Sold
by Sarah Inman

What goes on behind the scenes when love goes South and it's time to move on? You get fucked up and sell your shit.

The sign says “Yard Sale Today,” but the gate is locked. From the shutters of the nineteenth century carriage house hang a silver sequined tube skirt, a silky red costume, and the realtor’s declaration of “sold.” Inside beyond the mounds of stuff—a sturdy, well made desk, piles of shoes and clothes, several globes, glasses, mirrors, coffeemakers, and appliances, K and her crew prepare to pack. A halter top and short-shorts display K’s deep even tan. She wears two belts, one a scarf slung low around her hips and the other a delicate jeweled piece secured around her navel. A red feather sits atop her messy up-do, and she holds a rocks glass.

“Hey. Come on in,” K says, unlocking the gate.

A little black mutt follows her into the living room where JB, a man with a long white braided beard that hangs to his exposed potbelly, offers a smoke. K offers a drink, and on the couch wedged between two more dogs, three people hover over a plate of cocaine.

“Look at this place,” K says. “How am I going to get everything out of here in two days?”

“If I had his number I would call my ex-husband and thank him for getting rid of all of our stuff,” S says. “I didn’t want it, not even the Hungarian china that belonged to my ex-in-laws. I never had an attachment to dishes. They’re just dishes, and what was I going to do with a five-hundred-dollar butter plate after my divorce?” Dressed in a form fitting leopard print dress, S gets up from the couch and moves to the kitchen where she slices into oranges fresh from the courtyard. They mix well with vodka.

A concerned neighbor, E reminds K of food that E will cook tonight. “You have to eat,” E says, clutching her bag and looking around at the pots and pans, the half-packed glassware and the cluttered countertops.

“Oh, I will, honey,” K assures.

“Just come over when you’re hungry,” E says.

Wearing eyeglasses and a t-shirt that proclaims “S is a rock star,” A strolls into the kitchen. He rubs resin from the coke plate onto his gums before giving in to S’s request of donning a red clown nose, a find from the depths of stuff.

“What did the lion need?” he asks.

There's a bluebird on my shoulder.

“What does the straw man need?” S asks.

“You mean the Scarecrow,” A corrects.

“A brain,” E answers. She steps around boxes as she exits and reiterates, “Just come over later, K. You have to eat.”

“And the Tin Man?” S asks.

“A heart,” K says.

“And the lion?” A asks again.

“Courage,” JB answers. “Not an organ. Not like the rest of them.”

“What do you think that means?” S wonders.

“He needs that something else, that thing between head and heart,” JB answers.

“I need another drink,” frat-boy built M strolls in from the living room, pokes his head in the fridge.

“My dermatologist told me to wash gently, to not scrub away my essential oils.” S speaks frequently, filling the room with her voice. Over the music she can be heard.

*

With the bed gone from the bedroom, there’s space for boxes and piles, a task P accepts. Quietly he stacks boxes, folds clothes and occasionally calls out to K. He makes lists and keeps the process running.

“I want to see you in your wedding gown,” S says to K. “It’s appropriate. Don’t you think so?”

“I’ll get it,” K says. “But first I have to deal with the shoe situation. I mean, I got rid of so many already.” K stares into a closet filled mostly with shoes. She pauses for a moment and pulls out a pair of four-inch hot pink pumps. “Here, take these,” she says.

“Oh, honey, I’m a size eight, not ten,” S states.

“I only own two bras, but would you look at all these shoes?” K says.

“I never wear underwear,” S adds, lifting her dress to prove her point.

“Me neither, girl.”

“It’s too constricting. Who wants her vagina covered in spandex? The only time I’d be concerned about not wearing underwear is if a breeze came and lifted my skirt or if I fall down or something and then you can see my cooch, but if that happens, then it’s not my fault you can see my cooch.”

“Oh, please take these,” K says, pushing the pumps in S’s direction.

“Not my size, babe. Let’s put on some more music.”

Then K cries, wipes tears from under her eyes. “I have to be out by Tuesday. How am I going to do this?” She’s been tired since last year when she and her ex returned to the ruined city delighted to find their Marigny home intact. Soon the in-laws, residents of the part of Metairie that flooded, moved into the guest house, and K set out to feed animals left behind by evacuees, the Red Cross having rejected her help because the supervisor claimed she dressed too provocatively. She’s been restless ever since, or perhaps her restlessness predates the storm.

I finally had to replace my jackrabbit.

“Last year I threw away all my sex toys,” S declares. “I never thought I’d want sex toys but then after my divorce and when I was in my forties, I realized I should try them. I asked myself, ‘What’s something called a jackrabbit going to do for me?’ But then I thought, ‘What the hell? Why not try it?’ My gay friends took me shopping one day, and I wasn’t embarrassed or anything, and then last year I finally had to replace the jackrabbit, so I decided to do a thorough cleaning of my sex toys and I was very careful to put them into a contractor bag.” She bangs two green oranges together before slicing into one and squeezing the juice from it. “At the time, my neighbor was this crazy lady who always had yard sales and I never went to her house. So the next day I put all my sex toys in the contractor bag and set it on the curb in front of my house, and before the garbage men came by, someone had taken the contractor bag full of my sex toys. I was really worried that the crazy lady next door had opened the bag and was selling my used sex toys. I was so embarrassed. I didn’t even walk by her house, not that I ever did before.” S sips her freshly made drink. “Why does my ice melt so fast?”

K changes into a pair of silky white pants with fringe on the bottom and her high heeled open toed red house slippers, the ones with bits of rabbit fur.

JB passes a pipe.

“Oh, no,” S says. “Pot just puts me to sleep. I know myself, and right now I don’t want to fall asleep.”

K pulls a graduation cap from a half packed box and swills what’s left from a nearby rocks glass. She puts the hat on her head and declares, “I’m a graduate of I-don’t-know-what University.” Someone bangs on the gate, wanting to see what’s for sale. “Just a sec!” K hollers. Her lovely red house slippers slap hard against the wood floor as she marches toward the front door. “I’m coming.”

Sarah Inman is the author of Finishing Skills, a novel. She is a regular correspondent for NOLAFugees.com.