The Amateur Amateur: 30 Minutes to Get Rid of Everything

By Gary Ross Hoffman, KB0H
April 1st, 2018

Item falling from radio
Something fell out, went 'tink', and rolled across the floor.

I yawned, then blinked my eyes. Where was I? Pumpkinfest? Scorcherfest? No, I remembered it being miserably cold and wet during the drive there, so it was probably Blizzardfest. My friend Steve and I had partnered to man a table promoting the ham radio group to which we both belonged. We hoped to sell some items that had been donated and pass out some of the group's brochures.

I looked over at Steve. He was adding more sale items to the table and whistling Whistle While You Work. That was a surprise. I'd never heard him so much as hum before, let alone whistle. Was I mistaken? Was I still in Dreamfest? Or had Steve won a big door prize while I was mentally snoozing?

Glancing at the table, I saw that our stock of free promotional buttons had diminished, but none of the brochures. Why not, I wondered. After all, they were free, too.

The sale portion of the table also looked different. Some items had obviously sold, but Steve had a virtually endless supply of replacements. Donations to our group had been heavy recently. Of course, the donations tended to be obsolete, beat up, and missing cords. One or two had blemishes that looked suspiciously like bullet holes. But, you can never tell what will appeal to hamfest attendees.

Steve had placed an old, but popular rig on the table. After several price reductions, it had not sold and no one had shown any interest. Steve decided to take it off the table and try some other item. As he picked up the rig, something fell out, went 'tink', and rolled around on the floor. An attendee with a walrus mustache knelt down, his eyes wide, and said, "Is that a.... No! It can't be! I've been looking for one of those for years!" straightening up, he looked at Steve and eagerly asked, "How much do you want for it?"

"Ummm... fifty bucks??" Steve replied.

"Ha! Sold!" the man said, whipping out his wallet and forking over the money. Snatching the mystery item from the floor, he dashed off into the crowd, chortling.

"What the heck was that?" I asked.

Steve shrugged his shoulders and began whistling We're in the Money! as he stuffed the loot into our cash box.

'French' coffee mug
I dicovered that the message had been horribly misspelled.

For several years, we had lots of battery-powered power supplies that had been tossed out by a telephone company. Interest in them had initially been quite high. We completely sold out one year, only to find out that another vendor had bought them and was selling them for twice what he'd paid us for them. Eventually, interest had tapered off, and last year no one had wanted any.

Today, virtually everyone who came to our table was asking for them. We didn't have any. Nor did any other vendor at the hamfest. I think they had all been beamed up to the telephone company's mother ship. They were probably going to deploy a bunch of new satellites and needed the batteries back.

I replenished the stock of free buttons on the table. I noted, sadly, that none of the coffee mugs were moving. I'd purchased two dozen at a ridiculously low price, figuring we could make a killing selling them. They took fourteen weeks to arrive, and had apparently been shipped from southeast Asia via a refugee boat. When they finally showed up, I discovered that the message "I (heart) Amateur Radio" had been horribly misspelled. Having no other options, I'd put them on the table anyway. Clearly, though, the attendees of this hamfest knew how to spell.

I took down the sign, changed "Amateur Radio coffee mugs" to "Novelty coffee mugs", lowered the price, and put the sign back in place.

Steve seemed to be constantly checking his phone. Whenever someone stopped at the table, though, he would look up, smile, and say, "Hey Bob (Chuck, Irving, whoever)! How have you been!" The person would look up, somewhat surprised, and shake Steve's hand. Within moments, they'd be deep in a conversation about whatever most interested the guy. Perhaps one time out of five, the fellow would buy something before leaving.

I was utterly amazed at Steve's ability to remember so many people, especially since more than half of them didn't seem to remember him. Everything became clear, though, when I peeked at his phone.

Steve wasn't checking for messages. He was noting the call sign of anyone who approached our table, then quickly looking it up in the FCC database to see who they were.

"Hey, 'Amateur Radio' is misspelled on these mugs," someone said.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered. You're only the 500th person to notice, I thought to myself.

Steve went around the table and looked at my sign. He grabbed a fresh piece of cardstock, wrote something on it, and replaced my sign while whistling La Marseillaise.

No one else made any comments about the spelling on the mugs. Curious, I looked to see what Steve had written on the new sign.


Boat anchor in truck
Genuine boat anchor, barnacles included

The morning dragged on and the crowds began to thin.

"You know, I've got a real boat anchor out in my truck," Steve said.

"Oh? What brand?" I asked.

"Dunno. It's still covered with barnacles."

I smiled, then realized that he probably wasn't kidding. Someone might buy it just for the laugh value.

Someone might even buy the barnacles.

Steve looked at his watch and frowned.

"Oh man, the hamfest closes in 30 minutes," he said, "and I really need to get rid of everything!"

"Oh? Why?" I asked, puzzled. No vendor ever sells everything on his table.

"My wife told me that I'd better not bring any of this stuff home, because no matter what, she was going to park her car in the garage tonight!"

I didn't say anything. The poor guy was doomed.

We watched the minutes tick away til closing time. We grabbed a couple of carts and started piling the unsold stuff onto them. Once they were full, Steve yanked on the handle of one of them, strained until he managed to get it rolling, then whistled Song of the Volga Boatmen as he dragged it toward the exit.

We got Steve's truck loaded up (there was no boat anchor in it after all). He got in, started the engine, then gave me a sad smile. As he drove off, I heard him whistling a funeral dirge. I hoped that he could find a large dumpster before he reached home.

As I got into my own car, I reflected that, Steve's woes aside, it hadn't been a bad hamfest. All in all we did disposed of numerous radios, antennas, and sundry items.

We even sold a few French coffee mugs.

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