“Garage sales are like E-bay; only without the computer.”

- The man who sold Honey the radio (you'll see)

So, I was taking a nap on the couch, minding my own business, when Honey walks in and says she wants to find some garage sales. I throw her the classifieds from the newspaper on the coffee table and say “They're right here.”

Was this good enough? No, she actually wanted to go to the sales. I was about to go back to napping when she pulled that batting-eyelash thing on me and, like the Jedi mind trick that it was, I found myself grabbing the keys and heading out to the car.

It was only after we had gotten about hundred blocks from home that Honey pipes up that she left the newspaper back at the house.

I was told not to worry because this just meant that we would have more fun “looking” for the sales instead. I guess she thought it would be like a scavenger hunt for knick-knacks.

I was finding it difficult to keep a smile on my face, though, because at every major intersection we would be bounced like tennis balls due to all the road “construction.”

Boy, talk about having fun. Driving through Auburn is like going down a black diamond ski run; the only difference being instead of avoiding trees, you get to dodge manhole covers. And my absolute favorite part of all this pain-in-the-asphalt road work is the sign that says “BUMP.” After doing some research I've found that it's actually an acronym for: Busted Up Muffler Pipe. Which is nice.

We got through the automotive earthquake and finally spotted, like an oasis, a genuine garage sale. There were folding tables covered with ever type of Tupperware imaginable, and racks of clothes, rows of bikes and toys scattered across blankets laying on the lawn.

I saw a jigsaw box that was only missing about half the pieces. And, as standard, a set of tires, leaning against a tree in the front yard.

Could this day get any better!?

I was rustling through a box of old books when Honey, in her innocence, broke the unwritten rule of garage sales by asking the couple who were running the show, “Excuse me. Does this radio work?”

The neighborhood went silent; people stopped moving. Everyone either blinked or just stared. Mouths hung open. You see, garage sales are based on a set of three principles. You're selling useless crap that you don't want. To people you don't know. For reasons you can't explain. And what she didn't understand is, by asking her question, she is forcing her fellow man to break the simple law of “Don't ask, don't tell.”

You see, this isn't a multiple choice quiz; the answer is always going to be “yes.” But the truth is, that if the radio worked, it wouldn't be on someone's front lawn with a price tag of $1. No, it would be inside their house - “working!”

I had to hand it to the guy, though, when he replied, “Sometimes.”

Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here,

each Sunday, in The Citizen.

He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com