Compromising Positions

When the Smith family departed Beverly, Massachusetts for California, we held an enormous yard sale to get rid of the junk of years that had accumulated in 41 Central Street. We had a big back yard so we hauled everything out there and arranged it on a series of tables.

Dad had a great time with this project. Maybe it was the prospect of moving again? Whatever caused his high spirits, it maintained him through a long, boring day of displaying minutia and answered niggling questions from shoppers, many of whom were neighbors who seemed rather glad to be saying good bye to us.

There was a Barbie doll for sale. I don't know where she came from since I was never allowed to own one of those famously top-heavy tramps. Perhaps she was Dianne's? She was on the auction block anyway. And all day long Dad posed her around the goods like a spokes model. She held her arms gracefully to indicate that the toaster was a great bargain. She perched daintily atop a collection of books. She leaned, sultry, against an easy bake oven as if to say, I may not be able to stand up on my own but even I can bake a delicious meal in this thing.

And then, tragedy struck. After a hard day of modeling our tired goods, Barbie's leg fell off. She dropped from her post atop a pile of books. Dad rushed to her aid. He was stricken. This was worse than someone buying her, which he had been dreading all day. Fortunately her malady occurred during a slow spell in the a sale--we had not had a customer in an hour--so he rushed her upstairs for the medical attention she desperately needed.

I stayed to man the sale at Dad's urgent orders. "Go, Dad! Fix her! I've got it." I told him. And he rushed up the three flights of stairs to our kitchen, her gallant rescuer.

Shortly after he disappeared, our immediate neighbor showed up. I suspect he had been watching out his window for Dad to leave. The two men hated each other and had been at war since an incident involving a tree branch that had occurred when I was too young to have any idea what it was about. We all avoided this man, whose name escapes me, because he hated us. And his large, expensive house, next to ours, blocked our view of the ocean. He had come to inquire, not about the junk on the tables, but about the furniture in the house, which was also for sale.

"I'll take you in to see it," I told him since he was the only customer.

When we opened the door to the kitchen, I saw it before he did. But there was no time to stop him from following me into the house.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. Barbie had been stripped naked and her leg was back on. Being near-sighted, Dad had removed his glasses and held her shapely, naked form--legs splayed--right up to his eyes to better see his task.

He looked up at us--the naked 12-inch doll a mere inch from his nose-- and knew immediately how it looked to his enemy: Consorting with a plastic tramp while his daughter handled the business of the day.

"I was just…" He muttered, embarrassed, shaken, blushing like a man caught in the act.

"I always knew you were a deviant, Michael," said our evil neighbor without even a smile.

My father looked guiltily at the doll. "This isn't how it looks," He blustered.

I burst out laughing but the two men glared at each other as if some perverted crime had been committed. I showed our neighbor the furniture and he quickly left without saying another word.

"Well, it's a good thing we're moving." Dad said when Evil Neighbor had finally gone. "I'll never live that down." But by now he had recovered his sense of humor and saw the hilarity in the situation. Barbie was fixed and the three of us went, giggling, back to work.