Floyd Kelly

The scene of the farce was downtown Blimey Heights, where Frank and Fraunka lived in a two-story condo next to a busy coffee shop. Their giant first-floor window, with no shades or curtains, gave passersby a direct view into their living room, sparse, its fake fireplace in the background, and the large screen TV in the window, set up facing out like a museum exhibit. The sidewalk mere feet away.

Frank, the one doing the selling, sat just to the right of the window at the front door in a lawn chair—the aluminum kind with the plastic straps. Two massive pieces of cardboard were taped to the outside of the window, framing the TV. On them, in leaky marker, were the words “As Seen on TV!”

Inside, his wife, Fraunka, was handling household objects. Her job was to use her smartphone to cast video to their big screen TV. She was fumbling and making a mess.

“Okay, honey, we’re live!” Frank yelled, leaning back in his lawn chair.

The TV showed a blurry, shaky close-up of a single roll of toilet paper.

“Behold!” Frank announced to a woman passing by. “The multi-sheet personal wellness roll! A premium thingamajiggie, as seen on TV! Yours today for the low price of just two hundred dollars! We accept all diamonds and rubies.” The woman just put in her AirPods and walked faster.

“Fraunka! Next!”

The screen changed to a dirty coffee cup with a big, heavy red lipstick stain on the rim.

“And now,” Frank boomed, “a pre-personalized ceramic beverage holder! A collectible doohickey with a story to tell, as seen on TV! A steal at five hundred and fifty dollars! Payment plans are available for those willing to trade a vehicle or a mansion.” A teen on a skateboard yelled, “Gross!” as he rolled by.

This banter continued. Next up was a mangled dog toy, its squeaker gone. “A chewed, canine-tested recreational whatchamacallit! Enhances your electromagnetic aura! As seen on TV! This one-of-a-kind piece can be yours for a mere thousand dollars. We take cash, credit cards or deeds.” He lounged the day away as he ate chips and they went on item benders just to freak people out.

Nobody buys.

Finally, after watching the day unfold from my table at the coffee shop next door, I approached him. I had to play along. “So,” I said, trying to look serious, “if I buy that dog toy and it doesn’t do anything, will I get a refund?”

Frank’s cheerful demeanor didn’t crack, but his eyes lit up. He knew that I knew. He glanced at the TV, which now showed a broken chia pet, then looked back at me, a giant grin spreading across his face.

“Fraunka!” he yelled toward the house, now giggling. “We need to talk about the one penny refunds!”