So remember that time I got lured to an “estate sale” and instead ended up at a commune where they were spray-painting indoors? I should have learned my lesson then about going off the grid, but apparently I didn’t.
I’ve been meaning to write about this insane adventure for awhile now, but haven’t had the chance. So now, submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story, “The Tale of the Bone Collector.” [Throws magic dust into the fire.]
P.S. If you don’t get that Midnight Society joke, get outta here (or google it).
Ok, so a few months ago, I was driving through Redford and noticed this weird little hut on the side of the road. It was small, and junky, and said “Antiques.” Perfect! I love antiques!
This man greeted me, and he seemed nice enough. A little strange but nice. As I chatted with him more though, I got that feeling in my stomach that Oprah used to talk about–the one where you are supposed to drop whatever you are doing and run. At one point, the man said, “Where do you live?” And I told him “Livonia.” And then he said, “No no, what’s your address?”
My address? Hmm, this man didn’t appear to work for the post office, so the request was questionable to say the least. I laughed the question off, and went inside to look at the “antiques.”
Things were weirder inside. And dirty. Like really super crazy dirty.
The floor for all I know was 2 feet below me. I was walking on compounded debris. And there were bones everywhere. I am not making this up. Here is a bucket of bones.
Which is cool. I like bones. I like taxidermy. In this context though, things felt real spooky.
Ok, and see that muscle man photo in the ziploc? Here, I’ll zoom in:
That muscle man runs the place. I forget his name, but here he is now:
Well, the back of him anyway. This guy told me he was 88, but he didn’t look a day past 75. I liked him. He was nice. A little messy, but nice. I started asking him about his place, and about antiques. And he told me about when he was a muscle man. Things were good, 15 minutes passed.
Then he pulled out this binder, and told me he was going to show me something. Something he doesn’t show many people. I had that Oprah run-for-your-life feeling again, but I stayed. What if he wanted to show me (and give me) a bunch of gold bars? Or maybe he had photographic evidence of UFOs or solid proof of a JFK assassination conspiracy. I had to know what was in the binder.
So what was in the binder? See for yourself:
Alright…baseball pics. Cool…
Look at the pen writing on the leg of that player. Every photo had commentary like this.
If you can’t read that pen writing, it says, “THIS IS SAD FOR BASEBALL. IF YOU ARE A TEAM, DRESS LIKE A TEAM,” and, “IS THIS WHAT BASEBALL IS COMING TOO? PAJAMAS?” And there are arrows pointing to all of the players ankles.
As it turns out, this man is single-handedly on a crusade against the length of modern-day baseball pants. And I think he has a point here. Those pants look sloppy!
He explained to me that he collects this binder of photos, writes his commentary on them, and then mails an example every month to Mike Ilitch, the owner of the Detroit Tigers. He then told me that he hasn’t heard back from Ilitch, so he’s been sending examples to the newspapers and local TV news stations.
I didn’t really know what to tell him except to keep up his crusade and that he was, “Fighting the good fight,” which I really think he is. Pull up your pants you dummies!
I didn’t buy any antiques, but I did leave with an asthma attack, and with a new realization that you really can collect anything. Sarah collects gross porcelain, and I collect nice porcelain, and this man, well, he collects an arsenal of scribbled on baseball pics.
-Erin