Frye Boots Calling, Part 2: Bye-Bye, Small Frye’s

I rescued them from a terrible fate. Who else was going to do it? The quarter was in my pocket anyway; what good is a quarter? I knew someone had loved them, once. Maybe someone would love them again. God knows, I already did, but we just weren’t a fit.

For a quarter, I was willing to give them the chance to find that fit. I had the perfect place to give them that.

Or so I thought. They hung out there for months. I presented them as well as I could. Their best side. Their best position. I even considered giving them my old Bufalo fringed jacket to show off with, but decided it was beneath them. I wanted them to speak for themselves. And the Bufalo was in need of serious Love; it made them look used up.

I gave them a little bio telling about their origins, their age, at least the parts I knew. They looked pretty good sitting there. I figured someone walking by might fall in love. It had happened to me that way once. So I set them up front and center, but still in sight of security cameras in case anyone got any ideas. I didn’t want them to get snatched. The person capable of that would not have good intentions. It wasn’t that I had so much invested in them [a quarter, remember], but they deserved better than a thief. And truthfully, I’m trying to make a living.

Every day that I saw them, they were the same as I’d left them, except for the few times I found them tossed rather ruthlessly on their sides. Someone feeling them up, because they could, rejecting them for some cheap piece of skin down the way. Split leather pigskin, no doubt. Who knew the difference anymore? Not many who came here, looking for whatever might make them look good for as cheaply as possible.

They weren’t cheap, not by those standards. I know you can buy something with a similar look [if you don’t look close] for nearly half the price they languished for. And the only reason I said I’d let them be had for what I did is because there was nothing new about them. They would be perfect for that girl that asked how to make Frye boots look like the ones the starlets wore with their little boho dresses. The “vintage” look. You know, like they’d seen the backs of a few motorcycles and dirt roads.

The heels weren’t walked over but one sole had the beginnings of a hole. A bad enough scratch cut across that one’s toe. And they were creased from calf to ankle. They were a little beat up. They look like the slightly neglected children of my own perfect pair of Frye Ladies Campus boots, circa late 70’s to 80’s. The same 15” shank, same labels, same classic round toe and triple stitching. With this particular height and heel style, my pair would fetch three hundred dollars to the right buyer. They’re in perfect condition. I’d asked fifty for these russet colored babies.

Surely they’re worth it? I knew they were. I’d done my research.

The problem with assigning worth to previously owned objects is this: how much something’s worth is dependant on the Right Seller connecting with the Right Buyer, at the Right Moment. Sure, they’re worth fifty. They’re worth sixty or seventy, or more. But will the person they’re worth that to, find them? Apparently not a lot of Frye boot lovers were ambling around where I left them.

I’d been considering exposing them to a larger market, served up in pictures to whoever might happen to see. Boot porn, some people always look.

Well, the thing is, I’ve just learned that, well, it’s over. They’re gone. Someone coughed up that fifty and took them home. And I’m torn. I’m elated, because I knew they were worth it. I knew someone would have to have them. At the same time, I feel strange about it. I don’t know who bought them. I wasn’t there when it happened, and no one remembers. They could be anywhere by now. It was my mission—get them back in circulation and their rightful purpose. They were headed for the dump, you know.

But I can’t help wondering who bought them. I can only hope she loves them. Why else would she have spent the money?

I wonder if I’d recognize them in a crowd? Would they speak to me? Would their new owner speak to me, my own feet in boots like hers? Would there be a special vibration set off when they chanced to near me again? I’m pretty sure I’d recognize them.

One thing I know, whoever’s wearing them has got small feet. Size 7B. I can see her slipping them on as I did my own, saying “Oh yeaaaah, these are my boots.” She probably wore them out of the store. I hope she put them on her nightstand at bedtime, so she could see them first thing in the morning. I hope she gloats over them like I did mine. That’s who I hope bought them, someone who they called out to. “Hey, over here! We’ve been waiting for you!”

I guess my work is done. Now I can only hope. Here’s to you, Small Frye’s. I hope she treats you well.

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Jess

Jess?

 

I found some pictures. Pictures of you.

Not the you I once knew. Gone now, the mass of black curls. Gone, the sharp cheekbones women whispered about, the slanted green eyes that pierced so much they frightened people. Gone now the tiny frame of muscle that had lifted me high and twirled with such frenzy as to become blur. Not there, I looked for it; the small, silent cat who walked on padded paws, claws pulled in.

 

Jess, I remember. Lithe and compact, deceptively strong, the kind they say you should watch out for. He could land on his feet and turn on you faster than you could regroup. That was evidenced to me more than once. It wasn’t rare to see some big dumb oaf try to take him on. Usually it was because of the eyes, and his size, but also because of me. Just because he was with me and some big guy thought it should’ve been him.

Big-guy could have never kept up with me. In fact, I would have left him wondering what had just happened to him. We both knew that.

Now that I think of it, I guess since then I probably gave that guy a try or two. You can probably guess the outcome.

 

I’m sorry, I was talking about you like you weren’t in the room. But in a way, I guess maybe you’re not, are you? I’m still having a time putting it all together. You are the same guy, after all. And then, you aren’t.

I am not the one you knew either.

It’s been a long time.

 

I think maybe what’s happened is this simple: You grew up. That makes sense. I guess I did too. Certainly, I’ve come at least as far as you.

It’s not that I myself look much different. No, I really don’t think I do. I might look better, even though I have laugh lines now. But I’ve replaced myself.

I didn’t do it all at once, and it was never intentional. Just eventually, enough of that old me died, and someone new settled in. I never knew it would be that way.

I tried to hang on to who I was and who we were and what we said. What we did. And one day, I just couldn’t find you anymore. I never really knew what happened, or couldn’t remember. More and more, a glass and a needle had made the shape of us into something I couldn’t see. But something I couldn’t leave either.

Finally, I let someone else do it for me, for us. He slid in like a snake, slithering into the space you left. He struck with something you couldn’t fight, a venom with no antidote. He helped me turn on you, away from you. It didn’t take long for me to see what I had done. What he had done. There was no undoing it, but I had to tell you. And I still don’t think the end came there.

 

I would’ve died. Without you, I would’ve died. You saved me but you couldn’t stop the seizures.

Before it happened, I remember us being inside. I’m standing in the barred doorway smoking, and someone’s yelling at me to get away from the door. “Don’t get too close to the bars.” Hands are reaching in to grab my lit cigarette. And voices are passing and lingering, calling to me with proposals and curses, insane whispers rustling and fading on, smells, Mota. In the pitch black, a sudden awareness of a body and a pair of eyes so close I can feel heat, see blinking. This time a hand reaching in, offering smoke.

I take another hit of cognac from the singer’s bottle, for courage. I’ll be outside soon. It’s cold. We finally head out together.

 

At first, it’s just like pins and needles. It starts in my feet and moves upwards, and I stand still looking at myself, trying to see something. You’re hissing at me now to walk, reminding me where we are, but my feet don’t do what I tell them. I look at your face but the picture is in pieces. Triangles and slivers, broken glass.

I know my head explodes. I hear a loud “pop”, when the pins and needles get that far up. When I hear it, the kaleidoscope vision I’ve had just before, vanishes. With that “pop”. And then there’s dark.

I hear screaming, a wailing, that builds and rises. A horrible sound and one I hope I never hear again. Absolute terror and agony in it, a person being skinned alive. I hear it from far away, and I strain to tell it’s source, and I can’t see a thing but blackness.

I’m trying so hard to fight my way out of the black. I can still hear everything, and you’re screaming my name. All my will is given to it, but I can’t help it. Just black. The blackest black I’ve ever known. Where do you think I am? I’m serious, do you know? Because I don’t. I’m gone, but trapped, still here. I am blind and I am dead, but still aware of me. Still hearing you scream at me. Still registering the impact when you start slapping me, but too dead to feel. In truth, it’s a worse pain that any other pain I’ve ever felt—that much I register. Dead, but alive. Afterwards, I will dream for years that I am dead. Dead, but aware. That’s where I am, I can’t come back, I can’t help you. I can’t do anything.

The people that see me when you bring me in think I’m out of it. And I am. By this time I’m not even twitching; I am silent, unresponsive, unfeeling, “unconscious”. I hear them say it. But I hear every word they say, every word you say. All these years later, I will still feel Erin’s hands on my face, over and over stroking, her voice the only peace like a song “It’s going to be all right—It’s going to be all right.” She says my name, over and again, tells me she is right here, right here, right here. The only one who seems to understand—I can still HEAR.

How does she know where I am? She knows. No one else does.

But you save me. You get me to her. You yell my name so many times I don’t fly off with those screams I hear, those screams that are really mine.

Erin knows about this place. She must hear the voices in my head that tell me not to listen, not to listen to her, that try to keep me with them. She never stops saying my name, never stops touching me, never gives up. I know it, know she is holding on, showing me a light I can’t see or really feel, but she keeps the tether of it wrapped around my soul.

 

God. Erin. I wish she knew. She was the one who saved us both that night.

 

I can’t tell the rest of the story now. I thought I could. But it turns out I’m not brave enough after all. You have your story, and I have mine, but you don’t know the rest of mine. If I could get through it without crying, without looking for the scar…

Maybe it’s better if I leave it that way. I know I can always fast forward. That’s easier.

 

I see you in pictures. One, I keep only in my head. No one else can see it.

You’re sitting on a kitchen chair out my back door playing slide on an old Les Paul. Tipping the chair back, rocking it. You’ve just had a haircut—the only one I ever saw you with. Your wild curls look tame. Like they might even stay that way.

We’ve never said a word before, least not that I can remember. But I hear what you’re playing and I can’t help it and I give you that look. And too much passes between us then and I can’t take it back. And you just say “How eloquent you are.” And you are playing slide again. But now it’s only for me.

 

I had another one; I kept it for years ‘til someone made me throw it away. It was you, again with the Les Paul, but it had nothing to do with me. I just liked the picture. My friends liked it; they thought you were someone I didn’t recognize; a rock star, maybe. They’d always ask who you were, and I’d just shrug. I liked it because I could see blue on you.

 

There’s more. The last place I knew about without me in it. A box, and my shaking hand on the cover and lifting, before I can say not to. And there it is, all of it. And I know you’re serious, because this is not the outfit of a dabbler. And I know you know I know. And I watch you walk like a ghost out the door for your appointment. I know what we’ve lost is never coming back.

 

There are several missing pages. I don’t know where those shots went, but I never have seen them anyway. I just leave them blank. The one I find next is someone else again.

And I ask him, “Are you happy?”

Then “Do you love her?” And you are silent for too long.

“ I never want to have again what I had with you. The kind of love that makes you DO what you would never do, under any other circumstances.”

And I know just what you mean.

You are comfortable, you tell me so. And it’s all right if we just sit holding each other all night, and if we cry for who we were because it’s all we’ll ever have of it now.

 

And then I found these others. Not mine at all, they’re just out there and I saw them.

They really do have not a thing to do with me, just like that other picture. Someone I don’t know; yet I’d know you anywhere.

Age has found us all, if we’ve survived. And you wear the weight of your soul in your eyes, in your flesh. Just as I do. It’s shocking, really, to see the scars. No, they’re not ugly. I know about them, anyway. Like you know about mine. All the same, we forget.

 

And I ask, “Are you happy?” and I can’t hear an answer. But you look comfortable, and so I tell you so. You reply by holding your guitar, the same as always.

And I ask, “Do you regret anything?” And you are silent again, but I think I see you smile.

 

Jess?

 

 It’s good to see you.

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Lies

Do not consider it proof just because it is written in books, for a liar who will deceive with his tongue will not hesitate to do the same with his pen.

Maimonides

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Not Your Baby

I’m okay

I’ve never been helpless

I’m not the baby

Anymore

 

Don’t worry

I don’t need saved

I’ve made it this far

On my own

 

I’m all right

I never asked for

Not your baby

All alone

 

Don’t worry

I’m okay

I was your baby

Not anymore

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What About Us

What about me

Was I what you thought at all

Did I live up to your fantasy

Did I step up to the call

 

What about you

Are you done with me at last

Have I used up your imagining

Your dream of what is past

 

What about us

Have you really seen me yet

Aren’t I someone after all

You never really met

 

What about us

What about us

What about us

 

What about me

Are you ready to let go

Can I wear my true colors now

Can I let my feelings show

 

What about you

Is this all that you have left

Editing realities

That brought us to this edge

 

What about this

Can I just be me again

Can you let me have my happiness

Can you just let us end

 

And what about us

What about us

What about us

 

What about me

Am I more than what you say

Can I tell my own story

Can I write it my own way

 

And what about you

You have your book of dreams

Are you rewriting this chapter

To make it fit the scene

 

What about it

Can I just be me again

Can you let me have my happiness

Can you just let it end

 

What about it

What about us

What about us

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Creative Blogger Award 2009

Hey y’all.

I want to start with saying this will be my very first time writing an entry here that is addressed directly to whoever my readers happen to be [I know I know a few, but hey, I can’t see everything]. It will also be the very first time I will write in real-time pertaining to anything personal. I’m feeling strangely shy. I feel like I did as a small girl in an older sisters wedding…no matter how many times they told me it was okay and no one would remember my part in it anyway, each time they had me practice walking my little flower basket down the aisle, I did the same thing: I tucked my head down and ran. LOL. Not away, I knew I was supposed to walk down the aisle and had been honored by being asked to do so. No, I knew I’d do like they said, more or less. I just couldn’t help running. You’d think that flower basket was a football. Can you see it?

I was maybe 7, or 8. In some ways I haven’t really changed all that much.

This time, there’s no eye contact involved, so I’m going to attempt to act more graceful than I feel, even though I just told on myself. 

To cut to the chase, Miss Demure Restraint has bestowed some very appreciated recognition on me, in the form of The Creative Blogger Award. I was one of seven blogs to receive the award from her. I must say that while I am deeply honored by this, Miss Demure has always given awards and recognition, either publicly with her blogroll and comments, or privately with feedback and support. She is truly one of the few people I know who loves a great piece of writing, a good piece of art, regardless of her politics, personal feelings, or prejudices [the only prejudice I know of for sure is her unapologetic disdain for Haiku, which I share]. Fair is fair, in her mind.

That said, she has singled me out [along with 6 others] and I find myself in very fine company indeed. So while I feel a bit intimidated, I’ll say I’ve always known that if you want to stretch yourself, hang out with people more experienced than yourself. 

The deal is that I now pass this award on to seven deserving blogs myself. I know there are those who do not care for the whole “award thing.” I kind of know what they mean, but hey, we should just have fun with it.

So here are my choices. 

spilling some

As I have told him more than once, I don’t always “understand” everything he writes. Hence, the beauty in this fact: I love so much of it. And we seem to both agree on this: “understanding” isn’t really the point. I can’t even convey how profound a revelation, a gift, to hear another say this. To me, that simple concept sends ripples out to the many unresolved layers of my own life. It’s okay if I’m not understood, and it’s okay if I love what I don’t understand. It’s not the point. And namelessneed has a way of turning words that pulls you right in ‘til you don’t care if you know what it’s “about”. 

Girls Without Shoes

The one without shoes is a natural born storyteller who is just finding her voice. The storyteller is one venerated in many cultures. Another “Necessary Other”. The ability to spin tales is something I believe you’re born with; a gift, not something you can learn. The craft of storytelling can be honed, only writing can be learned.

Even in fiction, she is brutally honest and painfully funny in that honesty. I admire this, and consider it something to aspire to. 

work rant drone

indignant2 makes me laugh out loud at least once every time I visit. Sometimes convulsively so. I feel I have worked with every single person she writes of. She works with a collection of meanies and bullies, incompetents, ill-willed stooges and mal-groomed folk who ought to know better, and she writes about them. Presumedly, for her own sanity. But instead of just sounding cruel and bitter, she manages a dry wit I’ve never possessed and a never-ending ability to name her characters creatively and aptly. So aptly I’ve fallen off my chair laughing at the visuals. I’ve always wanted to write a comic strip much like her blog, with all the ne’er-do-wells I’ve ever worked with in my various work adventures. I’ve already requested that when the time comes she take on the task of changing everyone’s name.

I think indignant2 has a lot more balls that she knows. [Apologies for the graphic.]

SSLY\’s Blog

Yeah, I know the man hasn’t posted since MARCH 19th 2009. But he still writes some of the most evocative stuff I’ve been privileged to read. Ever. I love  his work, his words, his music, and I miss reading his posts horribly. He speaks to me on a level very few can, and he’s known a life few can fathom. It gets lonely there/here sometimes. Maybe soon he’ll finish percolating and honor us again with his presence.

Love you Ssly.

Tales From Behind A Cushion

I read Reah’s poetry often and always look forward to seeing something new that she’s written. More than any other whose words I read she seems to be constantly growing, evolving and refining as a poet. I can’t wait to see where she takes it. Tales From Behind a Cushion is a relatively new blog that isn’t very high profile. I’m guessing Reah is more interested in writing than “blogging” and as a result, many of you may not have discovered her poetry yet. I encourage you to pay her a visit and see what she’s writing.

La vie en rose \’LIFE IN PINK\’

I don’t know what to even say about neilina. She is just beautiful, inside and out. I’ve never seen her. So, how do I know this? Read her words, is all I can say.

Neilina has been around for longer than I, but taken a few breaks. I always find her again, and sooner or later she visits as well. When I find her, I am invariably stunned at the beauty and imagery in her poems—the most delightful part of her blog. I believe English is not her first language, yet her work is so beautiful each word has it’s perfect place and her rhythm flows along with ease, carrying you with her to a distant place. I think poetry is her true calling. 

Sleepingspirit\’s Weblog     

Another writer that seems to take long breaks from blogging, but always comes back with a depth of words that moves me. My only complaint is that I am just greedy enough for that kind of thing that I wish she posted more often. Also selfishly, I wish I could read all she writes, as some of it is in script I can’t read. Still, I read along in my uncomprehending way, admiring the characters, their shapes and placement, knowing they say something lovely and stirring. Insanity is a recent favorite of mine. 

The rest of the deal is I’m to come up with seven “interesting” things about me that you might not know.

So, here’s some stuff about me.

1. A couple decades ago, I ceased all forms of writing, including letters, apparently upon the death of a dear friend and mentor. All except for a few incidences of what I now refer to as blackout writing. Not drunken or under the influence writing, but secret even to me writing. Secret, then forgotten. Yeah, I know it’s weird. I pride myself on being fairly self aware, but I really had no idea why I didn’t otherwise write until shortly before I began this blog. I just knew I couldn’t. It’s been an interesting and sometimes traumatic ride. Sometimes I feel like Rip Van Winkle. It’s good to be back.

2. All my life I’ve hated the color red so much I would not own a red object. I mean, I was really disturbed by it. “Hate” is the only word to describe it.

It changed. Along with the writing thing. Go figure. I’m sure it’s very psychologically significant, but I’d rather not dwell on it or pick it apart.

I still am not all that comfortable around a whole lot of red, but I can appreciate it and actually have some red around me now. Certain shades of it are more pleasant than others.

3. I sometimes “see” sounds, or “hear” colors. Sometimes I also experience certain colors as shapes. I don’t know why. Kind of a crossed wire thing. I also occasionally see color on people. [Maybe this is part of # 2] And while many of you may know what a “supertaster” is, I seem to be a “supersmeller”. That supersmeller thing seems to carry over to detecting certain kinds of drugs on people or even in their systems—sometimes. Unfortunately, I don’t always know why I’m smelling things I shouldn’t be. Wow. I also cannot bear to look at certain textures or patterns for long, and some fabrics I cannot wear without extreme misery. I’d like to know why I have been given this extreme sensory sensitivity, but I doubt I ever will. I try to pay attention to it, and not pay TOO much attention to it.

4. I wear boots, almost all the time, if I’m not barefoot. But I can still run a good half mile in stilettos. Depends on the motivation [who would do it by choice?]

5. I absolutely refuse to eat marshmallows, marshmallow crème [ liquefied marshmallows, can’t fool me.] or any form of “Jello”. They are just wrong, wrong, wrong, and not meant for human consumption. Don’t be fooled, they’re disgusting and made of disgusting things. [Now I don’t have to write that rant.] My stance on this also applies to so-called cotton candy.

6. I once had dinner with George Romero. You know, “Grandfather of the Zombie”?

He was a delightful and attentive dinner companion, the kind that makes you feel you are the only one in the room. We were surrounded by accomplished and well known artists and actors, yet he remained deeply engaged in an exchange with me, someone completely unknown to him and 99% of our party. I was unable to eat, and he asked if I was feeling alright. I had to confess that after seeing Dawn of the Dead for the first time I was unable to eat certain foods for quite a while, and his presence had brought it all back to me. Some of the special effects in the movie had looked suspiciously food-like [pasta, which we were having], yet realistic enough to make me sick and scare the crap out of me. It was a high compliment, all these years later, and he was pleased and laughed a very warm laugh, for a horror monger. He ordered me some very nice cheesecake. It was a great evening, and no, it wasn’t a date, else I would never mention it. [I don’t kiss and tell.] 

7. Man, I’m running out of things to say that aren’t overly revealing. Oh, yeah, I really am a blonde. I like it. 

This doesn’t begin to say much about me, I’m sure, except that I might be a little weird. It’s pretty hard for me to tell you who I am since every person that’s ever known me has seen something different. I’ve always thought that had more to do with them than with me.

 I’m extremely serious, and I’m ridiculous; will laugh with you until the tears come and we wet our pants [yeah, that one’s happened]. I’m soft, hard-assed, angry, gentle, sorry, happy, strong, broken. I hurt, I’m at peace, I rage and I console. I am impatient, but will listen as long as it takes. I can’t be one thing, even if I have seven ways to tell about me. I’m me. If you already know that, or even guess it, and are okay with it, thanks for letting me be. Me.

Pearl

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Mess of Dreams

I stumbled onto you

A picture, no less

In fact there were three

 

Grinning in one

Head thrown back

Softness apparent

New to me

 

Black shades the next

Guitar aimed

Like an arrow

At her heart

 

But the last

The soul heavy tired eyes

I remember these

Even now

 

So old

For so young

A man

 

The one thing I never got

When I wrote this

The lines etch now

Just like yours

And I wonder why

I never thought it

The one thing I never wanted

Those lines sketched

Just like my own

 

I took them with me, you know

When I left

Maps to my life

A mess of dreams

Songs we laid down

You gave to me

We rolled them in our sleeves

Maybe I stole them

If you say so

I’ll believe it

 

What kind of heart would be mine

If I covered all the soft spots now

With a stronger love

Built of more serviceable

Materials

And I could guarantee

It would no longer fail

Or leak

Or bleed

 

I tumbled into her

A picture, no less

More than three

 

I grinned in one

My head thrown back

Softness apparent

New even to me

 

Black shades the next

A needle aimed

Like an arrow

At my heart

 

But the last

The soul heavy tired eyes

You resemble these

Even now

 

So old then

For so young

A woman

A man

So young were we

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My Bat

I must confess

You give a chill

To flutter by my head

Your inky form

Causes a thrill

Of shudders in my bed

 

I will admit

You have a way

Of mesmerizing me

With jerky flight

I’m hypnotized

By something I can’t see

 

I can’t deny

I long to know

What calls you to my side

Your circled flight

Can only show

You find yourself yet shy

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Red Barn

The rafters have never been dusted. If you look up too much, imagining great strings of ancient cobweb-matter landing on your face starts to feel less imaginary and more inevitable.

The PA system causes migraines.

The seating is grab-yer-own cushion and plop down on risers. Someone always sits next to me eating a smelly hamburger that drips, and they always have too much smelly stuff on themselves. Or they have suspicious lint-ball looking things all over their sweaters that make me wonder what they are, because I also tend to get neighbors with questionable hygiene.

In summer the place stifles, and the sometimes-objectionable body odor is undeniable if close. In the winter it’s freezing, and that’s even worse because no one will open the barn door, and people sweat [in between freezing].

Yes, it really is a barn, and it really is red, just like it’s name. If you’ve never been there, that makes it pretty easy to find.

The old man has been doing this for 45 years. Last night there were 4 generations of them. The “boys” are the movers, busy with their dolly’s and muscles, hauling appliances, furniture, compressors, and huge rolling racks of every imaginable thing stuffed in dozens of boxes of all sizes, back and forth, back and forth. God help them if they don’t remove something fast enough to keep the pace going; they’ll hear an amplified prod in mid chant. And the old man barely misses a beat.

Sometimes though, the extra effort this interjection causes him makes me think his false teeth will fly right out of his mouth into the front row. Pop right over his elevated podium and hit someone in the eye. I can’t imagine the air it takes to keep that up. When he admonishes the Boys, I always think he’ll stutter, get his tongue twisted around his dentures and lose his flow, maybe even his breath. Maybe choke a little. But he never does.

The closest I’ve ever seen him come was once when he made a mistake; he forgot, for just a second, where the bid was. He never hesitated, but laughed loudly and kept right on, never slowing at all.

Sometimes I sit and watch his mouth move when I’m not interested in an item, and I could swear his teeth aren’t even connected to the rest of him anymore. A curious kind of rolling is taking place in there, and I think the teeth just stay in one place while the rest of him does it’s thing.

I can’t duplicate his talk here, because I can’t follow it half the time. But oh, how I wish I could write it. It’s music, of a strange kind. Maybe the closest thing white people have ever had to rap. Don’t get me wrong, thinking I’m just making fun of him here. I’m in awe of him.

As hokey as square dancing sounds, if you’ve ever heard a true, real life master caller work it, you’ll know what I mean.

I can barely manage a simple tongue twister, myself.

I can’t imagine what the old man would ever do if he couldn’t do this anymore. He’d probably just die. Up on his podium, he’s got power over us all; he’s master of ceremonies of a kind of circus and a kind of free theater. The natures of people are exposed in their willingness to compete. It’s better than watching people play any game I can think of.

The old man, he plays his part every week. No matter how bad it gets, he’ll get something out of it. If necessary he will stop his chant and stare us all down, then scold us all for being so cheap. The fact that he can accurately claim that most of us would rather go buy a pressboard piece of crap at Fred Meyers for more than 100 bucks, than spend even 30 dollars on a hard rock maple side table, is mostly true. Old Man, I don’t understand it either. In some ways, we are in the same boat.

A couple weeks ago he got so mad he yanked his headset off and threatened to send us all home. It’s hilarious, but I’ll admit that tactic usually straightens people out enough to get the bidding up again. No one wants to miss the rest of the auction. So whenever someone in my house wants to express utter incredulity, we start with this line, “Well I don’t know where you buy your hard rock maple tables from…”

 

I like to go early, when I can. That way I can peruse the boxes on the racks without being so obvious. There’s too much going on when it’s still early for anyone to pay much attention to my digging.

If I try to look at things up close once the auction has begun, it’s noted. This can affect the element of surprise. People sometimes want something only because they realize someone else wants it. And the best thing for me is for no one else to want it. That is, unless the auctioneer can tell himself he can do better than me. My bid, that is.

That crappy box of half broken glass? Yeah, he’s happy to unload that for 3 bucks. I only wanted two pieces of it, but no one else wants it at all. Every week they drag it out, it just gets more broken. Pretty soon, even I won’t want it.

Once it’s mine, I scurry down the risers to intercept it’s storage. I know how the Boys are with glass. It’s a wonder a piece ever makes it out intact. Literally stuffing multiple layers of glass into a cardboard box doesn’t bode well for this.

One of them has taken to a new touch with any glass I buy though, and he sees me coming. He assures me he’ll handle it carefully. He’s coming along just fine, all though I wonder how the old man likes him taking the extra time for me. He runs off to scare up an extra box for me. I make sure I sweet talk him a little when he comes back. If I don’t, I’m thinking next time I buy, there will be chips in my glass. Still, I find one broken in half. It’s not one I care about. I care about the pieces I spied in the bottom of the box before the show.

I think we have an understanding, he and I. Maybe I even have one with the old man. They know I’m after glass, and they don’t try to get it bid up if I’m buying. See, these auction goers aren’t glass lovers. They could care less. They want tools, dolls, furniture on good weeks when the dealers show up. Times being hard for everyone, there are less of those lately. But there’s always lot’s of tools. I see people bid right up to retail price for some, and I can’t understand it. But then, I could never understand dolls either. I didn’t like them much when I was a kid, I don’t like them any more now. How would I understand adult doll collectors? But these ladies get to it with the dolls. Once in a while a man gets in on it, not that I’m assuming the dolls are for him. Not that I care. People collect all kinds of things.

 

As mentioned, I try never to betray my interest in a thing. The value goes up. I don’t know why people are this way, but they are. I try, but some people make an art form of it.

There’s a guy who comes, definitely not local bred, who always remarks to me if I’m near by, “Garbage, It’s all garbage. Junk.” And he smiles. And then he waits. When a truly vintage or antique piece comes up, he sits, contemptuous. A wobbly Victorian settee, a Persian rug. He waits until no one has bid at all, or if they have, until only one person’s left bidding. All others have dropped out, thinking to let the fool who’s still bidding have his price. The old man gets louder, more insistent, the number he’s asking becoming a single and insistent repeated intonation, building, about to turn into a loud “YOU bought it!” Then, only then, the guy raises his paddle [Yellow paper with a magic marker number on it] resignedly, as though giving in, knowing it’s really not worth it. I saw him score the settee for fifty dollars this way last week.No one pays the guy much attention, partly because he always looks like he’s being soiled by the place, the people. But the biggest reason is he’s simply not after the things they’re after.

 This night, just as I’m heading out, a sliver of iridescence catches my eye. Carnival Glass! Half buried in a box not visible ‘til now, it’s dark color dances out loudly in this room. Even dirty, the bowl is brilliant. Poking through the box I extract three pieces of pink depression era glass and then tuck the large bowl under my arm. I go searching the old man. The auction is over, but it’s time to play the game. This one’s just between us.

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Realizations and Reminders #3

Two things I learned today:

#1

If at any time in the course of your blogs’ life, you include a post with the words “boots” and “fetish” in the same piece, you will be haunted by weird and painful to ponder search terms for the duration of your blogs’  life, daily, with or without said words in title.

If a lack of writing inspiration sets in, a collection of these can always  take the place of a legitimate blog entry.

#2

If, as a few friends have done, you include any variation of the word “Girls” in your blog title, you will have even more weird search terms. It’s painful to ponder who’s doing these searches. My all time favorite so far has been “Girls Doing Knob Jobs”.

If you object to such search terms ending up in your stats, you can always take indirect revenge by inventing your own weird search terms and seeing who elses blog you can land on.

But you’d have to be pretty bored.

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