John A. Eyon

I don’t need the "Yard Sale" signs to alert me. The scene advertises itself. Paraphernalia lay about on shadowed tables and lawn under a canopy of expansive tree branches. An Arabic-looking woman bargains wholeheartedly over kitchenware with a drab white woman.

I see computer equipment and I walk into the yard.

A tall man with a long ponytail approaches as I examine the computer section. My eyes had focused on the inkjet color printer. This is a more recent model than mine. Higher DPI. Photographic quality work. I had seen one at my favorite computer store with enticing print samples. So I know the price of a new one. Now I wonder how much this one was.

"Can I help you?" the man asks.

I look up.

He is about my age, with fly-about gray hairs, puffy face, farm-boy plaid shirt, faded and tattered jeans. A chronic case of hippie.

"Uh-huh," I say as I do some spur-of-the-moment plotting. "Are these computer things functioning?"

"Yes," he says. "We’ve been using them up to now. Some of these are brand new."

"Brand new?"

"Yes."

"Why are you getting rid of them?"

"Oh, we’ve got to move -- the wife and I," he says, gesturing towards the woman talking with the Arabic-looking shopper. "We can’t afford the rent."

"Oh."

"We had another guy split the house with us. Now he’s gone and we can’t afford it. We’re going back to San Francisco."

"Not cheap there, either," I say.

"Believe it or not, we can find more affordable places around there than here."

"I believe it. Housing prices skyrocketed here when you Californians started invading."

He laughs.

"Well, you won’t have us to blame in a couple weeks."

"Did your friend go back to California?"

"Who? Oh. No. He turned turncoat on us."

"Turncoat?"

"Yeah. We produced anti-war newsletters together. And flyers. You know, the ones on telephone poles? A lot of those were ours. Well, after 9/11, he changed. He got hired on as a federal airline security agent. You know, the ones who check luggage at the airports. Don’t ask me how the feds overlooked his background. But he’s happy. He’s became one of Dubya’s pack of racist dogs."

I notice a "No Iraq War" sign in the window and a peace sign leaning against the side of the house.

I point to the inkjet cartridge and ask, "Is that an entirely new cartridge?"

"Yeah. Never been opened."

"Is there a cartridge in the printer?"

"Yeah. Still good. Used it yesterday to make those signs you see on the tables."

Some of the items had neatly printed prices fluttering nearby.

"Don’t know how much more life it has in it?" he adds. "The ink cartridge, I mean,"

I quietly figure that the printer goes for $150 retail so I’d be happy to pay $50 for a used one.

"How much?" I ask.

"How much you offer," he says with a smile.

I glance at the bills in my wallet and say, "For the printer and the spare cartridge, I’m prepared to go up to 50 dollars. No more."

"Sold," he says with a bigger smile.

He helps me gather up the printer and accessories. I place it on my shoulder to carry the remaining six blocks to my home.

"Go in Peace," he says. "Remember, it may take a thousand years, but we will have Peace."

I smile as I turn away. I come to a decision and turn to face him.

"A thousand years, huh?"

"We know it won't come tomorrow," he answers. "Not with them Republicans about."

"When peace does break out," I say with a smug smile on my face, "how will the people know it was due to a those people who promoted non-violence rather than to the people who fought back?"

He looks startled. He glances at the printer I hold and the money he holds. I had already considered that he'd try to renege on the sale, and I had planned how I'd react if he tried. There we stand, the peacenik and the warmonger, face to face. As a pacifist should, he snorts, makes a face and turns away, dismissing me with a gesture.

And, like a good libertarian, I turn and leave, wondering--despite my conviction--who the people a thousand years from now really will credit when War holds its yard sale.

THE END

Copyright 2004 by John A. Eyon