Philosophy, analysis, and logic cannot always find answers for the asinine.  Certainly, there are situations and moments that escape explanation and can only be appreciated or gawked at for their pure absurdity.  “What the hell?” is a rhetorical question used when there are no answers and an exclamation of disbelief is needed.  If my father or wife had written this article, they would have endeavored to scribe reasons after each of these miniature anecdotes.  For the Zodiac sign of Cancer seems to be forever dissatisfied with the poignant truth of rhetorical questions, and must have an answer to everything.  I, contrarily, understand that life cannot always be explained and must sometimes just be mocked and given wedgies.  The following are ten things that make and have made me say, “What the hell?”

So, I opened the gallery one morning and picked up the phone.  The stuttering dial tone told me that there were new voicemails.  I called the service, entered the PIN, and listened.  The final message was a woman proclaiming, “I have a love seat… No.  A couch!”  And then… click.  She had hung up before saying anything more.  No name… no return phone number… nothing.  I listened again: “I have a love seat… No.  A couch!”  Click.

What the hell?

Sometimes, upon checking the voicemail, I discover messages that are recorded at 1AM… 2AM… 3AM.  The voices of the inquirers are often laced with a twinge of surprise, as though they were shocked not to have been greeted by a live person at such wee hours.  These callers may be the same people that, when reaching us, say, “Well it’s about time.  You’re never there!”  We’re at the gallery five days a week, at least.  Are they calling and stopping by after the bars close?

What the hell? 

I’m 6′4″ tall.  Okay, so I’m a giant, but there are some things that are just built way too low…  My brother and I were carrying a chest out of a garage.  Merrily along we went, Carlo backpeddling and I schlepping forward.  Suddenly, there was a crunch, a crack, a foul word, and I was on my knees.  I had walked square into a light fixture that was mounted over the garage door.  Indeed, I had cracked the glass within it.  The consignor hurried over to see how badly the light had been hurt.

What the hell?

I’m tall and portly.  My brother, Carlo, is short and lean.  I look like our father.  Carlo looks like our late grandfather.  My father goes on most of the pre-removal inspections, so when we arrive at an estate pick-up, he introduces us by saying, “These are my sons and partners.”  Some clients look at us, point to Carlo, and say, “He can’t be your son.  What, is he adopted?”

What the hell?

There are those who think that because my brother and I work with our father, that we don’t get paid.  “It must be nice having your sons around to help,” they say to Dad.

What the hell?

Many people find our business phone number either in the phone book or from internet searches under the headings Rebecca’s Auction Gallery or Savo Auctioneers.  There are a dizzy few, who after calling and engaging in a small bit of conversation, have a sudden epiphany and cry out, “Oh, you’re an auction company?  I didn’t realize you did auctions.”

What the hell?

There is no S at the end of my brother’s name.  His name is Carlo, not Carlos.  Yet, no matter how many times he calls himself Carlo, there are a particular few who insist on calling him Carlos, as they feel he must not know his own name.  Likewise, my name is John, not Jonathan.  John (J-O-H-N) is short for John.  But some aruge that my full name is Jonathan.

What the hell?

We, the Savo Auctioneers, have often been offered beverages while on an estate pick-up: soda, coffee, water, and beer.  Yes, beer.  It seemed to matter not the time of day.  Even at 9 o’clock in the morning, we have been offered beer.

What the hell?

I have always acted and looked older than I really am.  When meeting us for the first time, some ask if my father and I are brothers.  Okay.  Fine.  What burns me is when people who know us think that I am in my mid-forties.  “Well,” I ask them, “how old do you think my father is?”  They usually believe him to be 50 to 55.  “Okay,” I reply, “so that means that means that Dad fathered me when he was 5 to 10 years old?”  They just stare blankly.

What the hell?

Despite the fact that there isn’t a red shield mounted upon any exterior or interior surface of Rebecca’s Auction Gallery, there are still some who think it is the Salvation Army.  Many times have I opened up or returned from a pick-up to find some piece of crap left upon the doorstep.  No one ever leaves anything good.  It’s usually a console stereo, a television, or some other unsellable item.  When this occurs, I drag said item right to the curb, where it waits until garbage day for the taxi to the landfill.  A week or two later, someone will call and ask how much their orphaned “boat anchor” brought and when to expect payment.  “I don’t know,” I reply.  “We subcontracted that sale out to the dump.  You’d better call them and ask.”

What the hell?

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