My neighbor is packing up a lot of items onto his pickup truck.

Me: “Going on a trip?”

Neighbor: “Got a spot at the local yard sale.”

Me: “Oh.”

Neighbor: “You always have a lot of stuff in your garage. You should come sell some of it too.”

Me: “I used to go to that yard sale a lot, but I never really sold anything. Most of the customers just use yard sales as a social thing. They’re not really shopping.”

Neighbor: “Maybe you just had it all priced too high.”

Me: “I was gonna swing by the yard sale anyway, so I’ll say hi. Let me show you something when I do.”

Neighbor: “Sure.”

A couple hours later I find my neighbor’s spot, and he agrees to let me man his table for a few minutes to show him something. 

Customers would come along pick up a picture frame or something, look at it and ask:

Customer: “How much?”

Me: “A dollar.”

They would look at it for a few more minutes and then put it down and walk away.

A few minutes later another customer picked up the picture frame and asked:

Next Customer: “How much?”

Me: “One cent.”

This customer still looked at it for another minute before putting it down and walking away.

Me: *To my neighbor.* “About 90% of the people are here to socialize and browse, not shop. Good luck, though!”

I bought a novelty mug from him for fifty cents and said goodbye. When I saw him the next day, he told me he’d sold a total of five items, totalling three dollars, including my sale.

I’m in the never-ending suburbia of Los Angeles, walking my two dogs. I’ve gone a different route than usual, passing a street for the first time, and I see a family hosting a yard sale.

Their little daughter, maybe six or so, is hosting a lemonade stand: fifty cents a cup. Bargain!

I get in line behind an old lady who is talking to this little girl.

Old Lady: “Fifty cents? That’s a bit steep!”

Little Girl: “It’s good lemonade.”

Old Lady: “Well, I’m going to look at your yard sale, and I need to save my coins for that, so you should give me a free drink to enjoy while I browse.”

Little Girl: *Weary sigh of someone beyond her years.* “This is why the whole street hates you, Dierdre.”

I burst into a snort laugh so abrupt it scares my dogs. Dierdre turns around, realizes an adult has been within earshot of her attempt to haggle with a kid, tuts, and storms away.

I gave the little girl a dollar. Fifty cents for the drink and fifty cents for the entertainment.

I’m selling some items at a yard sale. Everything is as you’d expect: random items being sold for cheap (most things cost a dollar or two); cash only.

Customer: “I’m interested in [items].”

Me: “Cool! All three together comes to… $7.”

Customer: “I’m from Oregon.”

Me: “Okay.”

Customer: “So… what’s the price now?”

Me: “Still $7.”

Customer: “But I’m from Oregon. We don’t have sales tax. What’s the price without sales tax?”

Me: “This is a yard sale. The price you see is the price you pay.”

Customer: “But I’m from Oregon.”

Me: “And the price is still $7.”

Customer: “You’re expecting me, an Oregonian, to pay sales tax?!”

Me: “I already bought these once and paid the sales tax then. If you want, I can charge you the sales tax I paid then and take it off since, y’know, you’re from Oregon, and the total comes to… $7.”

Customer: *Sniffs.* “Everything here is ugly anyway.” *Walks away.*

I probably would have cut her a deal if she were a normal person!

It’s the annual town-wide garage sale event, and a friend is participating by holding a garage sale at her house. I live out of town, but she’s invited me to bring my own things to sell. She’s also invited another friend of hers, a baker, to sell her baked goods.

The three of us have a nice time interacting with customers or people-watching. Another garage sale is directly across the street. The street is a main thoroughfare, so we see many cars drive by carrying second-hand purchases from other garage sales.

Two customers check out the neighbor’s sale before heading our way. They only give our wares a cursory glance.

Customer: “Do you know of any places to eat around here?”

The three of us freeze and look pointedly over at the table covered in baked goods.

Friend: “There’s a diner a few blocks from here.”

Me: “And a crawfish restaurant… but there’s also food right here, if you’re hungry. It’s very delicious.”

Customer: “We’re looking for real food.”

Me: “…”

It’s a sunny Saturday morning, and I’m with my two girls (eleven and thirteen), at a suburban yard sale. The kids come back to me after looking around.

Me: “See anything you like?”

Kid #1: “There was a cheap MacBook. It was, like, a hundred.”

Me: “That’s really cheap!”

Kid #1: “Yeah, but it’s broken. It’s got some big crack on the side!”

Kid #2: “Yeah, it’s huge! Like, it goes all along the side!”

I walk over to inspect it. I pick up the laptop, turning it over in my hands.

Me: “I can’t see the crack.”

Kid #1: “Oh my God, Dad, it’s right there! Are you blind?” *Points.*

Me: “That’s… a CD drive.”

Both of my kids take a pause.

Kid #1: “…What’s a CD?”

I just sigh, suddenly feeling every one of my years, while the yard sale host chuckles from their lawn chair.