Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

Thank God for those people. If American consumers didn’t keep ditching their old stuff to buy new stuff, there wouldn’t be nearly as much cool secondhand stuff for the rest of us.

Secondhand goods are more than my obsession. They’re my business now. Stu’s Nothing New Store. The Right Stuff at the Right Price. It’s not what I planned for my life. But it’s the right thing. For now.

My shop shares a block with a half dozen similar stores, Needful Things, Clara’s Classic Collectibles, L’Attitude, in Bay Harbor’s Oldtown district near the Saginaw River. Tourists flock here in the summer, but in November it’s quieter. Waiting for winter.

Owning a secondhand store isn’t like running a supermarket. You can’t order stock from a catalog and salesmen don’t call.

Occasionally civilians bring in things to sell. I seldom buy. Can’t afford to. The Antiques Roadshow has everyone convinced that their mismatched saltshakers are worth umpty millions. They don’t want a fair price. They want me to save their lives. I can’t. I’m barely clinging to my own.

My store is a mixed bag, vintage furniture, lamps, and appliances. Useful things whether you’re into antiques or not. I keep it stocked by scanning the classifieds, shopping the sales. Hunting and gathering. A Neanderthal in chinos and deck shoes.

Moving sales are my favorites, especially when Grandma’s bailing out for Florida. Decades of stuff priced to sell quick, cash on the barrelhead, no gouging, everybody’s happy.

Estate sales have similar goods but they can be a downer when they’re run by grieving widows. Or surly relatives who were counting on a really big bequest from Uncle Ernie.

Garage sales are great if they’re actually in a garage and you arrive early enough.

Rummage sales depend on the sponsors. The richer the church, the better the stuff. Sometimes people donate valuable things just to prove they can.

Dead last on my list, or anyone’s list, are execution sales. The bill collector’s last resort. Cops slap a lien on your stuff and auction it off. But since people only bid dimes on the dollar, a poor bastard can lose everything he owns and still owe bigtime.

The goods at execution sales are usually a notch above trash. If a guy’s busted flat, how much good stuff can he have?

When I first opened my store, my father-in-law steered some city business my way. Execution sales. Whoopee. It was like running an estate sale with the corpse moping around. Looking sadly over your shoulder as you price tag his stuff. Appraising the value of his life. For a quick sale.

Never again. I’d rather backstroke across Saginaw Bay with a skunk stapled to my forehead. But you don’t always get to choose your poison. Sometimes life just serves it up.

A biker blew into my store on a blustery November afternoon. Didn’t glance at my stock, strode straight to the counter. Big guy, faded jeans, leather vest, tattooed arms, ratty beard.

“You own this place?”

“More or less. Can I help you?”

“Do you buy stuff?”

“Sometimes. What kind of—”

“I got all kinds. Furniture, appliances, plates. All old.”

“How old? Older than you, or—”

“Older than your grandma, pal. I’m in this ol’ wreck of a house and we’re gettin’ evicted by the damn city. I gotta sell everything off. You interested or not?”

“I can take a look, sure. No promises.”

“I can’t spend promises anyway. Bring cash.” He gave me an address on Centralia, an older section of town. I said I’d stop by after supper. Almost didn’t go. I didn’t like the look of... whatever his name was. He hadn’t mentioned it.

Wreck of a house was an understatement. Tudor style, complete with parapets and matching towers, three stories, Civil War era, maybe older. Hadn’t seen paint since the Depression.

There was something familiar about it. Couldn’t think what. Since my accident I have a lot of memories like that. Fragments. Images with no sense of time or place. Remembering my past is like watching a slide show of someone else’s summer vacation.

Then it hit me. The Addams Family TV show. Morticia and Uncle Fester would feel right at home in this dump.

Lurch answered the doorbell. My biker host, looking even edgier than before. At least I wasn’t alone. Half the dealers from Oldtown were already inside.

Marta Cohen from L’Attitude was prowling through piles of odds and ends in the living room. Squared off and surly in black denims, combat boots, and a muscle shirt, I figured Marta could probably stomp Lurch in a fair fight. Or an unfair one.

I said hi but Marta ignored me, lost in the hunt. She already had a stack of stuff set aside, a couple of dusty cameras, a Western Electric wall phone, ashtrays, a storm lantern with a cracked chimney.

Ted Sorensen from Needful Things was there too, gawky as a stork in horn-rims and a red Mr. Rogers cardigan. The only shopper I didn’t recognize was a pert, dark woman with a curly mop and Mediterranean features, bustling cheerfully through the stacks like a puppy at play.