Second Hand Merchandise

You know, I don't know anyone that says this personally, but I'm sure there is some old geezer out there; someone's grandfather that tells them all the time how everyday is a new adventure. Well ladies and gents, here's my grand and all encompassing adventure of the day.

Actually I think I might have built it up just a little too much with that last sentence, so prepare for disappointment.
Anyways, I went to a local thrift/vintage goods store today. The mission was to rid myself of some vinyl that I no longer found desireable, plus I needed some spare cash to feed my excessive habits of drinking coffee, buying books, music, and journals, and lets not forget my closest friend of all, the mighty cigarette. So, I took in what was probably around twenty records or so, some good, some shitty, some so-so. After a look at the bundle the guy says to me, "I don't know, 18 bucks?" I say, "sure." Some would call that hasty, but I guess I didn't really care. I did begin to think about how nothing these days retains any value, except of course for Honda's. Those damn Japanese know how to make a car, God bless em. Well, I browsed the store for a bit, found a book about Physics, bought it for $5, and headed for a coffee and to search for A Moveable Feast by one of my pesonal favorites, Ernest Hemingway. I didn't find the book, but I did find the coffee, and a pretty lady to make it for me. Normally when I go to this place for the hot stuff I like to sit on their small patio area and read and smoke cigarettes and write and admire the beauties and so forth, but alas, dinner beckoned me elsewhere. My sweet momma, she gave me a call and told me to come to the folks house for dinner. What? I'm not turning it down, its good, free, and better than what I've got at home; some pizza rolls and frosted mini wheats. Anyways, the kicker of the day was on the drive to my parents' house for dinner. I began to think again about how my records collected me so little money and how nothing really holds value and all that. Then I had a funny thought.

..."What if I offered to sell myself to the store?"

I began to play it out in the car.
I walk in, walk to the counter and see the man to which i just an hour ago sold my records to, and say, "excuse me sir.' 'I have a sort of an odd question for you." To which he would say, "ok?" "Well, I was thinking earlier after I sold you my records how nothing really retains much value these days, but I started wondering... Well, I'll put it this way: you guys buy and sell records, cds, books, movies, clothes, furniture, etc. right?" "Well, yeah, yes we do." "Ok, well, I was wondering, how much would you pay for a person?" The clerk, a little confused and condescending would say, "excuse me? You mean like, a person, like a human, right?" "Right." "Yeah, is this a joke, or..." "No, no. I'm seriously asking you, how much would you give for a person?" "Umm, well, I don't think we can do that, so..." "Well, what I mean is, you know, buying and selling people is, is well, sort of been going on for a while, you know.' 'I mean, it kind of built the foundation for our country and our system of government, and you know the Egyptians did it and stuff.' 'Why not now?" "Because its against the law!' 'And anyways, even if I were to buy you, who would get the money, you?" "Well, yeah, I guess." "What are you going to do with it?' 'Spend it here at the store?" "Maybe, I guess." "No. I mean, you would have to stay here, with the rest of the merchandise, and you know, we'd have to feed you and bathe you and, uhh, it just seems like more trouble than its worth." "Hey, I'm just lookin' for a dollar amount here, I didn't say it would be the right price or anything like that." The clerk would give me the hard glance of frustration and anger over the ridiculousness of the conversation and say, "Well, look, man, I think you're completely nuts." It would go on like this for several minutes, until finally, I would convince the clerk to buy me.

So there I am, at the second-hand store, along with all the other merchandise. I would wear a T-shirt that says both front and back, "For Sale: See Clerk For Information Regarding This Merchandise." Every once and a while people would laugh and ask the clerk about me, thinking that I was just another employee, and the clerk would say to them, "no, he's really for sale.' 'Would you like to buy him?" "How much?" "I think we could part with him for $650." "No way!' 'I wouldn't pay twenty bucks for that guy!"

Twenty dollars. Assholes.

Anyways, one day months later some poor jerk would come in with his girlfriend and inquire about me. And they will ask, "how much?" And the clerk will answer them, and it will be my lucky day since they just won big on a scratcher ticket and have money to blow. Then I'll be carted away, finally. The staff will be a mixture of crying young madens whose fondness came about from my doubtless, sublte charm and good taste in headwear, as well as books, and others who were just plain annoyed with my very existence, both out of my taking up their space and them being jealous that they didn't think of it first. I'll go home with the happy couple, lucky winners, and spend the rest of my days taking care of their thirteen cats and four dogs, a parakeet named "Banana" and a gerbil named "Sherlock." I wash their cars on Sundays. I clean the house and do their laundry and every once in a while we watch That 70's Show together, and their favorite character is Fez, whereas mine is always Donna. Once a month they let me go and visit my family, and in the evenings after the dishes I get to read, but only approved literature. They don't want me to taint my slave like brain.

It's kind of a far-fetched tale, but hey, it could happen. I mean, just because my United States of America blood is backed with a bill of rights and The Constitution doesn't mean I'm obligated towards its evident principles. By selling my self to the company store, I voluntarily denounce my right to freedom and the "American Way" and voila!

Maybe I was a crack baby or something; I'll ask my dad tomorrow. He always gives the story to me straight.

Goodnight you cheeky bastards, you devils, you.

-C.A. Dominick