Whether at our gallery, on call at an estate, or at a charity appraisal fair, there are times as auctioneers and appraisers that we are forced to burst bubbles.  Sometimes, we’re shown something that is believed by its owner to be of high value, only to dash the hopes of the presenter.  Other times, we’re shown something about which we’re given an elaborate or incredible story, only to contradict and disprove the teller’s tale.  We do so not with malice, but with a responsibility to be honest and to share our knowledge with those who have come seeking it.

Most people take disappointing news well and just sigh or shrug and say something like, “Oh, well.  Now I know.”  There are a select few, however, that when their dreams of a windfall and early retirement are destroyed, or when their erroneous conception of an item is challenged, they lash out in ridiculous ways.

#

The phone rang at Rebecca’s Auction Gallery — as it is prone to do — and I answered it.  The man on the other end said, “I have a copy of the Declaration of Independence, and I want to know if it’s real or fake.”

“Okay,” I said, “is the ink on it brown or black?”

“Black,” he answered.

“All right,” I continued, “is the paper soft or is it crinkly and stiff?”

“Crinkly and stiff.”

“Right,” I said, “then it’s fake.”

“Well, how the hell do you know?” the caller snapped at me.

“Hey, buddy,” I laughed, “you called me.”

#

A woman walked into the gallery one day and approached me saying, “I have some old paper I’d like you to take a look at.”

“No problem,” I said.  “Do you have it with you?”

“Yes,” she answered, reaching into her purse, “it’s a copy of the Declaration of Independence.”

It was still rolled up and in its plastic sleeve.  A giant orange price tag was on it screaming $3.  To humor her, I took the faux parchment out of the plastic, unrolled it, gave it a quick glance, and replaced it.

I sighed, handing the piece back to her, “What you have here is a souvenir copy of the Declaration that can be bought at any national park gift shop.”

She stared at me… I stared back… Still she stared…

Finally she asked, “Well… What’s it worth?”

“Nothing,” I shrugged.  “It’s fake.”

“I see,” she frowned, “but if I wanted to investigate this further, who should I call?”

“Call Sotheby’s,” I smiled facetiously.  “They’ll be able to help you.”

#

Dad and I were at the gallery late one night when the phone rang.  I answered it.  The lady caller said, “I have a metal wardrobe in perfect shape and I only want $50 for it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I wouldn’t be interested.”

“Why not?” the woman spat.

“Because I have no luck selling them,” I answered.  I thanked her for the call and hung up.

She called back.

“Okay,” she pleaded, “I’ll take $25 for the wardrobe.”

“I’m sorry,” I explained, “but I can’t sell metal wardrobes.  I can’t help you.”

I again thanked her for the call and hung up.

She called back.

“Fine, I’ll take $10 for the wardrobe.  That’s a great deal.”

“Ma’am,” I said impatiently, “I don’t want your metal wardrobe.  I have no market for it.  No… I’m sorry.  I wouldn’t want it even if you gave it to me for nothing.”

“All right,” she said.  “You can have it for nothing.  I just want it out of my house.”

“No!” I yelled.  “I don’t want it.  Good bye.”

She called yet again, but this time my father answered the phone.  Ever the gentle and persuasive conversationalist, Dad convinced to her keep the metal wardrobe because it would make a lovely telephone booth.

#

Several years ago, we had a very interesting lithograph in one of our auctions.  It depicted small portraits of all the former monarchs of Russia, under each of which was the ruler’s name and his or her period of reign.  The writing on the litho was — quite naturally — all in Russian.

During that auction’s preview, a woman was standing and staring at this lithograph for a very long time.  Finally, she called me over, pointed to it and asked, “Why can’t I read any of this?”

“Well,” I said, “it’s all in Russian.”

“Oh,” she mused, “and they have different letters than us?”

“Yes.”

“But what is it?” she asked.

“It’s a depiction of all the former monarchs of Russia,” I explained.

“Oh,” she became excited, “you read Russian?”

“No,” I said.

“Then how the hell do you know what this is?” she asked bewildered.

“You see this last portrait here?” I pointed.  “This is Czar Nicholas II.  You can see the Roman numeral II after his name.  And underneath that it says 1894 – 1917.  That’s when he ruled Russia.  He abdicated his throne in 1917 when the Bolsheviks took over.  Based on that, I reasoned that this whole lithograph depicts the former monarchs of Russia.”

“When the who took over?” she squealed.

“The Bolsheviks,” I said.  “The Communists.”

“I don’t understand how you know all this,” she shook her head.

“I know history, ma’am,” I answered.

“Yeah, well, I think you’re making it all up,” she said angrily.  “You shouldn’t lie and make fun of people.”

She walked away and left the gallery, never to return.

#

I was working a charity appraisal fair when a woman ran up to my table excitedly clutching a small book in a zip lock bag.

“I was told you’re the man to see about old books,” she beamed.

I nodded.

“Then you’re going to love this,” she exclaimed as she placed the baggie in front of me.  “It’s a book of poems and short stories by Edgar Allen Poe and it’s autographed by him!”

I removed the book from the baggie and opened it.  Inside the cover was a scribbled signature that may have said “Edgar Allen Poe.”  Of course, it may have also said “Eat Apple Pie.”  It was hard to tell.  I continued on to the title page which proclaimed a publication date of 1905.

“Ma’am, I hate to disappoint you,” I said, “but this couldn’t have been signed by Poe.”

“Why not?” she asked with wide eyes.

“This book was printed in 1905.  Poe died in 1849.”

“I don’t understand,” she furrowed her brow.

“This book was printed in 1905,” I reiterated.  “Poe died in 1849.”

“I still don’t understand…”

“Well, ma’am,” I explained, “unless Poe invented a time machine so he could travel to the future and sign anthologies of his own work, he didn’t sign this book.”

She snatched the book off the table, threw it back in the zip lock bag and yelled, “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

She stormed away and I laughed.

#

Yes, most people are gracious and thankful for our knowledge about their items, even when we disappoint them with our appraisals.  A ridiculous few… they just provide laughs and material for future blog posts.

###