Mr. Jamison for the Win

The trip had been remarkably efficient. Six months into our medical leave I had traveled back to Central Asia with one of my brothers in order to close down our house and pack, give away, or sell everything. At that point, it seemed that we would need to remain in the US for some years to come and I was determined to not leave the work of closing down our household to my teammates.

In the first four days of a five day trip, we had sorted everything, packed suitcases and a massive rug to bring back, held a sale for expats, set aside bags of stuff to donate to refugees, attended a baptism picnic, attended a funeral which led to a sleepover, preached at the church plant, and managed to spend some good time with most of the local believers. Somebody must have been praying for us because I don’t think I have ever been more efficient in my entire life.

One final step remained before we could turn over the keys of our old stone house to the landlord. My local friend, Adam, who had been mostly healed of paranoid schizophrenia, had assured me it would be a simple one. He knew a guy who bought household goods in bulk so that he could sell them secondhand in the bazaar. Once our sale was finished, Adam would bring in the reseller, we’d agree on a price, and then the reseller’s men would clear everything out. I didn’t worry about this final step because it seemed to be so simple.

However, once the resellers assessed our remaining household goods, things began to get complicated. We had estimated that a conservative value of the remaining goods was around $2,000. But because of the business model, we’d likely need to settle for half of that. The resellers, for their part, offered us $300. And wouldn’t budge.

Now, there is a kind of robust bargaining that is common in our Central Asian culture, one where the various parties haggle back and forth and mutual respect and even enjoyment stay a part of the conversation. This negotiation began that way, but it was quickly turning into a very unhappy one. Both Adam and I were shocked at the price they had given, and after pushing them as hard as we honorably could, they were only willing to come up to $350. The resellers seemed insulted that we didn’t seem to agree with their assessment that our goods were basically worthless.

We sat there in what used to be our living room as the resellers repeatedly complained about the economy and insulted the quality of the household goods we were trying to sell them. My frustration was building, making it harder to think and speak clearly in the local language. What the resellers continued to call worthless were mainly items we had bought from other missionary families and good quality stores. There were Persian rugs, kitchen appliances, solid beds, good tools, and a nice exercise bike – the kinds of things you buy when you’re thinking about items that will serve a family for a decade or more.

More than this, these were household goods that had been purchased for my family and that my family had used, enjoyed, and taken care of. Some, like an espresso maker, were Christmas gifts to one another that we couldn’t carry back. Selling them at a decent price was hard. Selling them at the price the resellers were insisting on felt like a punch to the gut. I shook my head, knowing that we did indeed need to make some money off of these items. We had moved back to the US in late 2022. Inflation made it a terrible time to try to set up a new household in America.

“I mean, look at all this junk,” the reseller started up again. “Can you point out one item to me that has any real quality or value?”

“Yes,” I insisted, “yes, I can. Look at that area rug, it’s in great condition. And that water cooler and purifier as well. And that exercise bike is solid, it’s the kind of thing you’d pay $100 for at the exercise stores in the marketplace.”

“Ha!” scoffed the reseller. “If I buy this junk for more than $350, there’s no way I’ll be able to make any kind of profit off it.”

He turned to Adam, “These foreigners don’t understand. Tell him, this is all worthless. That bike (hah), that bike is worthless.”

Adam, to his credit, just sat there looking perplexed, but clearly not agreeing with the conduct of the reseller he had earlier been so positive about.

We were at an impasse. We needed to get rid of the stuff. The next day was our last one, and we needed to turn over the keys to an empty house. Should we risk trying to find another reseller? We might run out of time.

At that moment, we heard a knock at the door. It was a mustachioed neighbor wearing the more informal traditional outfit of a collared shirt tucked into baggy parachute pants, pulled up to the belly button. He had asked earlier if he could come by to see what was still for sale, but we had completely forgotten about him.

Adam and I tried to shake ourselves out of our frustration with the resellers and stood up to give the warm and respectful greetings expected between men and neighbors in even the most informal situations. The resellers, not knowing the neighbor, stayed seated, stewing.

What followed could be called providential irony.

“Wow, look at that exercise bike!” the neighbor said. “Is it for sale? I’ve been wanting one just like it! Can I try it?”

For whatever reason, at this point Adam switched back to his British English in his reply, gesturing grandly, “Give it a try, Mr. Jamison!”

Our neighbor, not named Mr. Jamison, and not knowing English, nevertheless seemed to understand. He climbed on the exercise bike, still wearing his traditional baggy pants. He smiled widely as he pedaled in front of me, Adam, my brother, and the sullen resellers.

We all sat there watching him, the enthusiasm of this kind neighbor pedaling away on the exercise bike like some kind of pleasant song that wakes you up from a bad dream.

“This is nice! I’ll pay you forty dollars for this.”

“We’ll take it!” Adam called out, probably louder than he had been intending, and both of us shot a meaning-filled glance at the resellers.

“Can I look around some more? Is there more for sale?” asked the neighbor. Adam told him he could go explore the goods in other rooms.

“You know,” Adam leaned over and said to me in English, “I think I might be able to find another reseller. Should we risk it and send these guys off?”

“Definitely,” I said.

We told the resellers we would be getting a second opinion and they huffed and puffed their way out of the house and the courtyard, remonstrating that we’d never find a better price than they had offered.

The arrival of the neighbor had come at just the right time. It was a small thing, but it shook us out of our death spiral of a conversation with the resellers, and gave us courage for one more risk before the trip was up.

“Who’s Mr. Jamison?” my brother later asked me. “That was hilarious. Why did he call the neighbor that?”

“I have no idea. But that neighbor’s timing and what he did with the exercise bike? That was perfect. Tonight it was definitely Mr. Jamison for the win.”

Later that night, Adam somehow found some more resellers, who were happy to pay $650 to take everything else off our hands. And we were happy to oblige them.

The next day, we closed the courtyard door to the old stone house and turned in the keys to the elderly landlord, who drank chai with us and cried at our departure.

Back in America, my family used some of the money from the sale of our stuff to buy a good used Toyota Sedan from a family in our church. The license plate said “NED,” so we decided the car’s first name should be Ned.

But his last name we proclaimed Jamison. Ned Jamison.

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