THE AUTHORING AUCTIONEER

When I look upon the magnificence of the Empire State Building or the majesty of the Nicholson Bridge, I wonder how the generation that created such wonders in the first third of the 20th century could also create some of the dumbest, most asinine, ball-busting houses ever made.  I become bewildered at how an American society with such architectural visionaries who erected monumental infrastructure could allow some of their contemporaries–mere baboons with hammers–to construct familial living quarters with five-foot high basements, 22″ doorways, and six-foot tall bedrooms with 20″ square cutouts in their cranium crunching ceilings as the means to enter the “attic.”

Why did they make portals and hallways more narrow than the bulky furniture of their time?  Why did they not dig out their basements a foot deeper?  Why were the studs inside their walls placed so randomly?  Was a right angle a mathematical impossibility back then?  And what was the point in having an opened front door block the stairway leading to the second floor?  These questions are not rhetorical.  I have sought answers only to be told over and over again, “Well, that’s the way they did it back then.”

Ah.  I see.  Between 1900 and 1935 there were a handful of innovative geniuses who designed and constructed a variety of modern man-made wonders.  Likewise, there was a population of jealous, underachieving carpenters who, rather than accepting their inadequacy decided to show those “pompous engineers” that they too could be the bees knees and build their own structures.  But to further extend the victory of mediocrity over excellence, these rejects did it wrong.

Hey, boys and girls.  Can you say, “Bullshit?”

Just this past week, my father, my brother, and I embarked upon an estate pickup in Dickson City.  The house was situated right on Main Avenue, so there was no place to park out front.  This was just as well, for there was a 20-foot decent down lopsided stairs from the front porch to the sidewalk.  So, we backed our trailer down a long drive behind the house.  Still, with vegetation hindering further encroachment, we had a jaunt from the trailer to the house’s rear exit of about 15 yards.

Ah, the rear exit.  The first point of contention at this property.  The original back door was enclosed by a mudroom that had obviously been an afterthought.  Three feet separated the old back door from the newer one.  The problem was they didn’t line up.  The newer back door was about a foot to the left of the older one.  Hence a wonderful zig-zag was created with a stingy 36″ of maneuvering room.

Aside from this difficulty, this Dickson estate contained all the usual obstacles: narrow hallways and doors, a winding stairwell with shallow steps, and a short basement in which I had many opportunities to hit my head.  But the worst of the bad in this house had to be steps leading from the basement to the outside through a set of Bilco doors.  Of course they were crooked, and the first step rose about a foot from the basement floor.  Okay.  The second step was about 16″ from the first; the third was about 20″ from the second.  I remember being grateful for getting to walk backwards up these “steps” while carrying a cabinet, and even though I wasn’t praying, the Lord’s name was mentioned several times.

All auctioneers and antique dealers encounter these hardships each time we go out.  However, there’s always one house that tops the list as worst on record.  For us, the Savo Auctioneers, the worst of the worst was crowned in October 2006 in Mahanoy City, PA.

Situated in the ever-deteriorating Schuylkill County, Mahanoy City was at the center of the anthracite coal industry in the early 1900s.  It’s famous for its goings-on with the Molly Maguires and apparently, in 1948, it was the first town in America to have cable television.  What Wikipedia doesn’t mention is that the business district and residential areas exist entirely as row houses.  Structure upon structure, home upon home standing literally next to each other… touching… so close together that a flea couldn’t squeeze its ass between them.  And half of these buildings are simply crumbling.

And so it was with the estate that we entered.  The stone steps that led into it were worn and beaten.  The first, second, and third floors were a disaster.  The house had been empty since 1993 and perhaps not cleaned since it had been built 100 years ago.  Indeed, parts of the construction had simply disappeared.  On the third floor, there was a hole in the wall that led into the neighboring home.  Had the dust mites not been holding hands so tightly, this house would have simply collapsed upon itself.  For as we worked and walked through, especially when moving from story to story, chunks of plaster let go their weakened hold and came raining down upon us.

However, these aspects of filth and dilapidation I have found in dozens upon dozens of estates.  What made this Mahanoy menagerie the worst of the worst was its size.  For the home itself, despite its three tall stories, was a mere 15 feet… yes 15 feet wide.  The stairwells were perhaps 24″ wide.  When climbing from the first to second floor, there was no landing, no platform.  No.  We simply squeezed through a hole in the ceiling.  It was the equivalent of using a ladder to get through an empty slot in a drop ceiling.  Most of the furniture made it through this opening by a hair’s breadth.  One wardrobe was not so fortunate, as it became stuck and we had to all but jump on it to get it downstairs.

The only easy time we had during this six-hour adventure was when we managed to maneuver the items outside.  From the porch to the gate of the cube truck, we had improvised a gangplank.  Before that, each piece of furniture had to be turned, twisted, inverted, and folded in half every time one was moved down some steps or through a doorway.  Truly, the adverse architecture doubled the loading time.

When telling about this pick-up to someone, a common comment was made about how much easier it would have been if we had a shrink-ray.  Ha, ha, ha.  Guffaw.  Guffaw.  Chortle, titter, chortle.

Here’s the crux about a shrink-ray.  Even if one was invented, how would it really help me?  Think about it.  A shrink-ray would condense or make smaller the molecules of an object.  However, smaller size doesn’t mean less weight, because although a shrink-ray would reduce an object’s size, it would not reduce its mass.  Mass, being the amount of matter in a defined space, determines weight according to the pull of gravity.  Hence, a 100 lbs. object the size of a sofa shrunk down to the size of a bar of soap would still weigh 100 lbs.  To me, this would make it more difficult to move.

So, if anyone out there is trying to invent a shrink-ray, I suggest you abandon that project and work instead towards a viable matter-energy transport system, like what they had on Star Trek.

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