Ask Nothing.
The Best Antique I Ever Found
And
How I Found It.
By
A. Picker
Chapter Four.
“What’s
this? These boxes? All books?”
“Ah. Yes! Those”.
“Neat!”
I said in affected enthusiasm and that touched just so the duff couldn’t tell
if I was... serious..., faking..., joking or... WHAT because I always like to
leave the field open. WHY? Well... because, as I pick-up the top
book on the... TOP BOX I already knew that (1) the books had not been in the
basement long cause they’s was still “house shelf crisp” (as opposed to
underground basement stored down there for a FUCKING CENTURY... stinking of
“mildew” (the generic term for, ah, all such basement library storage
“condition”) “ripe”. (2) The boxes
were TOO big for Duff to move “by himself” including TO HIS CAR so’s ah he...
or ah SHE had to have filled ‘em “up” “on site” and this was already affirmed
by there being a whipped & flimsy cardboard department store carton nearly
full of similar books on top of the ...three (my eyes clicked that “total it
up” into place as we... talked) overstuffed boxes so either they just happened
to have a “few extra” books AND the beat-up ole department store box OR
someone... done been run’en UP & DOWN the basement stairs with “little”
boxes of books to “fill” “the boxes” “with”... . Figure it OUT?
It
didn’t take me long and I’d already “hit” the top three books which means
picked ‘em up, flashed the spines by my eyes, had my eyes feed the visual data
of “title” into my brain who, being as it is in situations such as this, is a
separate component in my make up, began ever rapid digestion of the data and
flashed “red screen” print out back toward my FINGER TIPS that (1) “clean
books”, (2) ‘bout something, (3) not fiction, (4) “old” and the always pleasing
(5) “NEST” which, to incorporate all the rest of the earlier brain data “steps”
means: A bookcase (? but probably)
upstairs has been emptied out of old (in this case ca. 1900-25) books that are
about a single or several single subjects with apparently no fiction books
mixed in or dominating (2 out of 3 I “hit” “first”) in this case offering my
eyes the titles purveying the notably “salable” subject of “AVIATION”; that is,
old books about “flying” and “airplanes” including “ballooning” and, hopefully,
a smattering of the always most desirable of the 20th Century imprints within
this “field”...; World War I first hand narrative “dogfight” “war” “books”...
so that before my mental red screen had flickered twice I said: “These boxes here... You want the five bucks for ‘em?” just
cool as a summer cucumber HIDING under it’s leafy vine to shade it from the
monster sun burning the surrounding soil of all the moisture, all the shade
and... ALL the RARE BOOKS.
The
delivery was cool and was received... coolly. WHY? Because
I’d just done what is sort of a triple jump in checker game on the old duff for
he KNEW I’d said “five” on ALL the boxes and KNEW that he’d ah choked on that
and KNEW that was because his wife was “going to” something with ‘em and KNEW
that he told me, in so many words (actually NO words), that it would be easier
on everyone if those boxes didn’t go anywhere “now” so as not to, shall I
conjecture, “set her off” about “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” with the boxes,
that guy “FROM MAINE and... “in the basement!” “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?”
“HUH?”... . Hey: After a few trips around this game
board you’ll know when it’s happening too. Anyway and ALSO Ole Duff (he deserves to be
capitalized now that we KNOW each other) KNEW he couldn’t lift the friggen
boxes and one may again conjecture that “the wife” filled ‘em that way “to
full” cause he weren’t around to protect his groin... SO: This all happens a lot faster then it
takes to write it and....
I
was holding the FOURTH book I’d picked up, and this was from the SECOND box,
when I “offered” and DID NOT LOOK at Old Duff cause, HEY: CUT HIM SOME SLACK... . The rope uncoiled.
“Well. I suppose I could sell you the BOOKS.”
he says, slowly... and looks toward the stairs leading up into the house.
“Three
boxes: Fifteen.” I say purposely
not looking at him and stooping down toward the boxes. “Well, ‘cept for these” I add, pulling
the smaller department store box toward me. “I mean: These
aren’t really a whole box. But. I’ll do TWENTY on ‘em ALL. Those boxes are HEAVY”. Then I turned to him... AND turned my
HAND into my back pocket to fetch Mr. Wallet who, being the friendly little
puppet in my back pocket that he is, popped right out and POPPED a twenty[1]
right so that before ole Mr. Duff could say “WHAT THE FUCK” he had been
...deployed... a cash settlement to the purposed ...transaction. His puffy pink hand took the twenty.
“Take
the other box on the end.” he said and pointed to the far end of the mound of
cardboard boxes. “There another
box of ‘em down there. I used it
to hold up the pile.” I quickly
walked over and ...sure enough, under a box of ... “linens”... was a fourth box
of ... “old books”.
The
linen box was “taken off” and “placed on the floor by my right foot and I bent
down and “upped” the very full fourth box that, as it rose to my shoulder got
ah weight print out from my brain of “75” (pounds) and UP IT WAS so I turned
toward Duffy and, well, WHAT’S HE GONNA DO? CALL 911? My
right foot spun the linen box back into the vacated space so as to “hold up”
the rest of the boxes. “I’ll
get’em out” I said.
“I’ll
help you.” he said.
“Oh
no. These are heavy bastards: Better not” I said but that never stops
‘em cause now all that antiquated testosterone their old balls have been...
harboring... for just such ah chance revisit to the “way I used to be”... has
started to “in the bomb-bay” so NO MATTER WHAT I DO, I’m gonna have a
demonstration of “WHAT” “I CAN STILL DO” for which I opted for the easy out of
JUST SIMPLY WALKING AWAY with my back fully turned, the box on my shoulder and
OUT THE DOORWAY so out of sight so that poor ole duff may BE ALONE when his gonads
report to him that he “ain’t gonna put that next box... up on his shoulder
...like he used to do with ‘em crates of machine gun bullets back on... IWO
JIMA.. .
That
worked and I met ‘im coming with the SMALL box on my way back. He actually waited at the ‘burban for
my return with box number two... and since I’d put box one on the roof... he
was probably trying to figure out “WHY?” when number two went up beside it but
I clarified that with “I’m gonna put the table in first”.
“TABLE? That’s right! You bought the TABLE” I could see his mind say but he said
nothing except “I’ll help you with that.” so that meant ...it was mine. And also:
OK;
let’s clear this one: If your an
ole duff... or an average guy ...or a... lady... PLEASE give it up on helping
some ass-wipe like me “move” furniture “out” of your place. Here, FOR EXAMPLE (which may be
extended to, like, EVERY transaction in the world) I have to ...get “this
thing” (the table) “out” with the “HELP”(?) of some shuffling ole dribble fool
whose ah... and we’s ah gonna “walk” “backwards” “together” “across” his
friggen front yard at pace one associates with things like “the change of the
seasons”.... because he’s just had a bomb drop of old sperm into his fuel tank? FUCK THAT but damn have I ever done
THAT dance which is sorta like ah POLKA... (of TWO MEN... you get the idea...
IN THE FRONT YARD.... of life?).
SO::::
“No. Don’t worry. I got it no problem.” and this communicated while I
accelerated back to the basement door effectively leaving the duff in the dust
but... he don’t stop. UP goes the
table with it’s top flush with my belly and BACK through the doorways I CHARGE
with the legs stick’en out in front and the shit in the drawer spilling to one
side and that drawer starting to open due to these acts of violence
(“SHIT”). Naturally, and as
happens EVERY TIME, ole duff is just coming in the outside garage door when
he’s ah jousted off of his horse by my charging blue table legs and so he folds
off to the side and then come right along behind saying something like “ You
really know how to move it, don’t you!”.
“Shit.”
my brain GREEN screens to me for, well, we’s GREEN on this one. Then I get the other two boxes;
BOOM-BOOM while... I don’t know what he was doing but upon return discerned he
was doing research on the ‘burban and, well, my whole LIFE... so..: Table in, boxes on TOP but first
PLYWOOD ON BOTTOM qualified by a “take this out” from me to the his mind’s “YOU
ALREADY GOT THAT” the old bookcase and ... his follow uping:
“YOU
KNOW WHAT FITS!” when I “slicker’en smelt” them plywood “chunks” between the
wheels... And then I was...
“done”; “loaded” that is... and... ready for more. Well, yeah, but not HERE, cause, face it... TOO MUCH in one
day for Ole Duff do not a lasting business relationship make.
“LASTING?” Yeah... You don’t think I’m NOT ah
coming BACK? I DIDN’T EVEN GET IN
THE HOUSE. I didn’t meet the wife. I didn’t buy the boxes of “where the
fuck are those gonna go by NEXT WEEK anyway” shit in the basement. I didn’t didn’t didn’t DO... “it” “all”
YET! I mean... what if the guy’s
like... an ole professor from Columbia and his AUNT gave him a VAN GOGH? HUH? DO I KNOW?
NO!!!
“But
I gotta go.” I said to his whatever it was he was mumbling. “I’ll check you in a few weeks. On TRASH day. I mean: You’ll
remember; remember the car.” I say tossing my left arm up to the roof of the
‘burban. REMEMBER my ass; this is
the biggest thing that’s happened to Duffy in ....YEARS... so.. “SHIT” he’d ah
kept going until he died of a heart attack TODAY (cause, actually, what does he
care) and ... I know better and ‘bout this.
“SECOND
VISIT” is the term. Understand,
please: By the time I get back
NEXT WEEK Ole Duff will have, ah, ruminated... and ah ruminated... on some
outlying considerations TOO such as “I had a good time”, “I like this guy”,
“Fuck what my wife says”, “Maybe she’d like him too” and, ah... (that’s right!)
“I could ...sell him that?” (instead of dragging it out to the TRASH). “SECOND VISIT” is often the golden
moment where, since we’s old buddies at this... business... a “from stem to
stern” “open house” takes place and, well, AT LEAST... I get to SEE if he’s ah
got ah Van Gogh... or the “wife” does or... WHATEVER for... who cares cause...
YOU AIN’T GONNA BE IN THERE “first”.
Meanwhile: What happens to those books? Well. They get just enough of a “look -see” to SEE that old duff
done box up someone’s DAD’S old library of “he must ah been into planes or a
pilot or some.. thin...” and ah “into the (my) barn” complex in MAINE IT GOES
to, ah... “I’ll get to ‘em” “later” LIKE WHEN I’M AN OLD DUFF cause, obviously
they’re “good” and “I don’t have anything in ‘em (You think twenty buck is a
big investment in this, ah, market?).
AND I gotta go buy an ole CANNON .... RIGHT NOW anyway. Remember?
So
I tell the guy that and he’s, like, “What? A CANNON?” and how it’s in “some guy’s garage in White
Plains” and “I don’t know what it is but he’s ah gonna be pissed cause I’m late
(which I was)”. Always tell’em
(old duffs in houses you’s “in”) the absolute truth cause, HELL: YOU AIN’T going to the GROCERY STORE
next.
[1]: I always carry the “twenties” in Mr.
Wallet, separate from the “wad” so’s as to not show ‘em BUT to have’em
“ready”. Further, by making Mr.
Wallet pop out with the “big money”, it demonstrates we’s ah “big money NOW”
and... “HEY: LOOK: It’s MR. WALLET!” which has it’s own
special place in our... civilization... DOESN’T IT. Also, for those who seek detail, I try to have about $240. -
$250. “in that” for each... stop... so DO “reload” BETWEEN each... stop.
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