by Curt Hinkle
Bill and I pulled up in front of the old Bekins warehouse down by the abandoned train depot. We were there to pick up a family heirloom, an antique vanity shipped to Bill from back east. We hadn't planned on finding a full parking lot and a crowd of people around the raised loading dock.
"What's going on?" I asked a boy in bib overalls as we climbed out of the truck.
"Auction," he said. "Stuff left in storage, unclaimed for more than five years gets auctioned off."
The auctioneer was BDBDBDing like Porky Pig, his only understandable words were the numbers. "Twenty dollars . . . . once . . . . twice . . . . sold to the man in the plaid shirt."
The swamper, a wizened old man who appeared to be made of corn husks and paste came out of the warehouse. He was struggling mightily, and even with the aid of an ancient iron wheeled hand truck, his load, an old trunk was more than he could handle. He reminded me of an ant wrestling a dead beetle. He lost control and the trunk came down with a substantial crash. He was almost catapulted over the handles of his hand truck. Whatever the trunk contained, it was damn heavy.
Bill caught the old man's eye. "I got a piece of furniture to pick up."
"After we auction off this next item, I'll get it for you," the old man said.
"Lot number 413," the auctioneer announced, holding his manifest at arm's length, his eyeglasses perched on his forehead. "Jason Bradley. This lot has been stored here for twenty years. The fee paid in advance for that amount of time. An old trunk."
"Jason Bradley?" Bill whispered to me. "I was his paper boy when I was a kid. Meanest old man I ever saw. Died last year. Lived to be a hundred on Chesterfields and Old Crow. He was a coin dealer here in town before he retired to concentrate on staying drunk full time. I was collecting once and he was so drunk, he gave me a bunch of change that included a solid gold half eagle. He thought it was a quarter."
"You gave it back, right?" I said.
"Tried to, but he lit into me so bad I just took it. I traded it to Jimmy LaScalla for a German helmet with a bullet hole in it" Bill laughed shaking his head. "I found out later that Jimmy shot the hole in it himself with his old man's 45."
The auctioneer rapped his gavel, "We'll start the bidding at five dollars. Fi dolla fi dolla fidolla hu'll gime fidolla?"
"Five dollars," Bill raised his hand.
"Ten dollars," said a man in designer jeans wearing a cowboy hat.
"Fifteen dollars, Bill shot right back.
"Twenty dollars," called out a man in a blue work shirt and construction boots.
"Twenty-five," said Bill.
"Thirty," yelled the cowboy.
"Fifty dollars," shouted Bill, glaring at the other bidders.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer held his hands out toward the crowd as if he were giving a benediction. "We are bidding on lot number 413.
A beat up old trunk. That's all. If it had a key and a working lock, it might be worth twenty or thirty dollars to someone willing to work their ass off restoring it."
He sounded so sincere, you wanted to believe him. He was working the crowd and he was good. Auctioneers generally get a percentage of the gross. The more the lots sell for the more money they make. At my great aunt's estate sale, someone had swept the house , put the dirt in a paper grocery bag and folded the top. The auctioneer got three dollars for it.
"We don't know what's inside the trunk," he said. Taking his time to look out over the crowd. "Probably full of mouse shit," he paused again. "Don't buy a pig in a poke. "I have a bid of fifty dollars. Going once, going twice . . .?"
"Seventy-five," said the cowboy.
"A hunert," the construction worker yelled, stabbing his finger at the auctioneer.
"Hold it," commanded the auctioneer. Even people not bidding were caught up in the excitement, filled with curiosity, dying to know what was inside that trunk. "You all are getting carried away. This trunk is probably filled of rocks," he spoke slowly and in a low tone as if to calm the crowd.
"Or coins," Bill whispered to me.
"Yeah, but what kind of rocks?" a man shouted.
"It's just an old trunk and not a very good one at that," said the auctioneer. "This is getting out of hand. I'm taking this lot off the block," he feigned a turn toward the swamper.
A roar went up from the crowd. "You can't do that," someone yelled. The auctioneer consulted with the old swamper, who just shrugged and grinned, amused with these antics.
"Okay," said the auctioneer. "Okay. You're all grown men and women. I reckon you know your own mind. Do I hear one-fifty?"
"One-fifty," said Bill.
"Two hundred," the cowboy drove his fist into the air.
"Two-fifty," said the construction worker, jaw clenched.
"Three hundred," shouted Bill. The auctioneer was silent, his head nodding back and forth between the bidders like one of those toy dogs you see in the back windows of cars.
"Five hunert," said the construction worker, and the crowd pressed forward.
"One thousand dollars," yelled the cowboy, and everything went quiet.
The auctioneer pointed with his gavel at the construction worker and then at Bill. He moved it over the people standing below him, a scepter, questioning with his eyes. Nobody was even breathing. "One thousand once . . . . One thousand twice . . . . SOLD! To the man in the cowboy hat for one thousand dollars." And after an exaggerated arm swing, he just tapped his gavel on the podium.
The cowboy hopped up onto the dock and accepted a crowbar from the frail old swamper. He jammed it under the trunk hasp and pried. The lock surrendered with a snap. He raised the lid and took a long look into the trunk. The crowbar slipped from his fingers. He took off his hat and mopped his brow with a bandana that was almost as red as his face.
The swamper and the auctioneer removed bundle after bundle from the trunk and stacked them next to it. When empty, they tipped it on end and turned it so the crowd could see inside.
For his one thousand dollars, the cowboy had bought a battered old trunk with no key and a broken hasp. And an impressive pile of neat bundles of steel coat hangers tied with string. Several hundred pounds of rusty wire twisted into triangles.
Ode to Man and Dog by Betty Finocchiaro
I live with an old man and an old dog
Both depend on me
They greet me in the morning
doff caps to me in the evening
Look to me for food to sustain them
throughout the day
Their affection wraps me in a blanket
keeping us comfortable
all day long
I am grateful for them
for they make me know I'm alive
How can I not be
Since I have to
Greet them in the morning
Celebrate them in the evening
Prepare and feed their senses
Sustain them throughout the day
And – they return my affection
keeping me warm and accepting
as only an old man
and
an old dog can do
|
Favorite Things by Connie Shepard
I love the stillness after a snowfall
when the world is hushed,
all sounds muted
like soft slippered footfalls.
I love a summer day that
makes rivulets run down your chest.
Heat waves undulating
like wrinkles on the horizon.
I love the sound of water as
it bubbles, trickles, splashes, -
a living thing
singing all the melodies of earth.
I love the sound of birds when
dawn is jauntily celebrated,
or when the dusk in proclaimed
with their plaintive, mournful cry. |
