THE AUTHORING AUCTIONEER

It was the summer of 1999… the summer that we moved Rebecca’s Auction Gallery to Olyphant.  I was alone at the gallery, setting up for the approaching auction, when two women (I’ll call them Dense and Denser) walked in to have a look.  All seemed normal.  Dense and Denser perused the inventory, making ignorant quips and clucking away like chickens.  I gave them a few minutes to walk around before greeting them.  I asked if I could be of any assistance.

Dense pointed to a chair and asked, “How much is this?”  I explained that we were not a retail outlet, but an auction gallery.  The women stared blankly at me.  I elaborated by telling how we offer items for bid at our auctions.  Still, they were confused.  I refined my definition to single syllable words and sentences that lacked participle phrases.  I heard the hamster wheels squeaking in their heads.  Their eyes glossed over.  They spoke briefly to each other in some strange, tittering language.  Finally, the concept of auction sank in.  They both exclaimed, “Oh!  We get it!” Then, Denser began to pirouette and study her surroundings.  Her mouth moved, but no words were spoken.  Her eyes twitched with inquiry.  Her nose wrinkled with question.  I mistakenly welcomed her next query.

“Where do you have the auctions?” Denser asked.  “Here?”

“Of course,” I answered as politely as possible.  (I get asked this question often.  It always confuses me.  I wonder where they think we have the auction.  Especially when someone asks me that an hour before the the sale starts.  But I digress.)

“Wow!” Denser said.

“Really?” Dense asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

Then, Dense spied a piece of furniture she liked.  It was against the wall, glistening like gold in the flourescent lighting.  It was a waterfall dressing table, no bench.  It was the typical kind of its era, not like a vanity or desk, but two pedestals of drawers connected by a plane of wood that almost touched the floor, all backed by a large round mirror.

Dense pointed to it and said, “Oh my God!  What is that?”

“It’s a dressing table,” I answered.

“Wow!” she said.

Then, she did something that I cannot believe to this day.  (I often retell this anecdote at parties.)  She approached the dressing table, turned away from it, and sat in between the pedestals upon the center piece, so that her back was to the mirror.  She immediately began to pivot her upper body at the hips and strain her neck as if she was trying to bite her own ear.

A look of dismay washed over her face.  She bit her lip, shrugged her shoulders, looked at her friend, Denser, and proclaimed, “How are you supposed to see yourself in this thing?”

With that, I told them to beckon should they need further help.  (Of course, the kind of help they required I could not give.)  I walked away, shaking my head, thinking that Dense’s question was indeed stupid.  “How are you supposed to see yourself in this thing?”  Yet, somehow, I found Denser’s answer dumber, because she had looked straight at Dense, furrowed her brow and said, “I don’t know.”

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