I'm the light years of patience it requires to indulge middle-aged couples who wander in with humble, serious expressions. With one glance I know exactly what they're going to do next. "Excuse me, are you the owner?" Here we go.

But I pretend not to know because I'm long past the point of annoyance, anger, frustration, bargain and finally acceptance of the dumb ritual that unfolds next. One I have to act out ten thousand times a day. It's part of my job. No, my life.

"Well, my mother passed away a few years ago." They always begin. "We have a basement full of her old furniture and things. I was down there the other day and I said to my husband Frank, 'You know, I'll bet we could sell some of these treasures!' We hate to part with it all, but…"

On and on…

In all my decades I've never once heard an interesting, short, to the point, or even unique story (kind of like this one! but indulge me...) about how someone's dead relative had spent a lifetime collecting things, coupled with what their lives were like and how their lifetime's possessions are just sitting in a basement waiting to be loved again.

The truth: 99.9% of the time (not an exaggeration!) the things people have in their basements that they're referring to are, quite literally… garbage. No one would ever want to buy them, not in a trillion years. I'm basing that figure on cold, hard, long life experience in my business.

People seem stunned and even angry that I don't want to close the store, hop in my truck and follow them several towns over, to then gleefully creep into their basement with a spelunker's hat on and dollar signs in my eyes while I ohh-and-ahh at a magical world of priceless treasures, and then hand over thousands of dollars in cash to them (kept in my pocket at all times!) as my assistants load the entire basement's contents into my truck and drive off into the sunset.

I've stopped telling people they have to bring photos, because people of this caliber have no idea how to use an iPad or a smart phone (they tell me repeatedly, proudly), or apparently even a camera. So they come in instead with teary-eyed speeches and swelled hearts. Sure their spider-webby pit of family poor-looms contain treasures that, according to Antiques Roadshow, may possibly be worth a million dollars

('No, no Frank… aunt Linda had great taste and was an amazing person, I have a really good feeling about this. Let me do the talking.')

Oh, I know there are instances of actual goldmines being discovered in basements of items collected by dead relatives a half century ago. But the chances of finding that ONE are just too vast and far apart for my inventory-overcrowded little business to try to land (last week my lone sale was a $5 postcard).

Tired of being yelled at, told I was a fool for passing up on "millions," and even once having a figurine from the counter thrown at me (yes), I've instead concocted the perfect conversational points to diffuse their interest in me and let them know they would probably best to take their offer to another place (where the owner will do the exact thing to them). Pulling the wool over their eyes and having them leave me alone is best, even if it's a blackhearted lie. A lie wrapped in a con and coated in a patina (natch!) of yellow hope. One day, this businesses and that lie will fall like the house of cards it is. I started telling myself that in 1974 and still do.