A Different take on the Keller Williams Community Garage Sale, continued -
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It was about 2 p.m. Saturday when I decided to take a bike ride. Sunny and 80 degrees, it was warmer than average for September – the kind of day that makes you feel guilty if you aren’t outside, especially here in Chicago, where the bitter cold of winter is never that far away. I’ve heard people say that Chicago would be the most populated city in the world if the weather was always like it was that Saturday and it is true that people here are especially nicer in the summer – but that is a story for another time.
I would have normally ridden my bike earlier in the day – especially on a Saturday, but I had to let a couple workers in who were coming over to fix some tiles in the kitchen. One of the tile guys – Louie – is a local Norridge guy who I’ve known for some time now. He walks around the area a lot, not having a car –and usually is dressed poorly. I first met him at an open house that I was holding a couple years ago and ended up talking to him awhile that day. I remember that he thanked me for talking to him and thought that was strange, then surmised that most people probably blow him off, thinking that he is just a nosy neighbor. I admit I didn’t think too much of him at first – I’d estimate his age in his early fifties, he has wavy grey hair that was likely black at one time and on that day he was wearing an old t-shirt that barely covered his belly, which looked about 8 months pregnant, old shorts with white tube socks and black Reebok sneakers.
Frankly, he looked more suitable to cut the lawn than buy the house I was showing. I’m still not sure if I spoke to him out of boredom –the open house was pretty dead that day—or if it was just my affinity for odd characters. It didn’t take me long to learn that he never married and lives alone in a house east of Harlem Avenue, and his parents and unmarried sister who he calls “the princess” – both reside a block from where we were that day, in homes that he owns.
Turns out Louie has another job besides working as a tile guy – his full-time gig is is working swing-shift at the security desk downtown at juvenile court, or domestic court – it really doesn’t matter, one of the many drab courthouses where not much is going on after 4 p.m. I had seen his type before and although I hate to presume anything about people, I imagined a simple guy that works crappy hours, socks his money away in brown paper bags, never goes out to restaurants or bars – the type you read about in the newspaper every few years – the cleaning lady who dies and bequeaths a million dollars to the local library – basically an unknown multi-millionaire. You might think I’m exaggerating but Louie ended up buying that house and a few others through me, collecting them like a mini land baron, which is exactly what he’s becoming around here. I have the stubs from the commission checks to prove it if you don’t believe me. And while Louie is a nice guy, the fact that I learned all this about him the first time I met him is proof that he can really chat it up, and like I said before, I didn’t want to be stuck at home on such a beautiful day anyway. So I let him and his tile partner in and proceeded to ride.
I jumped on my mountain bike – I’ve been meaning to get a new bike considering it is fifteen years old and since there aren’t exactly any mountains in Chicago, the thick tires probably make pedaling more work than is necessary. Usually I have a destination but that day I really didn’t, so I figured I would ride to my office in neighboring Park Ridge, and grab a few listing agreement forms since I had met with a potential seller the day before and didn’t have any in my briefcase. I have a cool bag, which is basically a backpack but only has one strap and goes diagonally across your back – ideal to ride with if you need a bag. Figuring I’d grab the listing agreements, I flung the bag across my back and started out. And although it was just after 2 p.m., the sun felt like it was at its peak. It didn’t take long before I began to sweat.
I went north of the Kennedy Expressway where it is hard to figure out where Chicago ends and Park Ridge starts and started to go up and down the blocks, looking for homes that were for-sale-by-owner. I do this often, usually taking a picture, writing down the phone number from the poorly-made and barely readable signs, all to prepare marketing materials in an attempt to get them to come to their senses and list with me. That day I only found a couple, and after circling around a few more blocks, proceeded to continue north towards my office.
As I rode, I noticed a lot of garage sales and remembered that it was the annual Keller Williams Garage Sale day –an event hosted by my office to try and create goodwill towards the office. Basically every year my office chooses a date, advertises that there will be a community-wide garage sale, and any resident who wishes to have a garage-sale can get free signs from the office and will be included in the map of garage sales that the office prints for the amateur Fred Sanfords that drive around on weekends looking for bargains.
It was a little odd that I had forgotten about it this year, I am usually pretty aware of what is going on and usually heavily involved in the office-related events – especially the annual charity golf outing, cookie exchange, and best of all –working the beer tent and the Taste of Park Ridge and Taste of Edison Park. But garage sales were never my thing, so I never really found any enthusiasm for helping to recruit residents to host garage sales.
I didn’t get far from the two fsbo’s when I saw a cute middle-aged blonde woman from my office looking through a record bin at one of the garage sales. Actually calling it a garage sale didn’t really fit as the garage was closed and all the items for sale were displayed on tables that lined the driveway of an old colonial.
“LeeAnne? I thought that was you,” I said smiling, slowing down gradually until I stopped my bike.
As she peered up I saw that indeed my eyesight had not failed me. She stared at me for a half-second longer than she should have without saying anything when I realized she didn’t recognize me with a baseball hat and sunglasses on. I promptly removed the glasses and she smiled.
“Hey Bob, are you garagin’ too?”
I had never heard this term, but found it kinda cute. I guess the Fred Sanfords have their own lingo.
“No, just riding my bike on this beautiful day,” I explained, while getting off my bike and leaning it against an oak tree that was next to the cracked sidewalk. A few seconds later, now without the slight breeze that keeps you cool while riding, I could really feel the sun’s heat and had to wipe the sweat from my forehead with my hat. We made small talk for a couple minutes – she asked about my kids and I asked her about how many garage sales she had been to before stopping at that particular house – then I noticed a bookcase filled with books for sale, which is a weakness for me. Noticing LeeAnne was almost finished browsing, I told her that I was going to check out the books, said goodbye, and watched her get into her car empty-handed. I was about thirty feet from the books so I didn’t know if there would be anything interesting, but I hoped there would be some old books, perhaps a little roughed up from love, just as the house appeared to be.
As I got a little closer to the books, wearing my sunglasses again, I noticed that in addition to the bookcase, there were books stacked on the ground next to it and in cardboard boxes. My eyes went instantly to “Slats Grobnik and Some Other Friends,” a collection of Mike Royko columns. I have the book, along with all of Royko’s other books, but something forced me to pick it up and page through it. I remember liking the fact that the binding was worn and the pages dog-eared. Someone read it and loved it and because I have always loved Royko’s writing, I felt warm inside that someone – someone I didn’t know, read him and loved him also.
“There are more Royko books on the bottom shelf if you are interested,” a voice from over my shoulder said.
I turned and look to see a woman, probably between 28 and 36, (I can’t judge accurately anymore) standing next to me.
“Cool. I actually have this but may pick it up again. I’m strange like that.”
The woman, who had short dark hair and a pretty face, smiled warmly. She then bent down and pushed a few books aside – popular titles like “The DaVinci Code” and some Tom Clancy novels, to uncover a couple other Royko classics – “Sez Who? Sez Me” and “Like I was Sayin.”
“These are my extra copies,” she explained, giving away the fact that she was the Royko fan who dog-eared the copy of Slats.
“You wanna see something funny?” I asked, knowing she’d say yes. Then I produced my Blackberry from the pocket of my cargo shorts and held it up so she could see the screensaver – a picture of Royko, probably in his thirties, standing on downtown with Lake Shore Drive and part of the city skyline behind him.
“Wow, that’s cool,” she said, as I let out a silent sigh of relief.
For a second I was afraid that she would think I was some kind of newspaper nerd, and although I am, I didn’t want to seem too strange after just meeting her two minutes before. I continued to glance at the titles in the bookcase and saw one called “Race Riot” – I picked it up thinking that it was about Howard Beach in New York in the 1980s just as I saw the small subhead “Chicago and the Red Summer of 1919” – a topic that I have read about and been interested in for a long time. I remember first learning about it – how a black kid at a South Side beach crossed an invisible but very real dividing line in Lake Michigan on a raft and was soon after hit in the head with a rock thrown by white youths, causing him to lose consciousness and drown. That incident led to rioting that left 38 dead, 537 wounded and hundreds homeless as both races tried to wipe each other off the map that bloody summer.
“Did you ever read ‘Race Riot’?”
“No, but it looks good,” I said, thinking that the word choice I used probably sounded stupid.
“It is.”
I smiled, grabbed the three Royko books and walked towards the table with with the cigar box cash register was, occupied by the nameless girl’s mother and grandmother. She walked with me and then sat on the other side of the table with her family.
“I’ll take these,” I said the the mother, setting the books on the table.
She picked them up and informed me that I owed her $2.50. I gave her a twenty-dollar bill and she proceeded to give me change. I saw a young boy that I hadn’t noticed until that moment sitting at a small table next to the mother and said “he’d probably make a lot of money if he set up a lemonade stand,” half-hoping that she’d offer me water, because I was thirsty and because I didn’t want to leave yet. I looked at the nameless daughter and had to say something else.
“So, what’s your interest in Royko?,” I asked, honestly curious.
“I just love his writing, plus I’m a political science person.”
“Cool. I used to be a reporter,” I explained, trying not to wince when I said the “used to be” part. With that, the mother and granny perked up and chimed in.
“Wow, that is cool,” the mother said.
“What paper did you work for?” granny asked.
I explained that I once worked for the City News Bureau of Chicago, where Royko had worked years before, and then worked for the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin, which surprisingly to me seemed to impress mother and granny even more than City News. I smiled and the mother proceeded to count out my change.
“…and that’s twenty,” she said, in a way that sounded like she wanted to make sure she didn’t short-change me.
I thanked her and looked at all three women, all seated next to each other, with granny in the middle, and stood there uncomfortably for what seemed like a long time. It probably was only a few seconds, but I had run out of things to say. I wanted to talk to the daughter longer, but couldn’t manage more than “take care” as I walked towards my bike. I put the books inside my bag and rode off, thinking that that woman (the daughter) was cool and thinking that --- oh hell, I had to go back!
I wasn’t even a block away when I stopped and turned around. I proceeded to park my bike against the same oak tree – it didn’t go anywhere – and walked back up the driveway. I noticed the women were talking to each other and sensed that the mother and granny were probably telling the daughter what a nice guy I seemed to be. As I got closer, the daughter, who was still seated next to her mom and grandmother, made eye contact with me.
“I think I’m gonna grab one more book since I have to carry these other ones anyway,” I said, which was total bullshit. I was back to talk to the daughter again and get her number.
I grabbed a copy of “A Chicago Taven,” a book by reporter Rick Kogan about the Billy Goat Tavern and a book, like the Royko books, that I already owned.
“Very cool. I went to high school with the owner’s son,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Sam Sianis. I didn’t know he lived around here.”
“Yes, they live in Park Ridge. They are nice people. The goat is a cool place, you know that was Royko was good friends with the owner –“
“Yes of course,” I said.
“Yeah, it woulda been cool to meet him.”
“I never met him but talked to him once on the phone,” I started to explain.
“I heard he was kinda—
“A grouch?” I asked, again knowing the answer.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. I was in college and called to see if he would let me write a profile about him. He just said ‘no, no thanks.’”
She smiled and I kinda changed the subject.
“So, what do you do with political science?”
“I’m getting my Masters but I work at UIC.”
“Is that where you go to school?”
“No, I go to Northeastern but work at UIC.”
“Oh, Northeastern is not too far,” I said.
“I live in Lincoln Square, which is even closer.”
“Cool. That’s a cool neighborhood,” I said, realizing again that her mother and grandmother were still seated next to her at the table. While they didn’t say anything, the reminder that they were there made me reconsider asking the nameless daughter for her number. Another uncomfortable silence took place and I said goodbye – again – and walked to my bike, put the additional book in my bag, and pedaled away, wondering why I didn’t ask her for her number. Hell, I didn’t even ask her name!
I resumed riding towards my office, and thinking that Louie and the other tile-guy would likely still be working a couple more hours, knew that I had to kill some more time. I also knew that although the books were not heavy yet, they likely would feel like bricks soon. I decided I could drop them off at my office and get them some other time. This way I could resume riding without added weight slowing me down. I rode for a few more minutes and thought about stopping at the local farmers market – something I meant to do but failed to do all summer. I was still a bit far from my office and noticed a small gas station that I hadn’t remembered. I parked my bike against the plate-glass window and walked in to get a drink. A couple minutes later I walked out, drank half the Gatorade with one gulp, closed the bottle and put it in my bag, making sure the cap was tight so the remainder wouldn’t leak on my books.
I started off again but for some reason veered from going straight to my office. I was pissed at myself. I had never been intimidated before, often talking to girls who on the surface seemed way out of my league only to find out that they were cool and liked the fact that I had the confidence to approach them. Of course, I was always nervous, but went ahead anyway. Heck, I once got a date with a girl that I happened to be driving next to on the highway at 2 a.m.! So the fact that I met someone during the day who wasn’t a drunk bimbo and who seemed really nice and smart, and shared some of the same interests as me to boot –and I still didn’t ask her anything of any importance – that was something that I knew would cause me to stay awake at night kicking myself about.
I went up and down a few blocks, looking at the large old mansions on the tree-lined streets, wondering if I’d ever own one, trying unsuccessfully to get the nameless daughter off my mind. I was riding slow and reached into my pocket for my Blackberry again. Along with not wearing a helmet, I sometimes ride and send text messages or talk on the phone at the same time. Most people think I’m crazy for doing that, but I don’t really think it’s dangerous –and as for the lack of helmet – I have one but have only worn it once. I’ve wiped out twice in 15 years and never hit my head so I feel safe playing the odds.
I sent a text message to my friend Lisa, whom I admire beyond words. Lisa is one of my closest friends and one of the most down to earth people I know. Super smart and easy on the eyes – I always tell her in the next life she’s mine. In case you’re wondering, she is engaged to a very lucky guy. Anyway, the text that I sent her summed up my feelings exactly. I stated simply that “I am an idiot with a side of stupid.” A couple minutes later she responded and I proceeded to describe how I chickened out twice. As I explained what happened I kept riding, getting farther and farther from the nameless daughter’s garage sale. It didn’t take me long to decide to do what I knew I was going to do – go back one more time! I ran it by Lisa and to my relief she didn’t say that I was out of my mind – which she would have with no problem if she felt that way. She said to go for it, if I could only remember where the house was!
I wasn’t sure if LeeAnne would remember but decided to call my office and have the receptionist forward me to her cell phone. Luckily she answered and I asked her if she remembered which garage sale I had scene her at, now forty-five minutes later.
“It was… I don’t remember the street, east of Cumberland a block or two, about the 1700 block,” she said. “Why?”
“I gotta go see about something,” I said, not wanting to explain the situation again.
“Ok,” LeeAnne said with a chuckle, as if she knew, although she had left that garage sale before I started talking to the nameless daughter.
I hung up and knew I was close. I went up and down a few more blocks, trying to think what I would say this time and decided that I would go straight up to her, tell her that I liked talking to her and was wondering if I could give her a call. As Joel said in the movie Risky Business, sometimes you gotta say “What the fuck, and make your move.”
A few more minutes and I found it. I was about 200 feet from the house but could see the sign advertising the garage-sale. I hesitated for a few seconds and then said “let’s roll” to myself. I texted Lisa one last time that I was going in and this time just laid my bike on the sidewalk after dismounting. Granny must have been inside because I only saw the daughter, the young boy and the mother. I was about 40 feet away when the boy saw me, looked at the daughter and asked her “is that your boyfriend?”
I pretended not to hear and peered at my Blackberry as if I had gotten a message. I knew she was embarrassed and believed if she thought that I didn’t hear the kid, all would be fine. Well, she must have known I heard because she quickly went into the house. The mother looked at me and smiled, obvious to why I was back. I decided to play it cool and browsed at the books again. This time I didn’t see much of interest at all in the bookcase. There was a Kerouc book that I had never heard of but it looked like something he wrote well past his prime, I forget the title. I ended up grabbing a copy of “The Craft of Research,” a real page-turner written by three academic eggheads.
Not wanting to hang around too long, I walked up to the mother, who was seated at the table with the cigar-box. I looked at the little boy and said hello.
“Hey buddy, how old are you?”
The mother answered for him, explaining that he was six and her grandson.
“That’s your daughter’s son?”
“Yes,” she said, temporarily dashing my hopes, since now I figured that her daughter was married. With nothing to lose I told the mother that I have 3-year-old twins. We chit-chatted about kids and I informed her that I was divorced. Surprisingly she didn’t make the sad face that most make when hearing that such young kids have divorced parents. I found that a pleasant surprise. She then paused and asked if I had joint-custody in a manner that indicated she hoped I did, raising her voice slightly in an excited tone. I confirmed and she smiled. That opened the door to my next question, which I asked with my fingers crossed in my head.
“Is your daughter married?” I said, hoping it wasn’t a rude question.
“No, she’s not,” the mother said, smiling again, this time wider.
“She seems nice. What is her name?”
“Yes she is,” the mother said, not that she’d tell me if she was a moody witch. “Erin Cruise.”
Erin Cruise. Or was it Erin Cruz? She didn’t look Hispanic at all. What kind of name was Cruise I wondered?
“Well, tell her she can email me or call me,” I said, grabbing a business card from my wallet and handing it to her.
“I will,” she said, and I believed her. I then left, this time without regrets and with a smile. Now the owner of six new books, four of which I already owned, I went back home to unload them.
I hope Ms. Erin Cruise gives me a call. I hope she doesn’t chicken out like I did the first two times.
….to be continued?