you rarely walk away feeling good about the human condition.

Imagine, if you will, your dearest sweetest auntie’s place, or your favorite grandfather’s final quaint home. Now imagine a whistle going off and hoards of strangers suddenly up in every crevice of granny’s abode, tearing through her closets, fighting off other grasping hands for that mid-century modern vase; contractor-types raiding grandpa’s tool closet, commenting on what’s useful and what’s garbage.

A sick air of desperation and inappropriateness.

Often these sales happen after an unexpected death, a prolonged illness or because someone had to move into “the home.” It’s like the body is still warm and strangers are going through your kitchen cabinets and grabbing all that unopened olive oil you never used, all those votive candles you’ve had for 25 years.

I get it, it’s not like thieves are raiding the place — the owner or the families of the deceased have chosen someone to handle selling everything in the home at a reasonable price first before having to vacate. With out-of-state children and relatives it’s often the absolute best choice.

And if you’re buying up their stuff, you’re actually helping them.

But speaking of Stuff…

Allow me to proclaim from the rooftops that there is absolutely no reason for any retail store across the nation to sell brand-new candles, electrical cords, cutlery, tools, woven baskets, lightbulbs, pens, binders, notepads, towels — most things!

The homes and garages and storage units of America are a bountiful cornucopia of crap, with overflowing closets and wall units of unused or only-used-once items. If every home in America had a deliberate open-door garage or yard sale I’ll bet retail sale numbers that week or month would plummet because people found what they were looking for, gently used instead of new.

So. Much. Crap.

You’ve all seen it, I’m sure, in many a relative’s home.

You might think I’m talking about hoarders — and we’ve seen some of those frightening homes — but no, I’m just talking about your average human and the amount of physical crap we can acquire and hold onto if we’re not vigilant in weeding it out.

Closet after closet and nook and cranny stuffed full of linens, cords, gadgets, pointless mini appliances, plastic bins, old toys, figurines, trinkets, travel souvenirs, junk mail, chemicals, solvents, cleaning products — ooohhhh, and all the make-up and personal care products most ladies own. All those white elephant and Secret Santa gifts you kept — those things Aunt Tilly gave you for your wedding forty years ago and never had the heart to get rid of, even though you never opened it.

As you wander through someone else’s home, someone else’s life, maybe the final place they existed, you take in the dusty corners, the overlooked scuff marks on the walls never fixed, somehow being all judgmental of the poor soul and how they lived, how they decorated — looking down with some distain, but knowing full well that complete strangers with a fresh set of eyes could pick out every scuff and atrocity you’ve overlooked in your home too.

It’s kind of a weird and sick situation. People loudly bellowing about their great find in the guest room, women running into the backyard when they discover the designer clothes have been moved out there.

And then other sales? Not so bad. And you get to see a beautiful space, how someone lived in such well decorated surroundings, a new-to-you neighborhood and even a feeling you’re genuinely helping the family unload items in their hour of need.

You don’t have to be interested in actual philosophy to suddenly become like Socrates or Plato, pondering the mysteries of life and death. As you stand amidst the mountains of physical items that humans seem to feel they need, you end up shaking your head or diving deep into the thoughts -

What is life all about? Is this how we’re all living? What does it mean?

Is this where we are all headed, people pawing through our stuff, stuff that seemed so important and so meaningful? Was it? Did we need it all?

And why did she have that Popeye the Sailor Man felt clock that glows in the dark??

I dust myself off.

I look off to the horizon and see perhaps better uses of my time.

The magnetic pull of the garage still pulsates behind me.

I hear two ladies arguing over who saw that marble lion planter first… that dad yelling at his kid to just look for baseball cards, not plastic toys… and that old lady cackling about the score of Martha Stewart originals she discovered in the storage bin out back.

Cars continue to fight for parking on the street.

I take a deep breath and lock eyes with Eddie.

He nods, and we deliberately step away from the fray.

We already have all that we need.

You can keep your estate sales, y’all.

It just hurts. Hurts my brain, hurts my soul. Makes me ponder too deeply what we’re all wasting our time doing during this brief sojourn on this little blue marble hurtling through the galaxy

I’ll see ya at the thrift store.

But not at Goodwill — those bastards have a CEO that makes too much money — a business model based on FREE inventory! — but I digress.

See? I’m too philosophical sometimes.

Thanks for reading real world written by a real person. This piece was originally published on Medium.com.