THE SONIC BOOMER
I have found my people and, unfortunately, they are a bunch of weirdos.
I have always wondered why I have so much trouble making friends and the answer is that I’ve been hanging out with the wrong crowd. This crowd is comprised of people that psychiatrists would classify as “normal.”
I am never going to fit in with those people.
But once I started up my antiques store, I began seeking out auctions, and it turns out that auction people are my people, and here’s why:
1) They shop where they decide how much they’ll pay for an item,
2) They don’t care if said item is used, sometimes over-used,
3) They refuse to dress up to go shopping,
4) They don’t want to chat until the auction is over,
5) Generally speaking, they have an idiosyncrasy or two.
Originally, I attended auctions that dissolved Palm Beach estates. This was still the wrong crowd for me. In the first place, my store is not a Ming vase kind of store. In the second place, my wallet is not a Ming vase kind of wallet. I’m more of a farm auction kind of gal.
At first, I didn’t understand the skill needed to successfully bid at auction. I didn’t realize it was more like a poker game than shopping. For instance, you may or may not end up with the item you’re shopping for. To win it, you have to size up your opponents, find out who is most likely to want what you want, feign disinterest in the thing, then bid as low as possible, slowly increasing your wager only as necessary. “There are no friends at an auction,” the auctioneer reminds us, and it’s true on two levels: first, those bidding against you are, temporarily, your mortal enemies and, second, to agree beforehand not to bid each other up is “collusion” and against the law. Auction night is my poker night.
Sometimes the object of our desire comes down to who is most willing to clean it up. I’ve bought everything from filthy dishes to fish skeletons. I like to have a lot of odd stuff in my store, especially around Halloween, and an antique jug of formaldehyde in its original wooden box, or a copper drum big enough to hold a human head and marked “evidence” doesn’t scare me at all. In fact, I sold those last three things much faster than I did the dishes.
After the auction, my new-found friends and I chat plenty as we load our cars with the ragtag miscellany we love. We’re dressed in work clothes because dust and dirt are part of our game. The woman who wears the live chicken on her shoulder has locked it safely in her car while she runs back and forth to gather up her merchandise. And the guy in the wheelchair has had too much to drink again and is cheerfully swinging his wooden leg around his head. It’s an odd bunch. It’s an interesting bunch. And, for whatever it’s worth, it’s my bunch.
