Make That Call Now!: An Infomercial Satire

By Paul Lucas

Pot-bellied Joe Kagan, the buffoonish manager of a Cheapmart discount store, unwinds from his late shifts with some televisionwhich at that time of night means infomercials. Seduced by claims of amazing products and easy payments, Joe soon finds himself deep in debt.

Sammy Thieua Vietnamese immigrant turned infomercial pitchman who surrounds himself with scantily-clad women and other accoutrements of wealthentices viewers of his infomercials with stories of the fast fortunes to be made in real estate. Desperate, Joe registers for Sammys seminarleading him on a series of ludicrous misadventures.

Interspersed throughout the novel are descriptions of the ridiculous and outrageous infomercials Joe and others watch on TV, such as The Psychic Support Hotline, in which a washed-out 70s pop singer assures viewers, All you need is a credit card and a willing suspension of disbelief! and WhiffTrim, in which sniffing a piece of plastic is touted as a legitimate strategy for weight reduction.
Make That Call Now! is the laugh-out-loud story of one misfits journey through the tacky world of TV infomercials.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 6, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469710310

Paul Lucas

I grew up on the shores of Lake Erie, just a few snow drifts away from Buffalo, NY. I am a life long science fiction and fantasy fan, and avidly keep up on developments in the fields of science, technology, and ancient cultures.Currently I am a freelance writer and artist, with fifteen years of experience in the field. In 1998 I had a tabletop RPG published, and in 2005 my first novel CREATURA came out. My shorter works have seen the light of day in publications such as Strange Horizons, Afterburn, Tales of the Talisman, Fables, and others. Currently I do a lot of personal commissions and ghost writing work.

Book preview

PART ONE

Are You Tired…?

CHAPTER 1

Always this same exhilaration—rushing from mere emotion into something palpable and metabolic—seized him when his time to speak into the microphone approached. Ascending from his throat, pouring over his lips, sinking into the mike, his voice would be amplified by the sound system and boom potently throughout the building; his words, resounding in the ears of each and every person present, forced them to take action. This almost transcendental experience intimated his authority, his duty, his existence. He leaned into the mike, parted his lips, paused for a second to collect his thoughts. Attention shoppers: Cheapmart will be closing in 15 minutes, he said.

A synthesizer version of Grandma Got Ran Over by a Reindeer resumed on the speaker system. As he headed to close out register #1, he straightened the Cheapmart badge that told all who bothered to look: Joe Kagan, Senior Manager. The customers with shopping left to do hurried in a frenzied search-and-buy mission; the rest aggressively jockeyed their carts in position at the counters left open. Joe stopped to set upright the display of artificial Holiday trees with real pine scent and Talkin’ Santas that had been knocked down by shoppers—Christmastime in Clearwater, Florida.

Five nights a week Joe did this, closed up Cheapmart, a discount store carrying every conceivable and many inscrutable items. Cheapmart was dedicated to late night service. It was the grand strategy of store owner Whit Condon that Cheapmart would stay open later than any other store in town and capture 100% of the night-owl business (even if during the 11 other months of the year the night-owl business didn’t amount to much).

Manager to 2, the sound system called for Joe. With urgency and resolve he rushed to aisle 2 to handle the situation.

The line thingie’s torn off, said Margoree (yes, that was her own effort at undoing her parents’ original attempt at standardized spelling and, yes, the line thingie was her term for the UPC code), holding a box of Barbie and Ken walkie talkies above the counter.

Well, why don’t you just punch the price in? Joe suggested.

There’s no tag on it.

Then look it up in the book.

It wasn’t anywhere under ‘Fashion Accessories,’ she insisted.

Try ‘Toys.’

The smell of Margoree’s grape bubble gum lingered in the air even as she turned back toward the register. Joe got a glimpse of the waiting customer and thought her more in need of a decent burial plot than walkie talkies.

Just then he noticed his wife’s cousin pass by with a baby stroller. Hey, Lucy, he called. Lucy cast a suspicious glance at the middle-aged man with a pot belly and a bad mustache before recognizing him as Joe.

Oh Joe. I didn’t know you worked here at night.

I’m the Senior Manager now, he said, his head raised, his hand on his chest pointing to the plastic thing safety pinned to his gray Cheapmart vest.

Oh.

I need to be here at night. I mean, this place just wouldn’t run without me. I’m the only one who really knows this place inside and out. I’m like the pilot and this store is an airplane. Just the other day…

Joe, is the Zsa Zsa Gabor video and perfume set listed under ‘Video’ or ‘Perfume?’ Margoree asked.

I’m sure it’s under ‘Video!’ he replied with the authority of a pilot. Lucy had nudged herself a few steps away while Joe had had his back turned. You see, he breathlessly resumed, If I were to ever leave this place the owner would have to spend years before he could find someone to do what I can do.

Say Hi to Sharon for me, Lucy said, pushing her stroller away.

Joe. The Zsa Zsa thing was under ‘Perfume,’ not ‘Video,’ Margoree said.

Well something’s wrong! It definitely should be under ‘Video!’ Joe walked away.

When the customers had left, the registers had been closed, the floors had been swept, and the store was empty, Joe stood by the front door and looked across Cheapmart’s aisles and counters, up at its high ceiling. He stretched out his hand over the light switches and pushed them all down at once, and the click that snapped throughout the width and length of the building was Joe’s own exclamation mark on the workday.

***

Joe’s house was hard to miss in December, filled as the front yard always was with years of Cheapmart overstock. Crowded on Joe’s roof and postage-stamp lawn were half-a-dozen glowing Santas, two holy families, enough reindeer to equip several North Pole cavalry units, elves of every possible size, age, and race (the Asian elves in particular had not sold well), an electronic message board flashing Merry Xmas from the Kagans, all surrounded by an Andromeda Galaxy of lights. The multicolored illuminesence that was Joe’s home emitted a glow that could be detected for blocks around and invariably held in rapture anyone who so much as got it within their line of sight. Strangely, none of the other houses on the street had any Christmas decorations—not even a simple string of lights. Joe’s mighty work of Yuletide splendor had apparently dispirited all his neighbors.

Having gotten out of his dented brown Pinto, Joe wound his way through the farrago of Christmas statuettes and opened his front door.

On a burnt-orange couch slouched Sharon, Joe’s wife, in blue bathrobe

and bearclaw slippers reading Kathy Lee Gifford: A Life.

Hi, Honey, Joe tried.

Hi, she responded without looking, absorbed as she was in the exploits of Regis’s sidekick.

Joe emptied the contents of his pockets onto the side table, but the tintinnabulation of keys and loose coins failed to distract his wife.

Boy, we got slammed! he let out with an exhausted sigh.

Yeah? Sharon lowered her book and turned her head toward him.

The lines on all the counters backed up almost to the other side of the store, and it didn’t stop for a moment. He collapsed onto the couch to underline his exhaustion.

Wow, she said and returned to the world of Mrs. Frank Gifford.

Joe scooted towards Sharon, stretched out his arm, and smoothly wrapped his fingers around the elongated little box that was the remote control.

He turned on the TV and gave the channel button a few quick squeezes before being stopped by the guttural shouts of a man whose pink tank-top bulged with a long history of steroid use.

Are you tired of exercise programs that just don’t work?

The audience clapped frantically. The muscular man, who sported a shaved head and bushy mustache, stood in a cheap little studio set with the words ABject written on gaudy pink and blue walls. Joe realized this wasn’t wrestling.

Are you tired of having that big pot belly of yours hanging over your belt?

Joe stole a stealthy glance at his stomach while the audience applauded again.

Do you want to get rid those rolls of fat on your side?

That question elicited frenzied shouts and whistles. Joe took a sidelong peek at Sharon, who obliviously continued to read Kathy Lee’s memoirs.

Then you need the ABject. Mr. Muscles walked over to three people on the floor working out with some contraption that looked exactly like five other pieces of ab equipment Joe had recently seen on TV. The people on the floor included a fetching blonde in her twenties, a guy who could have been the muscle man’s son, and a middle-aged woman in a pair of gray sweats. The host asked the latter, How do like the ABject?

It’s great!

Are you having fun?

Yeah. I could do this while watching TV!

A disconcerting burst of applause erupted in unison from the audience at that moment: disconcerting because there was no obvious reason for anyone to be clapping at that statement.

Joe changed the channel. The B-movies, static, and test patterns that constituted late-night television just a few years earlier had been pushed aside to make room for infomercials—those paid programs that spend 30 minutes or more selling an item available from an 800 number in monthly payments to your credit card. And if, like Joe, one has cable, the circuit made around scores of TV channels in those soporific hours is paved with infomercials. So, inevitably, Joe stepped into another.

Ladies, are you tired of face creams that just don’t work? Do you want to look younger without having plastic surgery? Then Years Off is the answer to your prayers!

An elderly lady, coated with too much mascara and a crooked wig, was shown tugging at her skin and putting adhesive tape on her neck and temples.

Years Off tape is just like having your own discount face lift everyday.

The lady with the tape and the stretched skin gave something of a taut smile with what little flexibility was left in her face.

Another woman testified, "The first day I used the Years Off tape a young man said to me, ‘You don’t look half bad’ and started to giggle. I couldn’t believe that young men were flirting with me. Thanks Years Off!"

Joe switched back to the ABject.

And if you order now, he of the bulging biceps said, you’ll get a junior-sized ABject. Now your six-and seven-year-olds can start working on having great abs!

The ABject soon fell victim once again to Joe’s fickle judgment, and as the night wore on and he skipped from station to station, all the items being sold, and all the hosts, and all the testimonials for slim figures and improved memories, and all the 4 or 6 easy payments of $34.95 or $24.95 seemed to blend into one mega-infomercial for one incredible product until, already half-asleep, Joe and Sharon decided to make it official and went to bed.

***

On a blue plaid sofa sat Chester and Leona Parker comfortably watching one of those Yule Log programs broadcast on TV during Christmas Eve so that people can fool themselves into thinking they have a fireplace. Bound by decades of marriage, the couple had reached that blissful state in which one isn’t expected to worry whether the other person might be bored by looking at an ersatz piece of wood accompanied by an unmitigated stream of jolly tunes. This cozy scene was interrupted when the Parker’s broken old doorbell gave out half a clunk, indicating their usual Christmas Eve visitors had arrived.

Merry Christmas, Mom! Sharon Kagan said as Leona opened the door. Sharon and her son, Danny, entered and holiday greetings rolled back and forth between the four.

Where’s Joe? Chester asked of his son-in-law.

He’s bringing in the presents. Joe insisted in doing all of the shopping this year. I couldn’t believe it, explained Sharon.

Did he get stuff from Cheapmart? asked Leona while trying to hide her disappointment.

No. He didn’t get anything from work. But he wouldn’t tell me where he shopped or what he got for anyone. It’s his big secret.

From the front door a sudden, violent boom and a crash convulsed the house. The startled four turned and saw Joe with a bundle of presents slung over his shoulder in Santa fashion, a bundle so massive that he couldn’t cram it through the doorway.

Merry Christmas, he greeted his still-shocked in-laws.

Joe put his bag down on the porch and proceeded to bring the presents into the house one by one. The family quickly ran out of room under the Parker’s heavily flocked and tinseled tree.

You really went out of your way this year. Didn’t you, Joe? Chester asked.

Sharon did the shopping all the other years, so I thought it was about time I did it.

How nice, Chester said while worrying if the man his daughter married had turned into a New Age wimp.

As the wrapped and ribboned boxes were stacked, they grew into an intimidating mountain. But, when Joe retrieved a second bag that had been strapped to the car roof and the gifts continued to multiply, the limitations of the walls and the ceilings began to cause problems. As presents became the rule and open space the exception, the mountain turned into a cramped cavern, and everyone became less concerned with where to put the gifts than with leaving passages for them to walk through and climb over.

When Joe’s sacks had at last been depleted of presents, Mrs. Parker craned her head around a pillar of boxes and announced, Let’s go into the kitchen and start eating.

Joe queried, Aren’t we going to open the presents first?

Later. The food’s ready.

Joe was the first to finish his tuna-noodle casserole, and seemed impatient with the dinner table small talk.

The podiatrist told me to soak my feet in warm water, but Rita who lives across the street said that baby oil works for her…

Everyone finished?

Almost, Joe, Mrs. Parker assured him.

Joe contorted his way through the living room to admire the amount of presents marked From Joe. He re-entered the kitchen and was dismayed to hear his mother-in-law continuing to relate her personal experiences with geriatric medicine. He looked over the refrigerator door with its fruit and flower magnets and the Ann Landers columns and a National Enquirer article about a dog who called 911. Joe was half way through the story of the heroic pooch when he realized the subject of the chit chat had changed.

I got a scar on my left hand, three on my right arm, one on my left knee, two on my right leg… Mr. Parker enumerated his injuries received while gardening.

Ready to open the presents yet?

Sure. In a minute, Joe.

Joe returned to the living room. He watched the clock but realized that a minute was probably figurative. He turned on the TV. Joe in his impatience sat through less than 30 seconds of the Yule Log before changing the channel. It was that infomercial again: Do you want abs like these? the host challenged as he hiked up his tank top, Then get the ABject!

Are we ready to open presents? Joe called into the kitchen. This time he wasn’t disappointed: one by one the four squeezed into the living room.

Little Danny’s excitement almost reached Joe’s level upon being surrounded by all those shiny, colorful boxes. Everyone struggled to position themselves on what little space was left on the chairs and sofa. Joe and Chester managed to chisel the cave of presents into a series of huge hills.

Open mine first! Joe exclaimed in a way usually reserved for toddlers who want to open their presents first.

Yeah. I guess we better get done with that, Chester said as a man who knows from years of experience that it is best to finish the most daunting task first.

You start, dear, Leona cunningly deferred to her husband.

Chester tossed off a golden bow and tore off blue snowflake wrapping to reveal a box containing a Flow-Bee.

What the hell is this? he asked in the Christmas spirit.

It’s a hair cutter, Joe explained, You attach it to your vacuum cleaner. It’ll save you a lot of money at the barber.

The thought of forsaking his longtime barber for a household appliance in order to save a few bucks did not reassure him.

Leona, I think you better open one of yours now, Chester, in dire need of recuperation time, suggested.

Leona was so intimidated by the prospect that she too would get something enabling the machine that cleans her rugs to be in charge of her coif that she forgot her holiday ritual about saving the pretty Christmas wrapping—for the first time in anyone’s memory. When she stripped the paper off she saw it was not a Flow-Bee—she hadn’t the slightest idea as to what it was but at least, praise a merciful Maker!, it was not a Flow-Bee.

How nice… Leona paused, waiting for her son-in-law to fill her in, but Joe just remained seated with an undeservedly proud grin on his face.

How exactly does it work? was Leona’s attempt to soften her husband’s similar query.

It’s called Years Off. You put this tape on your face to take away wrinkles. That way you don’t have to get a face lift.

That’s good, because I wasn’t planning on having a face lift.

O.K. Sharon. Open yours now!

Sharon opened her box; it was an ABject. (That night would see her parents would receive one too.) She gave her husband a perfunctory thanks and, in fact, she was not 100% disappointed with it.

Now it was Danny’s turn. Luckily, he was the only one there with things he sincerely want in some of those wrapped boxes. But it was his ill-fate to choose as his first one something ordered from an 800 number.

What’s this, Daddy?

It’s a Junior ABject. Just like Mommy and Daddy have, only smaller. Now you can be just like Daddy.

The wheel of misfortune now spun back to Leona and Chester. Joe suggested, Open the one with the reindeer wrapping. It’s for the both of you.

They bravely faced the task together, their mutual reliance on dental plates giving them no help in keeping a stiff upper lip.

Chester read the box after opening the package, A Food Dehydrator?

You can make beef jerky and banana chips at home so you won’t have to buy them in the stores.

Chester did some quick calculations in his head and estimated the Food Dehydrator would have saved him about $1.78 considering all the banana chips and beef jerky he’d bought in the last ten years.

Don’t they sell this on TV? he asked.

Yeah. It’s the show hosted by the same guy who hosts the show where they sell spray-on hair to cover your bald spot. I bought some of that for my brother.

As the night lingered on, Chester’s suspicions that his son-in-law was watching too much late-night TV were unequivocally confirmed. The presents opened in the Parker’s living room were like a TV Guide listing of infomercials: everything from radar-emitting toothbrushes to How to be a Tiger in Bed relationship kits to shark cartilage food supplements to Tan-in-a-pill was offered to his wife, son, and in-laws on this Eve of Christ’s Nativity. What little sense of propriety or good taste Joe had possessed before had apparently left him this holiday season. Opening the run-of-the-mill clothes and toys the Parkers and Sharon deigned to buy was soothingly anticlimactic.

When Joe, Sharon, and Danny left late that night, Chester and Leona Parker stood in shared awe of all the merchandise which had taken control of a living room that was once theirs. It seemed not as if Santa had paid a merry visit, but more like Mr. Claus of the North Pole had been assaulted while on his rounds and the contents of his bag had spilled into the Parker residence during the fray. Bound by decades of marriage, having faced great joys and tumult together, Mr. and Mrs. Parker knew exactly what the other was thinking: Where are we going to dump this stuff at?

CHAPTER 2

"These people are such idiots! They don’t have receipts and then they want a full refund for a sale item and then they act like you’re the one trying to rip them off! I don’t know if I can take this anymore."

A distraught Billy Bell sat on one of the two metal folding chairs in Joe’s office. The 17-year-old Billy served as a Shift Supervisor at Cheapmart—a title which meant absolutely nothing but proved he was better than all the employees without titles that didn’t mean anything. December 26 had marked the end of the Christmas shopping season and the beginning of the return season. Cheapmart faced more than its share of people returning gifts that raised the question, If it’s the thought that counts, then what thought, exactly, was this? The return season was even more intense than the shopping season. People had from Labor Day, when Cheapmart eerily started stringing up decorations, until Christmas Eve to buy presents, but everyone seemed eager to spit the bad taste of lousy gifts out of their mouths as quickly as possible. By now, late January, the return season was just about wound down, and the past month had taught young Billy that the spirit of the return season was not Peace, Joy, and Goodwill toward Men, but Hurry up with my cash, register-jockey! The Shift Supervisor had had about enough.

Billy, Joe began, striking his most authoritative pose and taking his most paternal tone, You can’t dictate what happens to you. You have to take things as they come. Think of soldiers on the battlefield: When they get shot at and shelled and see their buddies wounded by shrapnel or mowed down by gunfire, they can’t complain or quit. They simply do their duty. That’s just like the situation you’re in. You shouldn’t have gotten upset when the lady who didn’t have a receipt for the Vibrating Foot Massager said you were driving a limousine and vacationing in Paris off of her misfortune and then told you to kiss her sagging ass. You have to learn to tolerate these situations when they come up.

Joe relaxed in his straightbacked wooden chair, which was not much more comfortable than the one Billy was on. Ever since Joe had been named Senior Manager four months ago this tiny room of bare sheet rock—really a glorified broom closet—had been all his. The Cheapmart Senior Manager’s office, desk, and yellow metal filing cabinet were, as the name on the door indicated, under the charge of Joe Kagan. The office’s one window, on the same side as the door, faced the store. On the wall across from Joe’s desk hung a bulletin board layered in long-ignored copies of policies and regulations, while on the wall behind him was a yellowing 1970s poster with the slogan Cheapmart managers care about employees’ ideas above a heart-shaped rainbow—a relic from owner Whit Condon’s brief sensitive-boss phase. When first promoted, Joe spent nearly all his time in this office. He kept the blinds on the window open so everyone could see who was in charge. However, shoppers would frequently look through the window not as satisfied customers admiring the man in control of business but like spectators gawking at a dull-witted animal in a zoo. Joe half-expected to be offered bananas and peanuts. So Joe tried keeping the blinds shut, but that made the office seem too much like a tomb for comfort. He got around this by keeping the door open, yet this brought its own problems. Employees would barge in and out of the Senior Manager’s office without knocking, a grave sign of disrespect, so thought Joe, to his authority. Customers would cluelessly wander into his office, thinking it was a restroom; Joe grew tired of directing people to the real bathroom six times a day. So Joe decided that he was too important to be cooped up in the office; he needed to use his indispensable expertise out on the floor keeping control of the workers, shoppers, and merchandise. Yet Joe never missed an opportunity to tell one of his employees, Let’s discuss this in my office, usually before the bewildered worker had finished a sentence. And the path Joe made around the store nearly always included a swing past the door that confirmed his name and title.

I guess you’re right, Joe, Billy replied resignedly to Mr. Kagan’s avuncular advice, I’ll just have to put up with these morons. He got up—there was just enough room for him to do so without hitting Joe’s desk—and left without closing the door.

Joe did not follow him out but remained seated at his desk. Despite the image of a cool, collected boss he tried to present to Billy, Joe was preoccupied with something. Indeed, for the past week he had dreaded going home every night—and not because of his wife’s slippers. The bills for his Christmas splurge were coming in. Whenever he had called an 800 number to buy some product an infomercial was hawking, Joe had said to himself, quite rightly, that he could afford this. But the cumulative effect, like a hangover’s delayed punishment, was now being painfully felt by his credit cards and bank account.

A woman wearing heavy eyeglasses stepped into the office and gave out a frightened start upon seeing Joe.

The ladies’ room is two doors down, he told her.

Joe left work even later than usual that night in an attempt to delay the sight of the bills. Once again a stack of envelopes on the side table welcomed him when he arrived home. These were invoices from those purchases Joe made by check after he had maxed-out all three of his credit cards; the briefest thought of his whopping credit card bills was enough to induce mild angina. Joe looked at the contents of each envelope and recalled the infomercial that birthed it and the lucky person who received the item. The money-back guarantees that had reassured Joe on so many of these purchases were now worthless since most of what he had ordered had been given as gifts to near and distant friends and relatives. And, what Joe hadn’t yet come to terms with, these bills were only the firsts in lines of easy payments. The mail wasn’t all bad news, though: Joe received the new credit card he had ordered.

Sharon, on the couch again, was even sleepier than usual owing to the extra-late hour. Not being a drinker or smoker, Joe grabbed the remote control and pressed Power.

Are you tired of seeing the same old paint and finish on your furniture? Then stay tuned because CRP is a miracle paint remover and wood refinisher unlike any other you’ve seen before! vouched a middle-aged, bespectacled man accompanied by a female co-host.

We’ve asked these people to bring in their old pieces of furniture to let them see how CRP can turn their trash into treasure, the woman, whom Joe recognized from an eye-coloring infomercial, announced to all who might bump into this broadcast.

This is Ned, and he’s going to show us how CRP can remove years worth of scratches from his curio cabinet, the male host explained while strolling up to the rail-thin, slightly hunched senior citizen. The camera closed in on the cabinet and revealed it to be scratched with a heart that read JT + ML, several games of tic tac toe, an expletive electronically deleted on the screen, a swastika, and a peace sign—all of which made one wonder what kind of home life Ned must lead.

Now, Ned, use the CRP scratch remover and see how great it looks.

Ned quickly rubbed a cloth along the side of the cabinet, obliterating all of the disturbing graffiti.

How do you like CRP, Ned?

It works like magic. Now I don’t have to buy my wife a new one. And we can have company over.

The studio audience cheered on the old man’s triumph.

The next test case was a slovenly thirtyish woman who was sucking her teeth and having a bad hair day. She stood behind a Louis XIV chair so caked in globs of white latex paint that it looked more sculpture than furniture. That some villain had drowned the antique in a pool of cheap paint as a bitter act of revenge was the only admirable explanation for the chair’s grotesque disfigurement.

Stacy will use revolutionary CRP to reveal the wood underneath all that paint.

She sprinkled the CRP on and instantly wiped off the inches deep paint to expose beautiful, flawless wood.

The female host faced the camera. You see how gorgeous it looks when you use CRP! Here’s your chance to order this unbelievable product and make any piece of furniture as good as new.

The ordering information appeared on the screen and Joe Kagan did not hesitate to head, new credit card in hand, for the phone.

Sharon drowsily mumbled, You said you weren’t gonna order anymore from TV.

It’s just one more thing. And besides this is different. CRP can turn trash into treasure.

Sharon was far too groggy to protest further.

One morning two weeks later the CRP Wood Refinisher, Paint Remover & Scratch Eraser Deluxe Set arrived. Sharon felt relief when her husband finally left for work that evening: all day long she had had to stop him as he attempted to use the product on every wooden object in their home. Every chair, cabinet, table, and shelf, Joe argued, was in desperate need of refinishing. Every painted surface was crying out to have the beautiful wood underneath exposed. Sharon had spent that frantic, exhausting day defending the house furnishings from a man armed with a rag and a can of CRP. And, indeed, she managed to thwart Joe efforts and keep the wares unscathed.

However, Joe would not let a miracle product like CRP go to waste. If he could not use it on furniture inside the house, perhaps he could use it on furniture outside the house. Amidst thoughts such as these, Joe conceived of a plan in which the incredible CRP would transform trash into the treasure he would use to pay off his infomercial bills!

The following Saturday Joe loaded himself and his son into the Pinto and set out on the mission. It only took him a block to discover a sign of what he was searching for. A yellow posterboard with the black marker words Garage Sale. Sat/Sun 9AM to 5PM. 757 Hoover St. Thirty seconds later Joe pulled up to the residence where an obese, barefoot woman sat in a lawn chair with a White Owl Cigar box on her lap.

As soon as Joe stepped out of the car, she beamed, "You’re the first customer