![]() |
||
To comment scroll to the bottom of the entry. Your e-mail address and URL are optional fields.
2005 04 05
Mnemonic City-Fragment 7
![]() I found a box of nice old melamine dishes, in various shades of green -- four square plates, bowls, salad-plates, and a serving tray. I threw them in the duffel-bag I'd brought and kept browsing, ignoring Craphound as he charmed a salty old Rotarian while fondling a box of leather-bound books. I browsed a stack of old Ministry of Labour licenses -- barber, chiropodist, bartender, watchmaker. They all had pretty seals and were framed in stark green institutional metal. They all had different names, but all from one family, and I made up a little story to entertain myself, about the proud mother saving her sons' accreditations and framing hanging them in the spare room with their diplomas. "Oh, George Junior's just opened his own barbershop, and little Jimmy's still fixing watches. . ." I bought them. In a box of crappy plastic Little Ponies and Barbies and Care Bears, I found a leather Indian headdress, a wooden bow-and-arrow set, and a fringed buckskin vest. Craphound was still buttering up the leather books' owner. I bought them quick, for five bucks. "Those are beautiful," a voice said at my elbow. I turned around and smiled at the snappy dresser who'd bought the uke at the Secret Boutique. He'd gone casual for the weekend, in an expensive, L.L. Bean button-down way. "Aren't they, though." "You sell them on Queen Street? Your finds, I mean?" "Sometimes. Sometimes at auction. How's the uke?" "Oh, I got it all tuned up," he said, and smiled the same smile he'd given me when he'd taken hold of it at Goodwill. "I can play 'Don't Fence Me In' on it." He looked at his feet. "Silly, huh?" "Not at all. You're into cowboy things, huh?" As I said it, I was overcome with the knowledge that this was "Billy the Kid," the original owner of the cowboy trunk. I don't know why I felt that way, but I did, with utter certainty. "Just trying to re-live a piece of my childhood, I guess. I'm Scott," he said, extending his hand. _Scott?_ I thought wildly. _Maybe it's his middle name?_ "I'm Jerry." The Upper Canada Brewery sale has many things going for it, including a beer garden where you can sample their wares and get a good BBQ burger. We gently gravitated to it, looking over the tables as we went. "You're a pro, right?" he asked after we had plastic cups of beer. "You could say that." "I'm an amateur. A rank amateur. Any words of wisdom?" I laughed and drank some beer, lit a cigarette. "There's no secret to it, I think. Just diligence: you've got to go out every chance you get, or you'll miss the big score." He chuckled. "I hear that. Sometimes, I'll be sitting in my office, and I'll just _know_ that they're putting out a piece of pure gold at the Goodwill and that someone else will get to it before my lunch. I get so wound up, I'm no good until I go down there and hunt for it. I guess I'm hooked, eh?" "Cheaper than some other kinds of addictions." "I guess so. About that Indian stuff -- what do you figure you'd get for it at a Queen Street boutique?" I looked him in the eye. He may have been something high-powered and cool and collected in his natural environment, but just then, he was as eager and nervous as a kitchen-table poker-player at a high-stakes game. "Maybe fifty bucks," I said. "Fifty, huh?" he asked. "About that," I said. "Once it sold," he said. "There is that," I said. "Might take a month, might take a year," he said. "Might take a day," I said. "It might, it might." He finished his beer. "I don't suppose you'd take forty?" I'd paid five for it, not ten minutes before. It looked like it would fit Craphound, who, after all, was wearing Scott/Billy's own boyhood treasures as we spoke. You don't make a living by feeling guilty over eight hundred percent markups. Still, I'd angered the fates, and needed to redeem myself. "Make it five," I said. He started to say something, then closed his mouth and gave me a look of thanks. He took a five out of his wallet and handed it to me. I pulled the vest and bow and headdress out my duffel. He walked back to a shiny black Jeep with gold detail work, parked next to Craphound's van. Craphound was building onto the Lego body, and the hood had a miniature Lego town attached to it. Craphound looked around as he passed, and leaned forward with undisguised interest at the booty. I grimaced and finished my beer. [email this story] Posted by Cory Doctorow on 04/05 at 08:53 AM
Next entry: Speculation Seven - A Permanent Home for Furniture Bank Previous entry: The Art Gallery of . . . |
Toronto News
MESH Cities
M00o93H7pQ09L8X1t49cHY01Z5j4TT91fGfr
Spacing
M10o93H7pQ09L8X1t49cHY01Z5j4TT91fGfr
Blogto.com
M20o93H7pQ09L8X1t49cHY01Z5j4TT91fGfr
Torontoist.com
M30o93H7pQ09L8X1t49cHY01Z5j4TT91fGfr
Toronto Galleries
Archives of Ontario
R.C. Archdiocese of Toronto Art Gallery of Mississauga Art Gallery of Ontario Art Gallery of York University Art Metropole Bata Shoe Museum Black Creek Pioneer Village Blackwood Gallery Bradley Museum Creative Spirit Art Centre CBC Museum Museum of Carpets and Textiles CNE Archives Casa Loma Clint Roenisch Gallery Colborne Lodge Collections and Conservation Centre David Dunlap Observatory Gallery TPW Glendon Gallery Goethe-Institute Grange HVACR Heritage Centre Canada Historic Fort York Hockey Hall of Fame The Law Society MacKenzie House Market Gallery Mercer Union Ontario Association of Art Galleries Ontario Crafts Council Ontario Science Centre Royal Canadian Military Institute Royal Ontario Museum Ryerson Polytechnical University Archives Scarborough Historical Museum Sharon Temple Museum Spadina Museum Textile Museum of Canada Thomas Fisher Rare Book Toronto Aerospace Museum Toronto Writers Centre YYZ Artists' Outlet York Museum |
Related Links
Toronto Stories by
Stats
Toronto Links
Your Opinions
Other Blogs
News Sources
Syndicate
|