I was used to help out at a church

 I no longer bother with for reasons I will not get into but stupid fits in there.

One of my jobs was that I was the rummage sale checker outer of things that should not be in a church rummage sale. 

It's pretty astonishing what kind of crap people will send off to a church when they hear they are having a rummage sale. You simply never know what you are going to find in boxes people drop off.

One day I was helping out by organizing the books that seem to be anpsrt of church rummage sales and discovered a couple of porn novels that someone unthinkingly threw into the box they sent to the church. I simply tossed them into the trash. 

Needless to say one of the nosier people that churches sometimes breed fished them out and asked me why I pitched them. I knew if I told her she'd get all wierded out and I'd have to listen to her carry on after she made sure the books in question were in fact smut.

I got smart. I turned to one of the other women there that I knew had at least half of a brain. "Hey, Joyce," I said. "Tell the woman why a book named 'Of Nuns, Nazis and German shepherds' doesn't belong in a church rummage sale."

Joyce gave me a dirty look, but took the woman aside and the look on the woman's face as Joyce told her made me have one hell of a time keeping from laughing outright.

The woman left Joyce and went over and started folding clothes which is about 75% of the work of a church rummage sale. A few minutes later there was another panic attack from her and she held up several green objects.

I noticed she had been folding a Filson bird hunting coat and had noticed something in the pockets and had fished out a couple of loose shotgun shells. She looked sort of ashen.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Shotgun shells," I answered. I walked over and took them. "Sixteen gauge. Can't use them. Besides, they're corroded."

I took them from her and threw them in the trash along with the porno novels and went back to assorting the books.

"Are they dangerous?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered in a voice oozing with sarcasm. "One of them alone could destroy ten entire city blocks. Just leave them alone and everything will be fine."

Joyce smirked and we went back to doing what we were doing. The idiot of a woman wandered out and returned.

A couple of minutes later I a cop walked in and the woman rushed up to him and took him to the trash can and pointed.

"Yeah, so?" asked the cop.

"Aren't they dangerous?" she asked.

The cop was a pro. I saw him take a deep breath and reach into the trash can and fish the offending shotshells out and put them in his pocket and left.

As he was leaving I grabbed Joyce and the pastor who had just arrived and told them to follow me and stay out of sight and watch the cop.

As he went past the trash can on the sidewalk he reached into his pockets and dropped the offending shotshells into the trash. Joyce shook her head.

"A lot of being a good cop is making people FEEL safe," I said. "Now she feels safe knowing that the church isn't going to be blown to kingdom come by a crummy shotshell. Too bad they were 16 gauge instead of 12."

"Why is that?" asked the pastor.

"Because I own a 12," I replied. "It keeps me in meat. I generally use a rifle for deer, though."

Another woman, Jean-Ann said to the pastor. "The guys at the homeless shelter really like it when we serve venison. It always disappears."

The pastor nodded.

Meanwhile back inside one of the women had dumped out a plastic trash bag full of donated stuff and gasped.

"A gun," she said. "Is it real?" 

I went up and looked at it and saw some caps were there among the goods and garbage. I picked both up and loaded it, shot it twice and tossed it on the table.

"Probably get a buck for it," I said, seconds before one of the women sent it whistling into the trash can.

"What's this?" asked another woman, holding up a bull whip.

"It's a bull whip," said Joyce.

"Two bucks," I said. "Any Indiana Jones fans out there will snap it up."

That wound up in the trash can. I fished it out and tossed it in a corner. "I can use that," I said. "I used to be pretty good with one. Besides the neighborhood kids are acting up."

That drew horrified looks from a couple of women and surpressed smirks from the rest.

I wandered over and saw the Filson bird hunting coat was marked $1. I tried it on and it fit. I reached into my wallet and pulled out $2, headed over and handed the pair of bills to one of the women and tossed the jacket into the corner with the bull whip. I still have it although I haven't used it in a while.

By this time I had the book rack pretty squared away and was getting ready to leave.

"What's this?" asked a woman. She held up a BB gun.

"It''s a BB gun," I said. "Guts are missing. It's trash."

I reached over and picked up an item. It was one of those things they used to sell in gift shops that you look into and see a picture. Most of them are landscape scenes but this one likely came from Hawaii and featured a hula girl. I tossed it even though she had a top on.

It had already been marked a quarter. While it wasn't really obscene I knew someone would complain. Joyce looked at me. "It came from France," I said glibly and she snickered. She knew.

Everything went back to normal for a few and the woman that had found the shotshells found yet something else to offend her sense of propriety.

"Whisky!" she said, holding up a half-pint.

"J&B!" I said. "I can use that for Saturday evening mass!" I wandered over and confiscated it instantly. Now, THAT was a keeper! I put the half-pint directly into my pocket.

Almost everyone, even the pastor chuckled. I wandered over to my corner and put it in the pocket of the Filson. 

"Don't drink it until you get home," advised one of the women.

"I'll bet he can hold twice that entire bottle and still get home safely," said Joyce.

Then I went into a closet and snagged an extension cord, plugged it into the wall and headed over to the table full of electrical appliances and started seeing if they worked. Most did, but a few didn't so I trashed the ones that didn't work. There were a few of them.

The pastor, who had apparently gotten a rundown on the fact that I had a pretty good eye for stuff that didn't belong in a church rummage sale came up to me and asked me how I could recognize so many little things.

I really didn't know what to say and I was glad when Joyce overheard the question and bailed me out.

"He hasn't led a sheltered life," she said. It broke the ice.

"Listen, Pastor," I said, "Likely Joyce is right. When you think about things a little I played with just about all the toys you could as a kid, I hunt and fish and my career as a sailor puts me in contact with all kinds. A lot of the stuff I'm aware of is not necessarily things I partake in but it is background noise where I work."

He nodded and thoughtfully said, "I understand."

I don't think he did, though.

I guess the next time they scheduled a rummage sale a couple of the women asked my wife if I was around but I was slated to be at sea.



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