anissa Lynne johnson

Tom Hanks Goes to a Rummage Sale

Tom Hanks jogs in reverse. A flash of neon green caught his eye about a block ago. Curiosity gnaws at him. Beads of sweat pool in the crook behind his knees, spilling into the sock line around his ankles. 10:12 am and already 80° in Los Angeles. 

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RUMMAGE SALE 

FRI. – SAT.

9AM – 2 PM 

LOTS OF HOUSEHOLD ITEMS!!

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He strolls up the short driveway to the garage, where an elderly woman sits in a canvas camping chair outside the garage door. Embroiders a monarch butterfly onto a pillow case. Beside her, a metal cash box rests atop a TV tray. Next to it, a mug of coffee (one cream, two sugars). Tom lowers his head and raises a hand in salutation. “Hiya. Good morning. Nice sale you have going here!” he says as he glances around the garage. The woman looks up at him, smiles with her mouth closed, nods, and picks up her needle again. She’s working on the black outline of the monarch’s wings. 

Tom purses his lips. “Well, I guess I better get shopping.” He decides to start at the back of the garage first and work his way forward through each of the seven folding tables until he returns to the woman and her cash box. 

Tom lingers at each table for at least two minutes even if, at first glance, its contents don’t interest him. He doesn’t want to miss a thing. Piles of cheap paperbacks. Outdated world maps (Yugoslavia, Zanzibar, North & South Yemen). A chess set. Decks of cards. Cookbooks with dog-eared pages to mark family favorites. Fifty years’ worth of TIME Magazine in a cardboard box.

He thumbs through the magazine pile. For kicks and giggles. The graphic design hasn’t changed much, but he still enjoys looking at the covers. Snapshots of American society. A few magazines deep, he finds an issue dated July 25, 1969. MAN ON THE MOON. Bounces up and down on his tippy toes. “How much for a magazine?” 

“A quarter,” the woman says without looking up. She’s working on the monarch’s antenna now. 

He tucks the magazine under his arm and keeps scanning. 

A mauve corded phone. Five-pound free weights. Polka records. A bird cage. Penny loafers. Lamp shades. Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments on two VHS tapes. 

Crystal dishes. Crochet doilies. Mason jars for canning. Those gold-tone picture frames everyone had in the 70s. Precious Moments figurines. A gravy boat. 

One last walk-through and Tom feels content with just the issue of TIME. He turns to exit the garage and the tip of his right running shoe catches on something. A small black handle.

He squats to take a peek. Finds it connected to a hard, army green case. “What do we have here?” he mutters. Sits criss-cross-apple-sauce. Slides it toward him. The cool concrete feels good on his hot, sweaty legs. He flicks open the case’s silver buckles. Lifts the lid like a father with his firstborn. 

Inside, a 1956 Underwood Golden Touch Deluxe stares back up at him. Gorgeous teal body. Only a minor white scuff on the right side. Easily buffed out. Tom peers down into the carriage and finds the dust cover did its job; it’s not gummed up with decades of dust like most of the machines he’s picked up throughout the years. “Excuse me, ma’am? Ma’am? Do you have a piece of paper by any chance?”

The woman mumbles incoherently as she sets down her embroidery in her folding chair and walks over to the mailbox. She rips open her electricity bill and brings the envelope to him. “Well?” she says. 

Tom rolls the envelope into the carriage. Wiggles his fingers, rests them on the keys, and types:

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NO TASTE BUDS WERE HARMED IN THE LICKING OF THIS ENVELOPE

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The woman, who had been looking up at him with her arms crossed, shakes her head with an inkling of a smile. 

“How, uh, how much for the typewriter? How much for this beautiful piece of machinery right here?” 

“Seventy-five.” 

“I-I don’t know,” Tom says as he stands up from the garage floor. 

“Seventy,” she says. 

“Thirty-five.”

“Sixty-seven.”

“Forty.”

“Sixty-eight.”

“But we were just at sixty-seven!” Tom yells.

“Okay, sixty-five.”

“Forty-two and the change in my pocket!”

“Fifty, take it or leave it.”

“Fifty,” he repeats, “Fifty dollars. You’ve got yourself a sale!” 

He places the Underwood back in its case and carries it, and the issue of TIME Magazine, over to the cash box at the edge of the garage.

“$50.25,” the woman says. 

 Tom nods and reaches into the pocket of his running shorts. All he’s got are two wadded up ten dollar bills, a quarter, three dimes, and a nickel.

“Confound it,” he says. “Couldya hold this for me while I run home and grab the rest?” 

“Sure,” she says, rethreading her needle. Bright orange for the monarch’s wings. 

Tom runs at double his normal pace. Bursts through the door without a hello to his family. Takes a swig of water from a glass on the counter. Wallet. Wallet? The bedroom dresser! He sprints back to the woman’s house, though he walks (and pants) up the driveway. 

He counts the bills aloud to the woman at the cash box. Pulls the quarter from his pocket with a wink. 

“$50.25! Right here!” he says. Slaps it on the TV tray.

“Yes, but the typewriter is over there,” she points to a young blonde woman in her mid-twenties, hopping into a silver Toyota Corolla parked on the street. “Sold for $75.”

Tom drops his head, nudges a pebble in the driveway with the toe of his tennis shoe. 

“But you’re in luck,” the woman says, “She left the magazine!” 

He drops the quarter into her palm. Tucks the magazine under his arm. Walks home.

Later that night, Tom Hanks will turn on his bedside lamp to read about the Apollo 11 mission and sigh. In another life, he will learn to fly.