Yes.
“Address please.”
When you give me a time that you’re likely to be here, I’ll send my address.
“Ok I’ll come around. Give me your contact number.”
Then: “I can after work tomorrow at 5pm.”
“Your location.”
I reply and much time passes. Finally, I hear back:
“Sorry bro, can’t make it today too much traffic. What about the weekend?”
OK, I say and I wait. Nothing. Then: “Ok thanks I’ll let you know before I come.”
Followed by: “Sorry bro, have to pass on this it’s too small.”
So many notifications, so many conversations, so many bros, so many no-shows.
A brother from another mother adds a touching, almost intimate flourish: “Soon, my dear brother.” I do not hate this. I think, had things been different, perhaps in another dimension in time and space, we might share our mutual appreciation for steel gates over a coffee in Papatoetoe where he says he is staying. Though I never asked his location. But I will never know because “soon” never comes and I never hear from my dear brother again or how he really feels about my gate.
Many enquiries start promisingly and then abruptly end:
“Hey Sarah, I’m looking at the window – what’s your location?”
Western Springs, I reply.
“Sorry to [sic] long.”
Did I wait too long to reply or was the window too long? I will never know, but Lewis has clearly moved on.
Incoming is “SJ”.
“Are you in Auckland?”
Yes. (It says that in the listing but I don’t want to stress my bro, or sound sarcastic. First impressions and all that.)
“12.00 today. I’ll come see you now.”
SJ never appears. Did SJ ever really want the window? Does SJ know what he wants?
Another “interested buyer” Monish, seems to be pressing for a long-distance hookup:
“Would you consider $100 if I came from Hamilton?”
I say I’ve already marked it down, and based on comparative prices $200 is a steal.
“Would you do $150? I’ll need to hire something in Hamilton.”
Sure, I agree, already exhausted.
“Where’s viewing? Do you have a number?”
I tell him and he replies:
“Cheers. Can you do $35 for double sided? I’ll pay cash on pickup.”
“Oh sorry, wrong message - ignore me.”
Then: “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
But tomorrow, with Monish, never comes and I will never know what he meant when he said “double sided”. He’s clearly playing the marketplace. Fingers in many double-sided pies.
In comes Gary, and a rather strange, rapid-fire exchange.
“Hello, is it in good condition? Is it available? What is the price.”
Yes, Yes, and the price is in there.
“Ok the price suits me. Ok. I’ll take it but I would like to come tomorrow but I am busy with work at the moment, I’ll send a TNT letter carrier to your home and give you money in cash and collect the item.”
Gary, this sounds promising. Means business. No time for punctuation or pause, for effect. There’s no messing about, a promise of an envelope containing $5 in cash that I will have to sign for. And a commitment to a date for pickup. Is he the real deal?
He adds, as if to underline his commitment to the mission, or because he thinks that I, like him, had failed to read it properly the first time:
“A TNT agent will come to your house and give you an envelope containing money. And once you have verified the money, you give him the object to send to me.”
There is a layer of intrigue here. It’s almost the beginnings of a short story or at worst, a haiku.
I give him a thumbs-up emoji.
Gary never materialises. Neither does the TNT carrier or money.
I will never know if things might have worked out with Gary. But I believe he had good intentions. Just needs a bit of work on the follow-through.
This week, there is one small success: Ant shows up in the pouring rain, hands over $5 in change, grabs the window and later messages:
“Thanks again, much appreciated.”
Good communicator, Ant. Who knows, perhaps in another time or dimension we could have shared our mutual appreciation for secondhand windows.
Another, incoming from the Eastern Suburbs. Ran messages me they are interested in the listing, would like to collect it, can that night. They then confirm they is driving over with their partner, adding a screenshot of their progress on google maps. Ran arrives, and I help them out with the cabinet. It all happens so fast and efficiently I forget about all those strange exchanges and my faith in FB Marketplace as the worst boyfriend ever, is restored. Ran is a woman.
To survive on FB Marketplace requires radical acceptance of zero expectations. Radical tolerance. Radical patience. Like the principles for patrons attending Burning Man, also outlined in this issue of Canvas.
