|
A novice bidder enters the fray
I'm not much on the heady whirlwind of competitive bidding. When I drove through Reno a few years back, I didn't even take a glance at the poker tables. I had one pull on the slot machine, lost my quarter, and left the casino.
Bidding at an auction seemed a better bet. If I won, I'd leave with an item that made my heart sing. If I lost, no money spent, no harm done.
I set myself a comfortably conservative ceiling: $75. I swore not only to make a bid, but to make a purchase, if possible. I saw the cash more as an investment in the auction experience than as the seed money for an antiques collection. I wanted to throw myself into the fray with both feet. Or, for $75, with the small toes of both feet.
What did I need? I asked myself as I rummaged through the lots previewed at the Shattuck estate auction in Groton. The items appealed more to whim than necessity. The Civil War crutches drew me because they were so odd - remnants of the injuries of the long-dead. A typewriter caught my writer's eye. I thumbed through boxes of ephemera and read a letter a young woman wrote to her aunt about the desperate financial straits she was in, dated 1928. The poor girl was in trouble before the stock market even crashed.
The ephemera - boxes of old letters, documents and photographs - so full of stories, appealed to me most of all. I stood on line to get my number and sat in a plastic chair underneath the tent on the Shattuck's lawn. William Smith, the auctioneer, kicked off the bidding with an early game board.
Bing, bang, boom! It was sold in the blink of an eye. I didn't even have time to consider if I wanted to bid. He went on to a basket, a canteen, a set of hanging shelves. Most lots went for way over $75. I began to doubt I'd ever have the gumption to raise my number in the air.
Then Smith's assistant held up an old wall mirror - something I actually needed. Before I could think, I lifted my number and bid on it. Terrified, I found myself offering $50. I was outbid, but not disappointed. I was thrilled and surprised at myself, at the way my unconscious had taken over and thrown me into the ring.
I bided my time. Soon, an old, black L. C. Smith and Corona typewriter appeared on the block. The auctioneer started the bidding at $100 - perhaps the lowest first-asking price yet. I knew I was in the ballpark. Nobody bid and he lowered it, first to $50, then to $30. Again, my hand darted up. Somebody had beat me to the punch with the $30 bid, but I held on.
"$40!" Smith cried. Was he looking at me, or over to my right? I didn't dare take my eyes off him to figure out who had made that bid. I just raised my hand even higher.
"$40," he said again. "Do I have $50?" I waggled my number at him, still unsure if he saw me. "Sold to the lady for $40," he hollered. The typewriter was mine. I don't know what I'm going to do with it, but it's mine. -C.M.
| 
