The trick if you first walk in after the auction has started is to immediately begin studying the furniture nearest the door like you’ve only lived with beanbag chairs and pillows your entire life.
That way, you won’t feel quite so much like you’re walking onto the stage of a packed little theater show with no lines to justify your presence. Wait to move further in until the next item up for bids is announced. Then the attention has shifted and you’re in the clear.
I instinctively adopted this method the first night I walked into the Four Oaks Auction house on a Monday night and I like to think it smoothed my entrance admirably. The front door opens right next to the auctioneer’s stand and there’s always a flurry of action nearby as the auction staff dodge each other to move merchandise and display the current item up for bidding. If I were smart, I would have arrived early, but I’m much more practiced at being late.
It was a chilly February evening outside but inside it was bright and warm. Charlie Brown, the owner and auctioneer, was presiding over the proceedings from his seat up front and above the action, microphone firmly in hand and directly in front of his lips. If you’re not expecting it, the sudden burst of his voice when you walk in can make you jump noticeably in front of everyone, but I was of course too engrossed in the study of nearby furniture for this to be obvious. I hope.
There was a lot going on. Charlie kept up a monotonous chant of bids while the six or seven men and women working the floor moved continuously, one holding up a giant crystal punch bowl while the others moved and sorted merchandise already bid on and what would be next up. Around the perimeter of the large room, everything that would be up for sale that night was displayed. In an initial quick walk-through, I saw items ranging from a complete oak bedroom set to a well-loved antique rocking horse, a collection of toy trains, several hand-woven baskets, an assortment of lamps, and countless other pieces. I immediately zeroed in on a pretty desk with a fold-back top. It looked old and I resolved to keep an eye on it.
The audience was seated in the center of the room in orderly rows of folding chairs, each with a different kind of seat cushion. As I’d heard these auctions could go as late as eleven or twelve at night, I suppose a comfortable seat is important.
The focus of bidding was now an ancient-looking banjo that was beautiful, despite missing a conspicuous piece in a couple of places. With a dubious look and a slight pause, Charlie announced, “Up next, we have….what used to be a banjo.” This was met with laughter across the room and bidding started immediately. Following the banjo was a round brass bed warmer with a long wooden handle. From the seat nearest me I heard someone say, “That looks like it’d make a better banjo.” More laughter. It was clear that this was a laid-back crowd who liked to have fun.
Dodging around in the background of everything was Scarlett Baker, an energetic blond with a big smile and an air of efficiency. She kept things moving smoothly, deciding what went up next, where to move the sold merchandise, and sometimes calling out items that were especially rare or valuable.
I found an out-of-the-way spot to sit over to one side on a long bench that would be up for sale later. Most of the folding chairs were full and I hadn’t had the foresight to reserve a seat. When you go in and get a number to bid with, your number is put on a chair and that is your seat for the night. But I enjoyed my spot on the bench, settling in for some people watching. A couple near me seemed intent on ordering furniture in mismatched fabrics and an array of decorative items that had nothing in common as far as I could see. I found myself imagining the type of atmosphere this would create in a home and decided it could be called, “late-century farmhouse eclectic”—with a little NASCAR thrown in.
A man with dark hair and well-manicured sideburns came in and passed with a smile and a nod. He had been pointed out to me before as Four Oaks’ very own Elvis Presley impersonator. I couldn’t help but smile and wonder what he’d find to bid on. That Elvis-head lamp, maybe? The audience at the Four Oaks auction house was as varied as its sale items. Some people, like me, were there for an entertaining evening out and a good deal. Others were more serious bidders, mostly in the front two or three rows: dealers and storeowners who regularly come to town to buy and then sell.
I caught a whiff of chili and onions so I made a quick trip to the back of the room where the concession booth was presided over by a sweet-faced lady named Linda. There were two urns of coffee, Bright Leaf hotdogs, a Crockpot of chili, and enough cellophane-wrapped plates of layer cake, pound cake, and coconut cake to constitute a small church bake sale. A refrigerated case to one side contained pre-wrapped sandwiches, canned sodas, and chilled candy bars. Those who weren’t immediately involved in the bidding seemed to gravitate periodically to the concessions before circulating around the room with small Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. I stood close by and kept an eye on a slice of chocolate layer cake.
Currently up for sale was a large collection of impressive beer steins from Germany. Several of them were uncommonly elaborate. Bidding picked up speed and they were soon sold off, parceled out to several different buyers. These were followed by a large box of china and a humidor with several pipes.
I never knew what to expect. Over the several auctions I’d been to, I’d seen a little bit of everything come up for sale: a lobster trap, quilts, a sterling silver English tea warmer, a buggy wrench, a daguerreotype album from the late 1800s, and an 18th-century chest with hand-cut nails and leather strap hinges.
I was reminded of auctions I’d gone to with my parents as a kid. At the time, I didn’t understand the allure of “old stuff” and the auctioneer’s calls mystified me. Back then, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke often hung over the audience and I quickly became exasperated with my parents’ frequent reminders to stay in my seat, not raise my hand, and not touch any of the antiques. This made for a fairly miserable afternoon for an 8-year-old kid, but over the years I’d grown to love antiques and going to auctions. Each item had its own story, origin, and past. Someone had made them, bought them, and loved them however many years ago and they carried a kind of dignity and mystery I hadn’t appreciated before.
Early on in my visits to the Four Oaks Auction Gallery, I had noticed a familiar pattern to the rhythm of the sale. As each item came up for bidding, the staff member holding it would yell up to Charlie a description of the item, which Charlie would then repeat into the microphone. He’d then start the bidding, lowering the price until the bidding started. Someone in the audience would indicate a bid by raising the card with their bid number on it, lifting a hand, nodding, or sometimes just flicking a finger upward. A couple of the staff up front would look for the bids and yell out an enthusiastic “Yep!” when a bid was made. A tiny woman with a dark ponytail and glasses named Marchita called the loudest of all. She and her husband Ed both work at the auction, sorting and displaying merchandise and calling bids when they see them. The pace of the bidding is quick so if you’re not paying attention, an item you’d had your eye on could come and go before your first bite of coconut cake.
All the energy and bustle was contagious. I got up and walked the worn wood planks of the floor, viewing the sale from different angles. There was a brief pause as an item was brought forward that no one seemed immediately able to identify. It was shaped vaguely like a showerhead with a long handle and had a black electrical cord. Someone finally shouted up to Charlie that it was an electric back massager. There was a quiet wave of chuckles and the bidding started. No one bid….no one bid…finally, at ten bucks, Ed raised his hand to bid on it. “Sold!” Ed grinned sheepishly and the audience laughed again.
Next up was a small violin, antique but not extremely old. Buck, a staff member with an impressive Hulk Hogan-style mustache, examined it for a minute before announcing, “It says Stradivarius, but I guarantee it ain’t no Stradivarius.” More ripples of laughter as Charlie started the bidding, keeping up a chant that went through a range of prices until the final bid was called.
As my folding-top desk got closer and closer to being sold, I moved to sit nearer the front. When it came up, I found I was the only one to bid. Amazingly, I got it for fifty dollars and a slightly elevated heart rate. Apparently the suspense was all in my head but I had won, the desk was mine! I felt a fairly unjustified but definite sense of triumph. The desk would fit in my Subaru, but just barely.
I paid the cashier and, with a little help, loaded up the desk and prepared to head home for the night. It was nearing nine o’clock and the auction showed few signs of slowing down. It was hard to suppress my urge to stay, eyeballing the Elvis lamp and considering it as a gift for my husband (who is not an Elvis fan), but I stepped outside into the chilly night air and headed out to my car, Charlie’s voice following me out the open door and into the street.