This morning I registered for a stall, un emplacement, at the vide-grenier at my local lycée. I’m switching hats, from buyer, to seller, this time around.
I’d read the two pages of rules and regulations, filled out the paperwork, including a detailed description of the goods to be sold, prepared the cheque, photocopied my ID, and was outside the school gates at 7:40. I hesitated over the 'detailed description'. How detailed? What if I change my mind and decide at the last minute that I really cannot part with my moose-antler chandelier? Will they interrogate me? Registration was supposed to begin at 7:45, but the gates did not open until 8 a.m. A sprint across the school campus, then another 10 minute wait in front of the office of the Official who was not only 25 minutes late, but who grumbled, still buttoning up his shirt, saying he would like time to make himself a coffee first and couldn’t we all just have a seat and wait? There were four people in front of me, and since they don’t queue in this part of the world in a way that I recognize, I kept a watchful eye to make sure we would be served in order. In spite of this, une bonne femme and her dog tried on two occasions to slither in front of me and pretend they hadn’t seen me. Since I stand 1m78, trust me, they’d seen me and knew I’d arrived earlier. I gave her, but not the dog, The Look of Death (basically it’s a long and expressionless stare but I swear it works for me) and assured her sweetly that I was quatrième in the queue, to which she raised her eyebrows incredulously, looked around for crowd approbation and squeaked ‘Ah, bon?’, which I interpret as ‘Oh really? I don’t believe you, but whatever, have it your way' and which my more tolerant OH interprets as the closest thing you'll get to an apology so don't hold your breath.
Next, registration. The Official made an elaborate, drawn-out performance out of preparing his desk, getting his official rubber stamp ready, and rolling out the map of the school yard like it was a newly discovered Dead Sea Scroll, to assign emplacements to us. It turned out, much to my surprise, that I was the only person who had filled out all the paperwork correctly, had the cheque ready, in the right amount, and who didn’t have to fumble to make corrections to the form or fill in omissions, re-write a cheque or argue about getting assigned the same emplacement of last year and the past 15 years, parce que c’était toujours comme ça. (Side note: After several annual visits to the Préfecture to apply for and renew my carte de séjour, I am paranoid about doing paperwork perfectly. I’m trained like a seal.) I don’t like a lot of chitchat or loud and shrill discussion first thing in the morning. I just want to get the thing done and over with. Getting the paperwork right facilitates this. I also want to get out as soon as possible, because my life is passing in front of my eyes, has time to rewind and start over again, and I don't like it. You should have seen me a few years ago at the supermarket checkout. I used to have to take tranquilizers to cope. Now I breathe and think calm thoughts and pretend I’m Manon des Sources tending my goats on a Provençal hillside, peacefully counting each and every one of the little creatures. I’m much better now, really.
But back to the business of registration. I thought I had been rubber-stamped and could leave. But no. The Official said he had un souci. He went into the back room and returned with: The Other Secret Map of The School Yard, the real Dead Sea Scroll, the one that already had X’s over some of the choicest emplacements. He explained that a certain colleague of his had been promised a certain place, and so he had to be sure he didn’t assign that place to me accidentally. Sinon, ça va mal finir. After all, he said, his colleague is the Ministre de la Trésorerie of the region, an important man who, he added, is collecting the money we are paying today. Everyone in the queue ah’d and nodded their approval. But of course, Monsieur le Ministre is entitled to the emplacement he has selected in advance, without having to come here and queue with the rest of the rabble. This sort of toadying to People with Titles offends my socialist sensibilities, but that’s my problem, and if I don’t like it, as my OH says, I can go back to where I came from. (That’s easier said than done.) I have to wonder why some minister in his lofty position would lower himself to flogging his personal household goods in the public square. Doesn’t he earn enough money? Can’t he just donate his stuff to the Croix-Rouge? And what’s my motivation? Well, I’m hoping to de-clutter the cave and cupboards in our flat to make room for a bicycle and Other Good Stuff, and to put some money towards a flat-screen TV, being the last person in France who still has a box TV with a 13-inch screen. I also like selling, not just for the money, but for the social aspect, and I miss working with the public. I attended the same vide grenier here just over a year ago when we moved to the neighbourhood, and bought Good Stuff and chatted with some very nice people.
Incidentally, I was assigned the emplacement Next To Monsieur le Ministre. We shall be neighbours from 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. Maybe he’ll be good company. Maybe he’ll draw a crowd, who will then also visit my stall and buy from me. Maybe he’ll be a useful business contact somewhere down the road. Maybe he’ll even have an old flat-screen TV to sell me, or other Good Stuff.
