My auction buddy Janet and I were standing outside the garage waiting for the auction to start at an estate sale when the two women walked up the driveway. They smiled, said hello, and disappeared through the back door into the house.
We had already done our walk-through, and both of us had spotted some small items on tables in the garage. The auction house was selling a 1950s brick rancher on a double lot overlooking a sweet little park, along with some contents from the owner.
After about 10-15 minutes, the two women came back into the garage. One was hoisting a wooden corner chair that I had spotted and was considering – even though I didn’t need another chair, especially this one with its coats and coats of dark paint. But I liked the simplicity of its curved style: its unadorned seat and arms, and the spokes of its back. Her friend was carrying two small beige carpet remnants.
The woman walked to the cashier seated behind a table. “The woman told me to bring it up here,” she said, obviously excited by her find. The cashier wasn’t sure what to do. She’s used to people paying for their items after they’d won a bid. In this case, the auction had not even started. She directed the woman to one of the auctioneers sitting on a short ladder opposite her.
“The woman downstairs told me to bring it up here,” she repeated. “You can’t do that,” the auctioneer said. The woman was surprised and taken aback. She offered to take it back downstairs. “No,” he said. He told her to leave it there, and they’d auction it when they finished the other items on the tables.
I turned to Janet: “I hate when people do that.” Many of us try to remember or write down the location of our bid choices so we’re around when they come up. When items are moved, we are more likely to miss out on the bidding.
This woman brought the chair from the basement, I assumed, because she didn’t know how this auction house conducted its sale. The more sinister of bidders move items around to hide them from the rest of us. At one auction a month or so ago, Janet had her eye on a black Americana paper clip. When she went back to the table to examine it, it was gone. Naturally, we assumed it had been stolen (a week before, someone had walked away with a camera lens that I was interested in). A buzz erupted about the clip and someone found it on another table. An auction-goer had apparently moved it to that table, hoping, I’m sure, that he or she could limit the number of bids and get it for very little.
At the estate sale, the woman continued her conversation with the auctioneer, who’s usually a curmudgeon but this time seemed to be patient yet indifferent to her. She apparently asked him one question, he answered another and that agitated her. Perturbed, she walked away from him, only to have the cashier ask her if she had a number. “You’ll need a number to bid,” the cashier said.
By now, the woman had had enough. She took one step up to the cashier’s table and then curtly waved away her hand, dismissing all of them. If she’d had a magic wand, I’m sure she would’ve made them disappear.
She marched out of the garage and down the driveway, her friend behind her. The friend had never uttered a word during any of the exchange.
“I guess she thought it was like a flea market,” the cashier said. She should’ve asked someone how it worked, Janet offered. A veteran auction-goer, Janet knew that although the basics are the same, auction houses do have individual rules that distinguish them. When she had gone to a new auction house a week before, she told me, she had asked another woman about the procedures.
After the woman left, Janet and I got to talking about the dynamics of what had just happened. The two women were black. The handful of people standing around the garage except Janet and me were white. Most of the auction-goers, as usual, were white men, many of whom had come for the toys in the basement. The house was in a neighborhood that was suburban and appeared to be homogenously white.
Were they uncomfortable like many people – whether black or white – when there are one or only a few faces in the crowd that look like them? I know that it can be uncomfortable for some black people. Interestingly, by the time the auction had reached the end of its first hour, about a half-dozen black people – along with a mixed -couple and an Asian couple – were among the bidders.
Did she feel challenged because of who she was? Did she feel the auctioneer was less accommodating or rude to her because she was a black woman? Did she feel he was confrontational rather than helpful? Auctions can be a bit overwhelming if you’ve never been to one before.
I should have gone after her to explain that these were decent people, that they were just trying to tell her how the auction worked. I could have also explained the auction process. I wish I had, because although auctions can appear to be intimidating, they are a lot of fun. And usually the auctioneers are just as helpful as they can be.
When the auction finally started, the woman was lost to memory among the bidding. I remembered her, though, when the chair came up. It was still in the spot where she had left it. I decided not to bid on it but at least two people did.
It sold for $7. The carpet remnants sold for a total of $3. She could’ve gotten them for a steal. Instead, she let the anger get the best of her.
