Antiques Disposal Read Online Free

“How are we supposed to know what we’re bidding on?”
    Big Jim Bob turned his weary eyes toward me. “Well, that’s the point, little lady. Ya don’t. When everythin’s boxed up—like in this here unit—you’re takin’ a chance. Kinda like a big ol’ grab bag. Your proverbial pig-in-a-poke.”
    I never had any luck with grab bags, as a kid—best I ever did was wax lips twice and a paddleball once.
    Mother, moving from beneath our umbrella, muscled her way to the front of the bidders.
    â€œ Ladies first! ” she announced.
    The ill-bewigged woman blurted, “Well, uh, I’m a lady... .”
    â€œLadies of a certain age ,” Mother said, already with her toes at the very edge of the threshold.
    Nobody tried to stop her.
    I was impressed—this had to be serious, if Mother was playing the age card.
    Armed with a flashlight from home, she leaned in as far as she could, and started weaving back and forth, occasionally issuing a loud cough, from her toes up—she might have been drunk, or maybe sick... .
    To me, her antics seemed predictable if pointless, unless she had suddenly acquired X-ray vision, and I was pretty sure she’d have mentioned that over breakfast.
    Finally, after the longest minute in recorded history, Mother resumed her decorum, straightened, stepped back, then turned to her audience with a disappointed sigh that would have registered on the back row of the local Playhouse.
    â€œWell!” she said, “ whoever wins this bid will have quite the mouse infestation to clean up.”
    The small group of bidders surged forward, and Mother proved her point by directing her flashlight beam toward the evidence.
    But I stayed put.
    Having grown up in an old house, I didn’t need to get any closer—I knew mouse droppings when I saw them. And there were plenty, resting on the tops of the boxes, littering the exposed concrete floor.
    The woman in the ill-fitting brown wig said, “Oh, my! The damage they can do.”
    At her side, her bushy-browed mate shrugged. “I’ve seen worse... .”
    Mother offered, “Might not be mice at that.”
    All eyes were on her, mine included.
    â€œCould be rats.”
    Brown Wig snapped, “You’re not bringing those filthy boxes into my clean house!”
    The woman turned abruptly, taking their umbrella with her. Bushy Eyebrows dutifully followed.
    Two down, two to go.
    Not waiting for the starting gun (or auction gavel?), the lanky dealer from the antiques mall said, “I’ll go fifty dollars.”
    The muscleman in the Harley T-shirt muttered, “Not worth it.” And he, too, departed (but in a car, not on a Harley).
    Three down, one to go.
    Mother straightened herself, dug her Wellies in, and announced, “I’ll bid one hundred— I am not going home empty-handed. I spent hours making room in the garage!”
    â€œYou did?” I asked, surprised.
    Mother shot me her “ Will you just play along! ” look.
    She could lie with such conviction that even I believed her, and after all these years. She kind of was a good actress.
    Lanky scowled at Mother. “Oh, all right, it’s all yours, mouse turds and all ...”
    â€œMost gracious,” Mother said with a nod.
    â€œ... but you’ll let me know if there’s anything good?”
    â€œOf course,” Mother said with her sweetest smile. Then she added, to soothe the burn, “But you know it’s almost certainly just junk.”
    The lanky dealer grunted and strode off to his car.
    (Can anyone tell me why antiques hunters want to be told when they miss out on something? I wouldn’t want to know if I got beaten to a pair of half-off Louboutins.)
    Big Jim Bob, who had stood by silently during the impromptu bidding, commented, “Hope ah was right about this here unit, Vivian ... and that y’do find somethin’ worthwhile. And ah apologize