Slick talkers in little green vests

IT’S 6 o’clock on a Saturday morning -- dark as a cup of coffee -- and here we are setting up for the Girl Scouts yard sale.

“At our last meeting, we practiced sweet-talking the customers,” the little girl explains.

“Like how?”

“Like when someone asks if we’ll take 50 cents for something, we say, ‘Sir, this is for the Girl Scouts. Don’t you think it’s worth at least a buck?’ ”

Some nerve, these scouts. They are the aggressive children of mid-career professionals. Born talking, most of them. Like little Oprahs.

From TV alone, they know that there is no future in listening. A klieg light never shined for someone who was a good listener. Nope, far as they can tell, talkers rule the world.

“Sir, this is for the Girl Scouts,” they’ll tell customers. And they’ll probably pull it off. But right now, there is merchandise to set out.

“Want to help move this table?” someone asks.

“Not particularly,” I say.

“Grab an end,” she orders.

Parents. We are like pack mules with cell phones. That’s the part you never see in those romantic Brittany Murphy movies. How love leads to marriage, which leads to children, which leads to becoming your children’s pack mule. If the movies told the truth about love, all love would stop.

“Here, help me grab this chair,” my buddy Bill says.

“Love to,” I say.

Little by little, we move the junk from Bill’s garage to the front of the house.

As always in the suburbs, there has been much preparation. Old items gathered. Posters put up. Even a story in the local paper.

And now, in just minutes, this multi-family yard sale will begin. Hopefully, the economy is robust enough to support it.

“Bring those skis over here,” the troop leader orders, and two little sales associates drag them across the asphalt.

The parents have laid out the sale items in sections. Clothing back there. Books over here. “The Great Gatsby” sits next to “All About Sea Otters.”

Then we have the sporting goods section. Bar bells. Skis. Bikes. An exercise machine.

“Mind if I come a few minutes early?” our first customer asks.

“Yes,” I say.

It’s 6:45 now, and the first customers are beginning to roll in. The sale begins at 7. Still, you get these early birds.

“Any clocks or model trains?” he asks.

“I think we have a clock over here,” a girl says.

At 7, the world descends. Apparently there is a whole sub-society of people, millions maybe, who live only to go from garage sale to garage sale, who pull up in their Astro vans and park illegally -- just anywhere, frankly -- in a rush to get at junk just rescued from deep within some stranger’s dusty garage.

“Any guns?” one guy asks.

“Sorry.”

The worst junk is the first to sell. The stuff of any real value lingers. Like the Raquel Welch workout book. Somehow, it sits for hours.

Yes, I thumbed through her book. I’m married, not dead. And no, they’re not the same thing.

And let me assure you, in her prime, Raquel folded up like a two-legged card table. I’ve seen AAA maps that weren’t this limber. Rodeo rope doesn’t coil like this. You get the idea.

“This book should sell for at least $5,” I say.

“Five?” Bill asks.

“Sir, this is for the Girl Scouts,” I say.

Meanwhile, the most activity is taking place over at the exercise machine. No one wants to actually buy the exercise machine. But everyone wants to ride it, including the dozen little sales associates.

One woman finally purchases the exercise machine, then changes her mind halfway to the car.

“She says she joined a gym,” Bill explains.

“On the way to the car?” I ask.

Over in clothing, three of the Girl Scouts have a potential customer cornered.

Poor guy, early 20s, seems decent enough. Wanders into this yard sale probably looking for a Valentine’s gift for his girlfriend, and suddenly he is surrounded by a gang of sweet-talkers.

“That’s cute,” the little girl says as the customer holds up a faded T-shirt.

“Really?” he says.

“Matches your eyes,” another scout says.

“It’s red,” the customer notes.

“Uh-huh,” says the scout.

Sold.

*

Chris Erskine’s column is published Wednesdays. He can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.