Boys and Girls

A Saturday night on public transportation is like a holding room for the club. I watched a group of four guys and a group of four girls in the station. The girls wore heels and bite-sized dresses, over which they folded their curls and arms to keep from freezing. One girl kept her right arm outstretched to find a better angle for her unceasing attempts at self-portraits of the group. The boys wore polos and passed around an Aquafina bottle filled with orange liquid. The girls eventually gave up on her arm-span and had one of the boys take the picture. It seemed that they were perfect together.

Only it turned out that they weren't together. Once we sat on the train, I saw that they were total strangers, except of course that their social lives had molded them to fit very well together. The conversation was dull and disconnected, and representatives of each group pretended to get to know the other while cracking camouflaged inside jokes to their counterparts.

"You guys all got nice shoes," said the boys.
"Thanks," said the girls. "Where are you guys going?"
"Where are you guys going?" Three boys mysteriously chuckled. Another round of orange liquid.
"We asked you first." The girls cackle.

It's like tennis, but funnier.

As I left South Station, I had a hard time discerning all the signs for the different train and bus lines. What I wanted was the exit, but I ended up activating an alarm trying to go backwards through the turnstile just in time for the boys to notice.

"Woah, wrong way!" said the loud one.
"Yeah, how embarrassing."
"You are the biggest loser - goodbye," he said, in a drunk and slightly boggled reality-TV reference. I decided not to engage. We all stepped onto the gargantuan escalator. Near the top, the loud boy had a sudden change of heart.
"I'm sorry," he said to me, feigning remorse. "I didn't mean to call you a loser. You're not the biggest loser." This was all part of the boys and girls game. His role was to throw insults at me through a charming smile until I simply couldn't resist any longer. But I don't like to play that game.
"No, I know," I replied.
"Oooh, so... Wait, are you saying I'm the biggest loser?"
"No." I replied, and our paths diverged toward our respective Saturday nights.

Gina

"Good morning," she said, stopping me at the door to an empty 6am Au Bon Pain.
"Morning," I replied.
"Spare some change on the way out?"
"Maybe," I replied. "Oh no, I don't have any cash. I have to pay with my debit card."
"Would you buy me a cup of coffee in there?" How logical. Of course, my mind searched first for how that could possibly inconvenience me, but I couldn't come up with anything.
"Sure," I said. I stopped myself on the other side of the door. "What size?"
"Just a small," she said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."

I watched her as I slopped oatmeal into a paper cup. She looked like an unlikely candidate to be begging for breakfast. She had a nice leather jacket, floral collared shirt, tasteful makeup on her face. But there was something in her eyes that said she hadn't just forgotten her wallet.

"Do you want anything to eat?"
"Yes," she said, moving toward the pastries.
She set her cinnamon bun on the counter next to my oatmeal.
"We're together," I said. I watched the man swipe my card and thought of the extra five imaginary dollars for Gina. Spare change. Not as grand a gesture as a five dollar bill - way easier. But sad to be so near someone and her broken eyes.
"May God bless you a thousand times over, forever and ever, Amen."
"Thank you," I said.  She ate in the front window seat.
"You have a blessed weekend now, you hear?"
"You too. Bye Gina." 

Death Wish

Wednesday was an incredible day. The sun shone warmly through the cold spring, and I decided to wait outside while my laundry tumbled. I lay down on a hilltop park bench to feel the heat on my face, chatting to my mom on the phone, with nowhere to be and nothing to do.

And then I heard screaming in the square below. Repetitive, rhythmic words, like a mantra. I couldn't make them out, so I sat up and went to peer over the side of the hill. A man stood in the middle of the traffic rotary, under the same perfect sun, screeching, crying out, "Run me over! Run me over! Run me over! Run me over!"

She Got Game

My sister, Mom, and I got in the habit of walking to and from dinner while we were in Florida. One night we walked by a boy playing basketball in the street. He was still shooting around when we passed again four hours later. Emily and Mom were both on their cell phones as we approached him, so no one seemed to mind that I ran ahead to play ball.

He was elated to finally have an opponent, even if it was a person in a dress. He pulled all his left-right-fakey moves, but I am very serious about boxing out, and I put up a good fight. My family hovered at the end of the street while we chased each other around, neither of us making any shots. We chatted while we played.

"Do your siblings like basketball?" I asked.
"I don't know, kinda. My brother's at a party tonight," he answered.
"Okay. Well I'm pretty sure basketball is more fun than that."
"Yeah probably," he said as I scored my second point. It was 2-2 in a game to 3. "Are you sure you're not, like, a secret basketball wizard?" He may or may not have said that part. I can't be totally sure.

"So do you like living on the beach?" I asked, studying the large beach house behind us.
"Eh, it's a rental. My dad's back in Miami, but my mom moved us here after the divorce," he said.
"Not a bad place to be," I replied as he scored the winning point.
"Nah, not bad. So how long you guys in town?"
"Just until Monday morning," I said.
"Well, maybe I'll see you back out here," he suggested.
"Yeah, maybe," I replied, falling back into step with my family.

Love Dollar

This week at work, a girl handed me a one dollar bill with writing all over it and then went into class. Around the border, the dollar says:

"You are always in my heart! My little puppy. I love you so much! Love, little McVeggie! I'll miss you! I'll think about you this weekend!"

On the back:

"Love makes the world go round. Love sweet love! Love is all we need!"

Some parts of the dollar were also altered, so that it read, "IN (LOVE) WE TRUST" and (You're my #)1.

I thought about Where's George dollars and how money moves all over, all the time. On her way out of class, I asked the girl where she'd gotten the dollar.

"The truth?" she asked.
"Sure," I answered.
"I went through old shoe boxes today. It was leftover from an old relationship, and I was like, 'Well, it's' a dollar,' so I brought it here..."
"... to let go - to pass it on," I offered.
"Exactly," she said.

I haven't spent it yet, but look for Puppy and McVeggie coming soon to a cash register near you.

Anonymous

Later in the journey with Joelle, a man approached us on the Silver Line bus. He was very unsteady as he sat next to us, singing, with his belly cascading out from under his wife beater.

"Like these shoes?" he asked, his head bobbing in little circles with the motion of the bus.
"Yeah, they look brand new," I said.
"That's 'cause they are. I just stole 'em at DSW. But don't tell the PO-lice though."
"I won't tell," I said.
"Ya know, you girls are good girls. The kinda girls a guy could get jealous over and spend every day with. You're the kinda girls I'd want to find if I weren't so fucked up on drugs and all."

Joelle and I didn't answer. With every pause he resumed his song, which may have been improvised, but included the following lyrics:

"She's out of my league... I try to tell her but she's out of my league... but she's so beautiful though..."

I won't tell you the things he said then, which were so graphic and vulgar that even I was forced to avert my eyes and pretend not to hear. He headed for the door when his stop came, but just before the bus stopped, he came back for one last exchange.

"So can I call you sometime?" he asked me.
"No, I've got a man," I said.
"Well, maybe you and I could still get together," he said, placing his hand on my knee, testing my boundaries. Public transit is all about testing boundaries.
"I think you need to get your hand off my leg, please." I was surprised at how firm my voice sounded.
"Ok, alright, I was just waiting for you to say so," he replied, his hands up in surrender all the way out the door of the bus. 

Rodney

In Friday night rush hour, the train was filled with bodies and moving slow. I was pinned up against a wall with my study guide, rejoicing that I had something to lean against that wasn't a person. The car was quiet, except for a young black man in a multi-colored leather jacket. He was giving a derogatory account of his social life to two friends and the whole train, whom he addressed specifically at one point, saying:

"Everyone on this train just needs to have sex right now."

And that was Rodney. A seat near me became vacant at the next station. Rodney asked me if I wanted to sit. Of course I did - desperately, but I didn't want to give him any reason to talk to me about his sex life, so I shook my head. He sat and positioned his knees on either side of my thigh, which wasn't uncouth until more bodies entered the train and sucked up the space between things, leaving me in a slightly embarrassing position. And then the conductor announced that there was traffic ahead and we'd be standing by.

We were stopped for thirty minutes in that train. Rodney couldn't take the silence.

"It's like sardines!" he said, and I laughed. "What you studyin'?" he asked me.
"I have a test tomorrow," I replied.
"What's your test in?"
"It's for my yoga certification."
"Oh, you're gonna be a yoga teacher?" Oh, so sly.
"Yep."
"That's cool. You got a beautiful smile. What's your name?" It was about then that the train shut off, meaning the last ten minutes had been only the beginning.

His name was Rodney. He was studying photography at the community college.
"What kind of photography do you do?" I asked.
"Pornography mostly. But I'm really tryin'-a focus on my music now. I'm an emcee. I just got my YouTube up; you should check it out... Maybe we could even be Facebook friends." That's the thing about pickups these days. They happen online even when you are zero inches away from someone.
"I'm a musician, too," I said, narrowly dodging his 'friend request.'
"Oh yeah? What, you play piano?"
"A little, but mostly I'm a singer. I sing opera."
"No shit? Who's your favorite singer? Beethoven?" I could feel our whole corner of the train snicker.
"Um, I've never heard Beethoven sing. He's actually more famous for his composing."
"Oh right, okay. Man, you got nice, white teeth. You married?" he asked, peeking across my papers toward my mysterious left hand.
"No," I replied.
"Ah, lemme guess, you single?"
"No," I replied. "Actually, it's my boyfriend's birthday on Sunday."
"Wow, you should get him something." Still that sly smile.
"Yeah, I know!" I laughed. "I mean, I did," I replied.
"What'd you get him?"
"Power tools."

It was comical watching Rodney back off in that moment, like a scene from Home Improvement. I may as well have had an escaped convict for a boyfriend. After that, we were just two tired people waiting for the train to move. And then I went home and watched his YouTube.

Sam

Last week, a guy next to me on the train asked how my book was and what it was about. I told him the story, asked him what 'emasculate' meant, and started bundling up before my stop. He noticed my bike gloves and explained that he normally bike commutes but couldn't take the sludge that day.

"I'm a kindergarten teacher, so I think it's good for the students to see that everyone doesn't have to drive," he said.
"I support that," I answered.

We said goodbye on the escalator. He was a few steps ahead as we crossed the long hall to exit the station. The truth is, I was walking faster than him, but I couldn't bring myself to pass him. Repeat goodbyes are always worth avoiding. I kept a few bodies between us, but they sped up, and by the time we reached the door, it was Sam holding it for me. I gestured that I was powerless in the situation, and we both apologized, which was unnecessary but put us at ease.

"Usually people don't like other people to talk to them on the train," he said.
"I have a whole blog about it," I answered.

As we walked up the hill, we discovered how much we had in common. I thought how funny it was that two bike commuters would meet on a subway train, and I remembered Keith, and how people who smile really do have an unspoken understanding. Or maybe we're just trying to connect. Either way, it's nice to meet like-minded people.

Come As You Are

When my train pulled into Harvard the other day, the engineer announced that the train was going express to the end of the line, so most of the passengers and I got out to catch the next train. As we waited, an old man started singing really loudly, and everyone else got quiet. I didn't know his song, but this man had soul. The people on either side of me smiled, and we shared impressed looks that said, "Wow, he's really wailing..." The singer made his way over to us as he finished his song, and I clapped lightly, secretly hoping to be joined by the whole crowd.

"Name a band - any band!" he shouted to the man next to me. It got loud then as the next train pulled in, but through the closing doors, I heard the singer start up his unlikely encore - Nirvana. 

She Wears Two Signs

A lady stood with her back toward the top of the escalator as I left my train stop. She had a sign hanging from her shoulders that read, "Crippled - please help." As the escalator rose, I saw that the backs of her legs were exposed, despite the freezing temperatures, and that there were gaping wounds in the belly of both of her calves. I gulped.

Readers, I agonize over the words in these posts, and I hope you will not think I exaggerate when I say this was repulsive, and she bared it to the world in the heart of winter.

"Gaping wounds," I repeated to myself as I walked home. 

Count on It

Part of my job is keeping the cash drawer stocked with small bills, which makes for a quick-trip to the bank every couple of days. The man who inevitably appears behind any window I choose is excruciatingly slow. He wears gold cuff links, and his shirts are impeccably pressed. His face looks young, but he is so serious and strangely clean that I would guess he's at least thirty. Usually I hand him a stack of twenties and ask for a certain number of ones, fives, and tens. He takes the bills from me in separate stacks and then walks over to the drawer. He works methodically and carefully, always following some version of this pattern:

Count bills, straighten stack, straighten tie, count bills, type on computer, straighten sleeves, straighten stack.

Then he walks over to a counting machine, puts the bills in, and removes them, only to repeat the whole thing. It's all very straight. Everyone else at the bank counts the money once while trying to convince me to open a new account. I prefer the cuff links guy.

Keith

Sometimes I let my backpack sit next to me on the train. Like a few weeks ago, for example - right before I met Keith. He came into the train and seemed confused about where to sit. Though there were other places all around, I felt like I should move my bag, in case that was his holdup. I asked him if he wanted to sit. He sat.

"I like friendly people," he said. "People who smile seem to know the same thing I do. I like to think they come from the same place I come from."

"And where is that?" I asked.

"My mother's womb," he replied, smiling under his sheety, white mustache. His teeth were yellow and few.

"Me too," I laughed. "I come from 'my mother's womb,' too."

"We musta been womb-mates," he suggested. "Two thousand years ago." He had sparkly eyes.

I looked on confusedly while he held up his brown leather briefcase and explained the perplexing circumstances surrounding its lost strap hook. He looked like a veteran - camouflage cargo pants, light denim jacket, long white hair.

"People who aren't friendly just walk around... look at 'em, they're in pain." He gestured to the full row of passengers across the way. "They read newspapers and play with their electronics to hide their eyes." I could see the river behind them as we crossed the bridge into the city.

"Maybe they're just in pain for now," I offered. "Maybe they're short on sleep or sick or whatever."

"You might think so. Although you're a woman! Women don't think. You're lucky you're a woman, so you don't have to think."

I was silent. With two stops to my destination, it seemed like a bad time to tackle that statement.

"Ya know, people like me go to the movies and get ideas down in Hollywood, you know? They'll do anything in Hollywood. S & M people like me, who cut off their tattoos with razor blades and go to the movies..." He trailed off.

"What?" What?, indeed. I was lost at his rapid shift of conversation and frightened by the content it brought. I wasn't even sure I had heard him correctly.

"Never you mind. You just pretend you didn't hear that, smiley. What I meant to say is, I'm going to the movies. Goin' to Lowe's to the movies." He laughed.

"Oh, okay!"

I clung to his mention of the movies - I made sure we did not stray from that topic. Meanwhile, my mind raced through images sprung from his confession and the mere utterance of 'razor blade'. I wondered if he had a sharp object with him - in his briefcase or the pocket of his white undershirt. I was afraid of Keith. I had trusted him with my smile and ears and personal space, and somewhere between his long mustache and Black Swan, he betrayed me. I arrived at work feeling ridiculously naive.

Serial Swindler

Do you recall the man from this post, readers? Well, I didn't tell you, but I saw him again in September. Only that time he was screaming about how he'd lost a bed lottery at MIT and needed seven dollars to get on the commuter rail at Porter Square (for reasons I've now forgotten). And even though I recognized him, I gave him the two dollars in my wallet, because his story was so convincing that I assumed he'd been telling the truth both times. Except that I saw him get off before Porter Square and run to a different train car with our seven dollars. Maybe he wanted Raisinets for the journey.

But then I saw him again. And again he proclaimed an incredible tale of uber-specific misfortune to the entire train car.

"Can anyone on this train give me 22 bucks to get a picture ID? I'm up for my section 8 housing, but they won't see me if I don't have a picture ID... I've waited months and months for this, and all I need to do is get through the RMV. I already got three dollars from the cafeteria at Mass General before I got kicked out by the cops. Please everyone, can you spare anything? Two dollars or three dollars just to get me through the RMV. I just want a roof over my head. Please, I just want a bed."

Always rush hour, always between Park Street and Harvard Square stations, always the middle of the train. Who cares if he's a repeat offender? He's creative, he does his research... the guy is good. No wonder the MBTA is following him.

Mystery Boxes

Getting onto the train today, I spotted a dainty box in the lap of an awkward boy I sat next to. It was shaped like a white gingerbread house and brushed with warm oriental flowers and unfamiliar red characters. It looked imported, but it was made of the thin cardboard Mike's Pastry uses, and he held it in his hands as though he'd only just acquired it.

I suppose this won't surprise you, but I was so stricken by the guy's parcel that I bumped into him. I apologized. He looked up at me to report that he was fine. I thought that was enough to serve as an invitation for my burning question.

"Where did you get that box?" I blabbed.
"Chinatown," he answered, looking pleased at my interest. And then, as if he knew it was inevitable, he peeled back the top flap to give me a peek. "They're Chinese treats; I don't really like them, but they're for a friend."

I guess I'd expected a collection of beads or thimbles or an exotic talking bird, but the fluffy breads kind of killed the magic. I looked down at the book in my hands.

"So... how are you?" he asked anxiously.
"Good," I sighed. "Glad to be done with work and headed for a nap." I smiled faintly and lifted my bookmark.

And that was how we failed to meet each others' expectations.

Jam Tomorrow, Jam Yesterday

The other day I walked into Starbucks to find a bitter old man accosting each barista, one by one, with variations on the following:

"You wanna jam!? I'll show ya how to jam!"

"You think you know how to jam, huh?"

"Why do you always wanna jam?"

I really don't know what he meant by jam, but this is what I was thinking:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-MLwPW86Rs

After they asked him to leave enough times, he showed himself out and proclaimed, "Ya' all so fuckin' stupid!"

Thank You Very Much

This weekend a man playing classical guitar murmured something as I stood waiting for a train. He was looking right at me when he said it, so I figured it was directed at me.

“What’s that?” I asked.
“I said you was the only one I was even thinkin’ about,” he answered.
“Oh.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t seem like the kind of conversation that I ought to pursue, so I stared down the tunnel to look for a train and hoped that would be the end of our encounter.

After a moment he began to play again, but then he suddenly stopped.

“Fuck this, I’m outta here,” he said, standing and working his guitar strap forward over his head. “Fuck you very much!” he announced to the platform. And then, just for good measure, “Fuck you!"

I looked over while he counted his change and packed up, and only then noticed his Dr. Seuss T-Shirt: Would you, could you, with a goat?

Nuclear / Snack Fare

My boyfriend got ahead of me coming over the Mass Ave. bridge on our bikes the other day. By the time I caught up to him, he was pulled over talking to another biker, a fortyish round man with ruddy cheeks and no helmet. I caught the tail end of their exchange.

“Yeah... see that smoke over there? That’s a nuc, right here on campus. That’s the Cambridge nuc!” The man pointed to a hazy vent on an MIT building.
“Oh really? Geez, I never woulda guessed...” said Morgan. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to laugh, not knowing what led into his remark.
“Oh yeah. You spend enough time around campus you get to know things... like MIT’s got the best sandwiches, but then at Harvard you’ve got those handsome scholars bakin’ you cookies...”
“Wow. Thanks for the inside scoop,” I said, confused and sort of thrilled at my timing.
“Have a good day!” Morgan said, starting out home.
“You too.”

As Morgan and I rode away, I pressed him for the information I had missed. Did he know that man? What was his story? Or how did they end up talking?
“He just pulled up and started in on the nuc.” Excellent.

Like Real Stahs

I sat on the bench in front of this picture the other day waiting for a train. A man walked toward me, staring at the picture behind my head.

"Oh, wow! That's Davis Square! I nevah noticed that before. That's the old Somerville theater!"

"Yep," I replied.
"The train used to go right by there. And it musta been Christmas time! Look how they did those lights - they made 'em look like real stahs! How do they do that? Musta been a drive-by."
"Ha, maybe, yeah..." I decided not to point out that the people in the picture were wearing T-Shirts and that the twinkle lights were actually up year-round.

"We used to see movies there for five cents! Now, it's unbelievable. I went to the cinema in Boston a few weeks ago. They musta chahged us like 12 or 15 bucks to see a movie! They're just robbin' us now."
"Yeah. It's $9 now, and that's even cheap for a theater!" I love commiserating about the prices at movie theaters.

"I remembah when I was in boot camp down in New Jersey - a packa cigarettes used to cost thirty-seven cents." He looked like he'd smoked his whole life. His skin was weathered and his cheeks were dark and hollow.

"Wow! And what is it now?" I asked as the train pulled up.

"Nine bucks. I still smoke, and I shoulda quit a long time ago for that price." We both headed into the train. He went left and sat down. For some reason, it seemed too intimate to sit right next to him. I started to go right, but then I realized there were no other seats. So I thought, 'what the hell,' and we continued our conversation side by side.

"Maybe that's the idea," I offered.

"Nah, they don't want cha ta quit. They just raise it little by little, so ya stay addicted, and then they just rob ya." He looked down at the lettering on my Ski Big Sky shirt.

"You from Montana then?" he asked.

"Nope, just went there a lot when I was younger."

"I went to Montana for work corps when I was a teenager. They used to tell us about the black bears in the mountains to keep us from runnin' off! Hah, I tell ya, I prefer the army to that place any day." I laughed. "So where ya from?"

"North Dakota."

"Wow! What brought ya out here?"

"School."

"Oh yeah? Ya in college?"

"Not anymore. Just finished, actually," I replied.

"What? You must be what, like, 20 years old?"

"Nope, 24."

"No way! You got a baby face, miss. Well, this is my stop. You take care. Be careful," he said.

"Okay," I replied. "Nice talking to you."

Be careful, baby face. Because sitting down with a stranger out of genuine curiosity is what we teach children not to do.

Freegan

Last weekend I was approached by three people in yellow T-shirts while I waited on my bike for the red light to change.

"Give the lady biker a free T-Shirt!" said one of them.

"Yeah! Please do!" I said. I really, really love free stuff.

"I'm gonna give the lady biker a flower, too!" said another.

"Okay!" I said, awkwardly failing to open my messenger bag.

"Excellent. We'll even help you put them in this bag," said the man with the flowers.

"Wow! What service. This is so great. Also, please don't steal my wallet while your back there." I knew my wallet was well-buried in the secret pocket, but you can't be too careful when a stranger is digging through your bag.

"I wouldn't do that. I'll just put it on top here," he said, opening the flap of my bag as the light turned back to red.

"I trust you," I said in my Rose-from-Titanic voice.

"Hah, okay, well I trust you too," he laughed. "Oh look, lunch! You're all ready to go now," he said and closed my bag.

"Good, because I've got a big day ahead of me."

"Well, enjoy it!"

"I will now - thanks guys!" I said and pedaled away toward work.

When I got to the studio, it was like Christmas opening my bag. The T-shirt is ginormous; I think it's an XXXL, and it says "All you care about is my sperm." It's perfect. I put the flower on the countertop, as a kind of 'pay it forward' gesture.

Here's a plug for the nice folks at http://increaseyourchances.org/. Thanks for the T-shirt and flowers and the best five minutes of my weekend.

Antiquing

On a rainy vacation day in Vermont, it seemed appropriate to find shelter in a local antique dealer's home. We were hailed in off the road by a big flag that read "OPEN" and another "Antiques." The blue house was complete with a barn to each side, an old moldy tent, and two floors, all overflowing with furniture pieces and knick-knacks. The driveway was lined with rusty chairs and sculptures, all of which had seen many more rainy days in Vermont than I. An assortment of bells clinked as we entered the house, and I found myself gripping a tennis ball when I turned to close the door behind me.

We started tentatively toward the living room to our left and were greeted by a long-haired man in earth tones and working boots.

"Ever been here before?" he asked us.

"Nope, first timers," I replied.

"Ah, okay. Welp, we got all the stuff you see out here, we got stuff in the barn out back and the shed, we got stuff out there under the tent... Oh, sometimes you might find stuff inside things," he added, opening a china cabinet to reveal its hodge podge contents. "You can dig around and find some great stuff. You lookin' for anything particular?"

"Not really. Just lookin'."

"Okay. Well, don't be afraid to holler at us if you have questions. And don't be afraid to dig." He started out of the room but immediately returned to add, "Everything's on sale, too, so if ya want somethin', tell us."

"Great! Thanks so much!"

Once we were left with the goods themselves, I tried my best to focus on one thing at a time. There were three rubber stamps, a toy typewriter, rusted wrenches and screws, a row of leather jackets, and beautiful, smoky silverware. Each room was arranged by theme, which was appropriate because it was a house, so living room stuff was in the living room, games in the den, etc. Upstairs, we found the master bedroom. In the center was a bed frame, with a lovely headboard and floral sheets hanging over the top. There were chests of drawers and a desk with vanity mirror. Clothes were hanging in the closet. A dusty white nighty hung next to a long purple coat, with shoes underneath to match. It was like going through my grandparents' attic, but while that gave me information about people I knew and loved, this gave me clues to a strange, open-ended mystery. I felt like I was supposed to be a vulture - to want to see everything and find the buried treasure, but I couldn't shake the history of these private items. Where did the lady wear her white purse with the gold chain? What color lipstick did she keep inside?

After a little while, a petite woman came upstairs. She was a sweet person with a salt-and-pepper mane and a weathered face.

"How are you doing up here?" she asked.

"Great!" I replied.

"Where ya from?"

"Boston. Well, we live in Somerville."

"Oh really? I lived in Somerville for years! That was when I was with my first husband; yeah, this is my second marriage," she looked up to signify some explanation. "But I loved Somerville. It's convenient, close to Cambridge, but it's quieter, like a neighborhood. When we moved out here, it was one of those life-changing things, you know?" I nodded. "So are you guys finding anything?" she asked.

"Not yet. There's just so much!"

"Yeah. Well, it's only your first visit. Let us know if you like anything, because prices are tweakable."

I told her that I liked one of the trunks, but didn't think I could fit it in my car.

"Well, we have loads of them if you want something smaller. Did you check out back?"

"No, we've only been in here so far."

"Oh, well, look under the tent and check in the barn. There's a flashlight out there on your way in."

"Okay," I said.

"And we may have more if you come back, too. You know, this business is always changing. It used to be people were buying up all the linens. You'd get a bunch in and then people would dig through them and want to get there hands on them all, but now nobody wants them anymore. So you gotta pick and choose when you're on a pick up," she laughed. "You have to try to find the right things. But we've got lots of trunks in and out of here."

"Okay, well, we'll check out there and see what we find."

We thanked her and headed out to the barn. The rain had seeped through and damaged a lot of the pieces - bed frames had turned orange and blankets brown. By the time the man came back out to show me all the trunks under the tent, the rain had let up a little bit, and we were ready to hit the road again. But he worked hard to make the sale. He had to sell while he had us. That was the nature of his business. But we were just looking.