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.