Trailer Trashed: My Dubious Efforts Toward Upward Mobility by Hollis Gillespie Page B

moisture had seeped under the encasement-and it must have been a lot of moisture over a long period of
time-because all around the edges the counter was bloated, cracked,
and crumbling.

    "This will have to go," Art said, tapping the counter, creating a
small cloud of escaping mildew. "No shortcuts here, Hollis," he eyed
me gravely. "I mean it."
    His concern is warranted because he's helped me renovate my
own home over the course of our seven-year friendship, and I estimate
probably half the work he's done was dedicated solely to the undoing
of various corners I've attempted to cut here and there, such as the
time I figured foundation concrete would make a perfectly fine floor
for my in-home office. So Art knew I was eyeing that counter as a
beast to be circumvented, wondering if it couldn't be fixed with some
superglue or a stapler. Looking back, I must say I'm a little touched
by his unrelenting crusade to make an honorable home restorer out
of me.
    But I am who I am. Art finished emphasizing the importance of
accuracy in calculating the various corners of the counter, and how
they'd need to be either cut professionally by a gemologist (practically) or come factory-cut in sections sold at Home Depot-both of
which were options that would ensure the counter cost me more than
its weight in cocaine. Afterward I hopped in my car with Eddie and
proceeded straight to the Sell Out Center.
    First, I love the name of this place, as I never fail to find it apt as
I approach it from across the parking lot, which is itself the size of a
sovereign country but still not big enough to dwarf the gargantuan,
seven-billboards-big sign announcing the Sell Out Center, which features the Mount Rushmore face of a'50s housewife who is apparently
orgasmic over the galaxy of salvaged furniture and appliances inside. The inventory consists of anything that could be moved or pried loose
from liquidated hotels, restaurants, industrial factories, disputed territories, religious compounds, Iraqi palaces, and any other place that up
and shut down suddenly under a shower of unrest, financial or otherwise. The couches are the kind you find in bank lobbies, each weighing as if they'd been stuffed with two or three concrete-encased mafia
hit victims. Massive fixtures, mascots, and signage hang from the ceiling on hooks like it was a butcher shop for dismembered Mardi Gras
floats. Dusty, glassed-in shelves throughout the place showcase a gritty
little population of kitschy oddities, which further gives the place a
great, science-fair feel, like any second you'll discover the fetus of a
two-faced kitten in a jar of formaldehyde.

    I have never once bought anything there, and this day was no different, as everything they offer is so huge, and my need is never large
enough to fit the inventory. Today, it turned out all the store had that
could pass for a kitchen counter looked as though it came from the
cafeteria of an old prison, and not even Eddie could have hammered
that into shape. But still, I'll use any excuse to go back there. There is
just something about the place, the piled-up pieces of other people's
worlds; the fifty identical armchairs, half with ripped upholstery; the
rolls of putty-colored carpet as big as redwood trunks; the wardrobe
mirrors stacked twenty deep, some broken, possibly having already
unleashed an eternity of cursed fortune. It literally looks like a hundred little planets came crashing to a stop in that very spot. I don't
think it hurts to become comfortable in a place like that, as you never
know when it might be your world that will end up here because, like mine, the company you work for went bankrupt. If it does, then that's
all right. Let people pick it over. Let them climb the giant carcasses of
your past. You are still who you are. You do what you need to do, day
by day. You smile or you don't. You sell out or you don't.

    MY FLOOR BUFFER AND I ARE IN BATTLE. Well, it's not exactly my