Wednesday, September 08, 2004

My secret fantasy. You know, I've had this secret feti$h fantasy for quite some time. It's so secret, I've only told Em about it once and she only rolled her eyes. A fantasy so lurid and crass that it's quite embarrassing to even talk about. I think about it at work, usually while I'm my computer doing mindless work stuff. I assume it's healthy to tell such vent up fantasies as a release valve. It goes like this:

I'm driving around town. Somewhere, it doesn't matter, because it's my fantasy. I drive through a neighborhood I don't know, but familiar enough..I've probably driven through it before. It's an older neighborhood, but not quite rundown enough to call unsafe. The neighborhood watch signs haven't been observed in years and are quite rusted. An old park passes me up, framed by the early evening sun.

I take a right hand turn at the stop sign, where a cardboard sign is attached to the pole. Written in bold letters: Garage Sale.

I'm not much of a garage sale'r, but I think 'why not'. As I pull up, I notice it's a ranch style home, probably built in the 70's and probably was dressed in lead paint. There are two cars parked on the street, an old pickup truck and a Buick. Over the driveway are sprawled old things: souvenir mugs, old clothes, framed pictures with water fouls and other useless junk.

Near the open garage door is an older lady. She looks like Anne Bancroft from The Graduate. Like Mrs. Robinson. Not with that calculative look on her face though. It was as if her mind was completely free of any thoughts, save herself.

There's not many people around either. There's an older gentlemen with brown kahki's and a red argyle shirt. He looks agitated and probably drives the Buick. The other man is dressed in shorts, some marathon t-shirt, and has blankless expression. I could only place him in the pickup truck. I could be completely wrong about the cars.

By the lawn are milk crates with vinyl records in them. I don't collect vinyl records, but you'll find some rarities that haven't been ported to CD's yet. Unfortunately, the entire collection is pop material. Except for selfish, nostalgic reasons, not worth the time to consider.

Before I can turn away, a hear a ladies voice ask "Can't find anything you like?".

I turn my head the same time as the man that drives the pickup does. He notices that Mrs. Robinson isn't talking to him and returns shuffling trinkets.

"No, not really" I reply, "Although these are in great condition."

Mrs. Robinson starts to walk towards me. She's wearing a summer dress.

"Those are my husbands. He hasn't touched those since tapes came out."

I pause for a moment before casually saying, "Kind of strange he kept it all. Most people I know got rid of these a long time ago."

"He couldn't part with them. He still played them occasionally.. when he passed away, I kept them for a while.." Mrs. Robinson paused. She looked at some old gray and brown suits on the rack. "I guess it's all trash now."

Mrs. Robinson walks a little closer. The closer she got, the younger she looked. I go back to flipping through the LP's to avoid any kind of eye contact or awkward moments in our spontaneous conversation.

There's a Jackson Browne LP. King of Califoria Pop Folk, I think. I think this because I know she's still looking at me. "This is a great album." I say, while picking it up. I have no clue if it's good or not.

"Ray always liked that album. He's got it on SCD, or whatever it's called."

"SACD, you mean? Yeah, I got a few albums on SACD, but not this one." I put the Jackson Browne back in the bin.

You can tell when somebody has thoroughly looked you over. It's a visual confessional for the person staring and washes over you. There's spots, crevices and microscopial pits that can't be hidden. It's being washed in the sun with bleach. It's peering through you with a scissor.

I can feel her there, just out of my sight. She's like a memory that just happened, seconds before.

"Hey, why don't you come inside." I look at the corner of her mouth when she says that. It's curled. "I think I have something you might like."

I don't even answer at this point. I just follow her. Past the souvenir mugs, old clothes, framed pictures with water fouls and other useless junk. Through the garage, where two cars seemed to be parked forever. Through the kitchen, which smells like Ajax and the living room kept enough for company.

It was the bedroom she made her way to and I follow her.

It was a large bedroom. Perfectly rectangular in dimension with plenty of light. The king sized bed was pushed against the rear wall, adorned with pictures of Ray and Mrs. Robinson. The center piece of the arrangement is a huge framed picture of some mallard.

Mrs. Robinson turned around and looked at me. "You remind of Ray" she says matter of factly, "you know why I brought you here?"

I nod.

"These are Ray's Italian speakers." she says, pointing to the speakers on the side wall, carefully pointed inwards. "And his other hi-fi things. I never liked it all too much, but it was important to him."

The Sonus Faber Amati Homage speakers flank a pair of Mark Levinson Monobloc Amplifiers, Mark Levinson SACD/DVD-Audio/CD Player & Conrad Johnson Tube Pre-Amp.

Before I can even find the remotes, she says "I know I'll never get any use out of these. I have a clock radio that I use for NPR. You can have it all for 500 bucks if you're interested."

"Ma'am. This equipment is worth more than 500 bucks" I say, "How about 600?"

We shake hands and I'm off to a Diamond Shamrock for an ATM.

You thought this was going to turn into some Penth0use letter? Think again, pervert. I've made some revisions to my bargain fantasy (included camera equipment, video games or what have you), but the structure remains the same. I'm into bargains, because that's what I'm all about.
posted by HZA | 1:17 PM | email | archive