Glass Santa, Eighty Dollars! EIGHTY DOLLARS!

Sixty years from now, when I am a geriatric crank with a squint and a facial tick and a hump and Joyce Carol Oates eyeglasses (or a monocle- we'll have to see what's available), I will order my obese orphaned nephew to set up a tent at the foot of my driveway. From this tent we will sell everything from abandoned toilets to butterfly-shaped crap to stick in your garden. Everything will be priced to suit your budget, but you will have to haggle with me anyway, and I plan on being hard of hearing. In deference to Little Edie, I will wear skirts as turbans and coo at the raccoons that show up to eat the dog treats I hide in the roadside toilets. At night my nephew will pack everything into his seventy-year-old Geo Metro and sleep on its roof, while I hobble back to the house to take a sauna in my socks. This will happen only if I become a homeowner at some point. You can't run a tent business from a studio apartment.