It all started at Barney Stokes’s garage sale
I love garage sales
I mean, the one before that at Phil’s was a total bust, but hey, not every battle’s a victory
I ended up buying this beat-up dog bowl for Rufus—had something printed on it like “Feed me for your good boy.” At least that’s what I think it said. Most of the letters had peeled off from old age, and what was left looked more like a ransom note from a very polite ghost: “…me… your goo…” But I figured, heck, Rufus can’t read, and it was a dollar. Good deal. Spoiler: Rufus apparently can read.
So I rolled up to Barney’s sale like a man with a purpose. This time, I was gonna win. I had a strategy: never go where the crowd goes. I just moseyed around, casual-like, between piles of abandoned items that practically cried out for someone to give ’em one last chance at dignity. And that’s when I saw it. Between a chipped ashtray and a bedpan—both of which, fun fact, belonged to Grandma Stokes and were apparently present at her final moments—I saw IT. The Cup.
It was rusty, chipped, pretending to be nothing more than trash, but oh no. That was a Holy Grail if I ever saw one. There, gleaming faintly in the sunlight, was a quote in fancy gold lettering, like a whisper from the cosmos:
“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”
Yup. Coelho. The guru of wanting stuff real hard.
I froze. I kid you not, I felt like the universe had just kissed me on the forehead and whispered, “It’s your time, Johny.”
But then she appeared.
Mrs. Merge. Veteran of the garage sale circuit. She looked at the cup. She looked at me. And then she launched forward like it was the gold medal round in the Olympic Games of passive aggression.
I didn’t think—I dropped my self-help book (Become a Spiritual Leader in One Weekend) and lunged. Slipped on a jar of raspberry jam, lost my balance, but not my faith. I glided like Eric Heiden across that driveway, hand outstretched, reaching for what could only be described as the deeper meaning of life.
She was a centimeter from the mug. I was a centimeter from her ear.
And then—Grandma Stokes intervened from beyond. Leaning against the bedpan, the ashtray nudged, just a whisper of movement, yet it was enough to jolt the mug, sending it tumbling from the shelf.
“UNIVERSE, DON’T FAIL ME NOW!” I hollered.
No reply. But Rufus barked. Close enough.
The mug rolled to a stop right under my boot. I bent down and picked it up, gave Mrs. Merge the kind of victorious look that says, “Today, ma’am, I am king of the garage sale.”
Truth be told, I’d been on a bit of a spiritual dry spell—ran out of chips and things to binge-watch, and Netflix had the nerve to ask me if I was “still watching.” Judgy much? So now, standing there with the mug of destiny in hand, I told myself: “Johny, old boy, your life is about to change.”
And boy, did I set out to make it happen. I had one dream: to become the fire chief of Old Merry Springs. Full authority. Siren access. Gold helmet. A parking space with my name on it.
Every day I closed my eyes and visualized myself in uniform, helmet shining like the Star of Bethlehem, the whole department clapping as I rescued a cat from the water tower.
I wanted it. Bad. Real bad.
“Just gotta want it hard enough, Johny,” I told myself every morning, every night.
But the universe? Probably on vacation. Or, like, recalibrating the sun. Or stuck in Mercury retrograde. Because nothing happened.
Did I give up? Heck no.
I wanted harder.
I showed up at the fire station at sunrise, stood in the smoke of a training bonfire, and yelled up at the sky:
“UNIVERSE! GIVE ME A SIGN!”
And wouldn’t you know it—clouds shifted. Someone sneezed in the distance. The firetruck siren went off for no reason. And then the hose rack collapsed right onto my feet. Was it a spiritual cleanse through pain? Maybe. I still can’t feel three of my toes.
A few days later, the universe winked again. During a fire drill, I accidentally set the soda machine ablaze. Old Merry Springs live-streamed it under the title: “Heroism or Hot Mess? You Decide.”
The firehouse got shut down for inspection.
That was what I call a turning point.
I wasn’t waiting for signs anymore. I took matters into my own hands and marched myself into the town manager’s office.
I looked him in the eye and said:
“I wanna be fire chief. The universe is backing me.”
He looked at me like he was wondering if the ficus in the corner had a stronger résumé.
After a long pause, he goes:
“Johny, you can’t even tear off a paper towel without causing an environmental incident. But you know what? Go volunteer for public works. Practice your leadership on a rake.”
And that’s how I became the chief… of shovels and brooms.
But I didn’t quit. Because like Auntiekins always said: