9:00 and it’s already hot — surrounding our trinket-strewn lawnscape with a twinkling, sulfuric haze. The Calusa once cultivated this land. This time of day, they’d already be in full swing: carrying fresh water, building huts, and hauling fish. But, here we are still scrambling to promote and stage scattered buffets of consumer bloat.

I’m wincing, still thinking about 8:30. A mammoth camper rolled up and out hopped a manic middle-aged woman — her hair frayed like Saturday morning, eyes on mission; she rifled through sifting for gold.

She waddled up to me with full arms and pointed to our dresser, “How much?”

“Fifteen,” I replied from behind my imitation blue blockers.

“Your wife and I have the SAME TASTE!”

I smiled and nodded distractedly. She stared on.

“I’ll take it.”

She handed me forty dollars and looked off in the direction of her camper.

A young girl of around ten years hopped out and ambled up the lawn rubbing her eyes. Her white tank top was askew; she stared blankly through puffy half-closed eyelids. Quickly, she grabbed a pair of sandals and handed me a dollar.

“We’ll be back for the dresser,” said the mother.

I sat scratching my head in the encroaching 10:00 heat as sweat bit my squinting eyes in a continuous caustic stream. Just then, a purple bike came to a screeching halt. A fifty-something bespectacled man dismounted slowly. The lanyard ID around his neck read Regional Transit System Volunteer: Benny. His beer belly clinging t-shirt: GOD MEN 24/7.

Some salers come to poke about and scowl, some aspire to Antiques Road Show, and Benny. Benny just wanted to talk. Each item on the tables before him segued into a loosely related tale: his stint as an engine mechanic, his military travels, this crazy weather, and where he would be next week. He heavily scrutinized each item with the curiosity of a toddler. I littered his consciousness with “uh-uhs,” and “yeah, sures,”. With no item left unturned and my ears on auto, a rolling hand truck scraped down the street.

She looked beat. Her eyes had continued to swell.

“I’m back for the dresser,” she deadpanned.

I flinched at her seriousness, which belied her adolescence. She hiked the dresser up onto the dolly without another word, but the drawers teetered and toppled. Benny ran to her aid.

“I’ll hep’ ya out. Where ya headed?” he joyously queried.

“Over to 10th.”

“Well, here we go!”

He heaved and spun the dresser on its side in a quick sideward motion. I wondered if she would be safe, despite Benny’s best intentions. Ah, better than no escort at all, I surmised.

Benny came back an hour later drenched in sweat — drinking a glass of water.

“Hed tah stop fer a rest,” he chuckled. “Et’s maighty hot out here, buddy.”

He quickly grabbed my orange desk lamp and handed me two dollars.

“E’ll be back fur them dog crates later,” he drawled from atop his sparkling Huffy.

As is custom, the sale wound down in the afternoon. The searing heat topped out at 105 and my remaining belongings went to the curb. I sat inside enjoying a tall glass of lemonade and heard a knock at the window.

I was greeted by a jagged smile housed on a leather face — his wispy white hair grew from the sides of his head and neck like a wise, elderly lion. I popped open the window.

“Hello,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“My friend, the pharmacist, he’d probably want your cage.”

I stared back, befuddled.

“From the curb. See…my friend, Jim Novak, the pharmacist, he works on bikes…better’n me I think, but he’s got alottofthem — I’ll call him. Can I use yer phone?”

I walked outside and he extended a sweaty palm.

“The name’s Larry. I’ve been out here all day, man. Rode seventy miles total before I saw yer cage and thought to stop. I was out at the flea market — bought all kindsa brackets, a few tubes, coupla nice, new pedals.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, I ride all the time. Had a real bad accident a few weeks ago. I was on bed rest 3 days. Ambulance came and I waved’em off. See? Look here…”

He pointed to his heavily scabbed shin. I nodded, pursing my lips.

“This is…lotta m’ friends have been dying: diabetes is the thing. Ya know, over half our country is over weight. But, I’m healthy — always prepared. See, I got this rolla tape here. It saved my life last week. I had a blow-out and wrapped that baby up til I got home.”

I handed him my cordless. He dialed.

“Hey, Jim? Yeah, I’ve got a rabbit cage for ya. And I remember ya sayin’ somethin’ about needin’ one. Yeah? Yeah? Ok. Just come up 13th…”

I drifted off and back again, mesmerized by haze rising from the road, but shifting from foot-to-foot to preserve my bare feet.

“Thanks.” He handed the phone back to me and I nodded. He pulled a leather pouch off of his bike.

“I’ve got emergency rations. Look here.”

He pulled out four granola bars and handed me one.

My face shriveled and it lay in my open palm.

“Don’t they…melt?” I asked.

“NAH! They really don’t! Take it, take it! I’ve got 400 more at the house!”