My father, my brother, and I were having a bit of a chinwag when the phone rang.  I–being nearest–answered with my normal chipper inflection, “Savo Auctioneers.”

“Yes,” came a man’s voice over the receiver, “I see that you’re selling some guns in your next auction.  I’m wondering if you have any Springfield trap doors.”

“No,” I answered, “the only guns we have at the moment are the ones listed on the website.”

“Oh,” the caller said.  “I thought maybe you made a mistake.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought maybe you made a mistake,” he repeated.

“I don’t understand,” I said bewildered.  “What mistake could I have made?”

“Well,” the caller barked, “I’ve been known to make mistakes.”

Before I could inquire further as to why I might have been mistaken, the caller hung up.

#

The woman that called that blustery March afternoon was extremely hard to understand.  She was calling to inquire about selling a fur coat, and it sounded as if she was chewing on it.

“How old is the coat?” was my first courageous query.

“Well,” she mumbled, “my daughter got it when she was nine, and the lady that gave it to her had it for a few years before that.”

Well, that answered that.  I, being omniscient as I am, knew exactly how old her daughter is now, and realized my own blunder by even asking the age of the garment.  Being all knowing, there had been no reason to inquire at all, or to even continue asking questions.  However, not wanting to frighten this mere mortal, I decided to pocket my ESP and continue qualifying her in the traditional way.

I asked her how much money she hoped the coat would bring.  When she claimed that she had no idea, I gently told her, “Well, the average fur coat only brings about $25 or less at auction.  Sometimes we get lucky, and one will bring $75 to $100.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed clearly.  Her surprise must have caused her to spit out the coat.  “When I brought it to the dry cleaner,” she continued, “the lady there told me that it’s worth about $2,000.”

“Yes,” I laughed, “an appraisal from a dry cleaner is more valid than an appraisal from someone who actually sells stuff.”

There was a short pause as she put the coat back in her mouth.  Her muffled reply was, “It’s a beautiful coat.”

“Okay, look,” I said.  “There’s a woman down the street from me who runs a very classy clothing consignment shop.  I’ll get you her number.  She’ll most likely be able to help you better than I can.”

“I don’t think so,” the caller spit out the coat again.  “My daughter brought that lady a bunch of jeans that she paid $30 each for, and she only got $8 each when they were sold.”

“Well, how much do you think used clothing is worth?” I barked.  “And $30 is not expensive for a pair of jeans.”  I took a breath.  “Why don’t you call some furriers?” I suggested.  “See how much you’ll get from them?”

After explaining what a furrier is, and that she should open the yellow pages to “fur” in order to find one, I said good-bye and hung up the phone…

#

The following dialogue–in one form or another–has taken place more than once:

ME: (Answering the phone.)  Savo Auctioneers.

CALLER: Who?

ME: You’ve called the Savo Auctioneers.

CALLER: I’m trying to reach Rebecca’s Auction Gallery.

ME: You got it.  That’s us.  We’re the Savo Auctioneers at Rebecca’s Auction Gallery.

CALLER: Oh, well, I want to speak to Rebecca.

ME: (Trying not to get into too much detail.)  Rebecca isn’t here.  How can I help you?

CALLER: I have some stuff I want to sell so I want to talk to Rebecca.

ME: I’m one of the auctioneers.  I can help you.

CALLER: I want to talk to Rebecca!

ME: Rebecca doesn’t really work here.  I’m one of the auctioneers.  Now, how can I help you?

CALLER: Why is it called “Rebecca’s” then?

ME: The gallery is named after my mother, Rebecca, but she doesn’t work here full time, neither does she have anything to do with taking consignments.  She runs the cashier station on auction night, but even if she was here right now, she wouldn’t be able to help you with selling your items.  I’m one of the auctioneers, and I can help  you.

CALLER: That’s stupid.  If Rebecca doesn’t work there, then why is your place called Rebecca’s Auction Gallery?

ME: Well, we were going to call it the International House of Pancakes, but that was already taken.

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