THE AUCTION ROOM

Dad was especially proud of his bidding skills, and had refined them over his long auction room career. They required not only a working knowledge of current antique prices but sharp observation, a keen analysis of human behavior, and a good dose of trickery. At no time were these skills brought into play more than when dad was selling, rather than buying something, and wanted to bid for it himself. Although this seemed like an odd practice when first observed, once dad’s true intent became understood, it made more sense. He did not bid in order to own it, but to encourage others to bid higher. This was called the “Run up,” but it was a dangerous game because sometimes the other bidder lost interest in the purchase as the price increased, leaving dad with the winning bid, and the obligation to purchase his own junk back. Too many times I have seen my father driving home with the same stuff that he took to sell, and a wallet lightened considerably after paying buyers commission on his own sale. I safely assumed that dad had now learned his lesson and abandoned “the run up,” because in recent months he had refrained from trying this risky maneuver, and developed a new tactic. The new approach required another family members help, and was about to be performed on his own box of “miscellaneous sundries.” It was called “the expert opinion.”

“What’s in there?” I asked my father, innocently pointing at his merchandise.

“I don’t know,” said my father in a voice loud enough to be easily overheard. “It’s heavy though!” Then picking up one of the broken tennis rackets from the top he said, raising his voice a little higher in fake excitement, and trying to sound as much like an expert as he could. “Wow! Who on earth would be foolish enough to sell this!”

Several bystanders had now stopped talking and started listening to my father.

“What?” Said I, playing my part just as we had rehearsed.

“This looks like a very rare ‘Jeffery Westerton’ tennis racket.” My fathers eyes were wide as he cradled the dusty racket and delicately brushed his fingers over the patches of mold beginning to form on the handle. He tugged on the loose strings and turned it over to look at the still damp signature. “Yes, and its even signed!” He exclaimed. Then placing it carefully back on the box, he said to me, more quietly now that he had everyone’s attention, “You wait here boy, I’m going to sell your mothers wedding ring to raise some money so we can buy it.” With that he disappeared into the crowd to find a cup of tea.


From "Hot Heads." Stay tuned for release details.

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