Auction House Blues

No Pinhooking

“And it never failed that during the dry years the people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way.“

—John Steinbeck

Yesterday I went to auction to look at some steers. The auction house is ancient and crumbling, hot and dusty year round, but it manages to attract the most prominent characters in the neighborhood all the same:

“Del Ray,” a grimy farmer who keeps a $30k wad stuffed deep in his overall pockets. “Jesse,” a Korean War vet and the oldest living descendent of the first family to settle the county. And of course the venerable “Junior,” who has been running these auctions since the 1960’s. Some say he’s been wearing the same pair of overalls since day one.

Everybody seems to know everybody else, and when things slow up, some of the young bucks in the back like to give old Junior hell with jokes, jabs, and catcalls—all of which he shrugs off with a wink even though he can’t hear a damned thing through the ruckus.

Most transactions take place outside—always cash. The old timers can remember a horse trade or a hog sale from generations back: numbers, weights, and price per pound—rapidly sketched up and sorted out by brain.

I carefully hide my pencil and paper in shame.

Reputations stretch back for ages, and deals are made with nothing more than a handshake and a nod. If someone reveals himself for a cheat, word gets round the neighborhood and he might as well be a leper.

The only sign at the auction house says “No Pinhooking,” but there are a thousand rules unspoken here.

This mysterious world seems to be vanishing, and all in all it’s a little threadbare. The auction house and its backwater fiefs are still ruled by aged patriarchs whose heirs couldn’t wait to escape everything they’d ever known. Tik-tok and Twitter remain onomatopeias, and Amazon is still just a jungle somewhere.

But this neighborhood and its auction house still have roots, and they run deep. Real deep. Storms come and go just like they have for ages—pillars crumble, folks go hungry, and every generation thinks it’s the last—but something always gets left behind, and it just goes on drawing light and water.

I know a big storm is coming, and it might just be the biggest yet. I expect it will lay waste to many a fertile field, where seedlings neither have the time nor depth to endure. But this place has its roots, no matter how painfully exposed, and knowing that gives me just a little peace.

I’ll take my chances here.