Elvis On The Radio
AM band, of course
Mom knew I had nothing planned for Saturday. It did not take any great sleuthing, since I rarely planned anything as a teen.
Via a conversation with her friend Jean, from church, she linked a need to my lack of purpose. Mid-morning on Saturday, along with Jean, I found myself being driven by Jean’s husband to a rural farm so that I could help out with an auction. The old station wagon was taking us to a different world.
The ride took most of an hour. On the way, Jim had the radio tuned to a station that was doing an all-day Elvis tribute. His near-religious devotion to the music was apparent as he made it clear there would be no fiddling with the tuning dial. I’d never seen that kind of devotion to a performer in any adult. Even through self-centered teen consciousness, I realized that the lionization of the Beatles was really nothing new. It was just an updated version.
I’ve never heard what prompted Sam Philips to say, “… if I could find a white boy who could sing like a black man I’d make a million dollars.” I only hear Elvis. But that’s all right. Elvis the Pelvis, as my Dad used to call him, remains unmistakable. And that was the day I first realized what he meant to his fans.
Jean and Jim were unique in many ways. Most astounding was that they lived with a monkey. A Chimpanzee. “How cool,” I said. “Can I see him?”
“No, you don’t want to see him. He’s nasty.”
I believe they acquired the monkey innocently, and though they realized it was a huge mistake, they didn’t know how to resolve it. So they kept him at their one-time farmhouse, though neither species was very happy about it.
But it’s quite likely Elvis would have approved, even though his monkey was porcelain.
My primary job at the auction was to run stuff out to the purchasers. Prior to that, I set up some chairs while the customers perused the offerings. The antiques were in a jumble in the big barn, but the buyers could probably see enough to generate interest. In fact, the partial views of many items probably enhanced mystery and interest.
Life on the farm was running on a different clock than in suburbia. The nominal starting time for the auction was pushed back until all the patrons were satisfied they’d seen enough of the barn.
Once the festivities began, there was a clear process. The auctioneer encouraged the people in the audience to bid on each item, usually holding it up for all to see. Charlie would indicate that I should get the next item out of the barn and place it next to the auctioneer in what amounted to the on-deck circle. Once the current item had been sold, I brought it out to them, or to their cars, if they desired. Jim collected the cash.
Charlie, owner of the farm, the barn, and all within, looked the part of a bumpkin, but he was no fool. He’d watch how the bidding went, and the next item would be in the same vein if he liked the amount. He’d indicate I should bring out something much different if he was not happy with the previous final bid.
“Bring out that chair in the back,” he told me, in a low voice. “The one with the gold edging.” I hoped the auctioneer would get the customers to take the time to bid the previous article way up, since extricating that chair was not going to be easy. But the disentanglement was something of a challenge, which I almost enjoyed. I was caught in a trap where I couldn’t walk out, so why not find something to enjoy?
Jean bid frequently on items for sale. I delivered quite a few when hers was the winning bid.
“Should I put this in the car? I asked when delivering the first of many.
“No, just leave it here with me.”
After everyone had left, and I had finished putting away all the folding chairs, I asked her if I now was the time to put all her items in the car.
“No,” she said, and looked around. “You can put them all back in the barn.”
I was puzzled, but did as she said. When I saw Charlie handing the money she spent back to her, I understood. When you don’t want to lose money on items up for sale, be sure to have a friend in the bidding.
The auction lasted over two hours. Charlie gave me five bucks for my help. I’m sure I wasn’t satisfied, but five bucks was five bucks more than I would have obtained aimlessly lounging around the house unless a parental purse or wallet was left carelessly out of place. So I didn’t complain. More importantly, Charlie said I was welcome to come back anytime. The positive reinforcement was much appreciated, particularly during that early high-school period when negatives abound.
We headed back home, once again serenaded by Elvis. It was a full-day tribute even before he covered Suspicious Minds.
One of the most valuable items had been an antique train model. The engine was almost two-feet-long, and heavy as hell. Though the paint was almost completely gone, and the cast iron showed a little rust here and there, the final bid was over $30, well above average for the items being sold. I lugged it out to the lady who bought it, and then to the trunk of her late model Caddie.
On the way home, I remarked about how interesting the piece was. Jean and Jim laughed.
“Yep, that’s an interesting piece,” said Jim. “That lady was really pleased to have that mystery train.”
“She seemed happy.”
“Yeah, happy, and I think she thought she was robbing old Charlie blind by getting that one-of-a-kind model. But Charlie always seems to have one of those.”
“Really? Where do they come from?”
“Oh, he digs them up.”
“Where does he find them?”
“Right there behind the barn.”
“Really? How does he know where to find them?”
“Because that’s where he buried them the year before.”
