Ask Nothing.
The Best Antique I ever Found
And
How I found it.
By
A. Picker
Chapter Five
By
the time I had negotiated the broad, intersection laced and train track
crossing loop from Scarsdale to Hartsdale AND ...parked[1]...
AND gotten out of the car even though it was IN FRONT of my salesperson’s
FUCKING STORE and he KNEW IT WAS ME because I could see the back of his head
AFTER it turned AWAY FROM WATCHING ME park... I ... was... late and so... The first moments of intercourse with
my spanky clean, jockey shorts always fixed right in all circumstances
RECTIFIED salesperson was some sort of “YOUR LATE YOU ARE BAD BOY ESPECIALLY
WHEN I DO SUCH BIG FAVOR FOR SCUMBAG LIKE YOU”.
Favor? “I PAYING YOU A THOUSAND DOLLARS you
fuck’en green wipe.”
“But
good! VERY good buy for YOU!”
“The
fuck it is. ... I’ll see you later”.
This,
ah... worked? He come out of his
over stuffed office that managed to merge corner newspaper store bureaucracy
with American urban middle-class “I’s ah got some little money to spend NOW!”
decorative, ah, “improvements” (plastic with more plastic) in what was ONCE an
actually authentic & vintagely sweet 1920’s ... “interior”. But fuck that because I ain’t the
museum curator for the whole EAST COAST so... HERE HE COME with, ah, MORE “me -
you - good buy” lingo to which I... “FUCK’EN THOUSAND, JACK LOAD: GET IN AND SHUT-UP the only problem being
I don’t think this crispy clean duck of a new American KNOWS what “fuck” means
(in it’s general sense AND ...real sense).
SO: I put my hands on the wheel while he
surveyed the seat in an energized effort to... PUT HIS HAND on the “Do you
still have the money?” CASH. This
last utterance was preceded by a survey of the rear of the ‘burban and his
deduction that “it’s full” meaning, I presume by his query, that I’d “bought
all that” so “might (must?) be broke?”.
“Fuck’en Jesus!” and no matter who the scumbag is I’s ah “do’en” THEY
still feel that I’M A SCUMBAG and that THEY are doing a... SUCH A... “FAVOR”
for... the money being incidental, of course.. that I’s ah gotta be ah “KISS
BUTT” to ‘em? So this is classic
and don’t think it gets “better” after a quarter century or MORE of “similar”
“opportunities”.
Actually
it does get... “better”. For
example here, I, by applying the WHOLE quarter century could ...forecast...
that, to repeat the appellation superlative, GREEN Wipe here was doing what we
may call his “first big deal” in the ...decorative arts industry. Secondly, that the deal was gonna be a
“fall through”, so to speak, cause Mr. Cannon ...weren’t gonna be... “home”
anymore. That THREE: I now KNOW where Mr. Cannon lives...
and so all I’s ah gotta do is get rid of Green Wipe then... as is said; “Go
back” to elevate negotiations to a ...new frontier. Four: For less
money. And five: I’ve done this all a real lot before so
was not thinking about it very hard but did manage, should MISTER Green Wipe
have been vaguely on the ball past counting MY MONEY, to prove before the
reflection of his FACE in MY WINDSHIELD that he was “out of the deal” by...
driving DIRECTLY to the garage door “without any help” from him. This is an acquired skill.
He
didn’t even slightly notice and was “out” of the car with his friggen key to
the lock before Adam & Eve could ah stripped and... had me “BACK, BACK,
BACK” into my driver side window as I arched around and he ...opened the
doors... to discover... there weren’t no old sheet covered cannon on no old
garage floor... no more. SOME
REAMED be he and he did this babble in his native tongue that meant nothing to
me and was directed away from me AND paced the whole friggen empty space while
I, ah, remained calm and watched him in the... rear view driver’s side mirror...
‘cause I’s ah such lazy ass I figured I didn’t “NEED” to “GET OUT” for
this. Also, in performing the
reverse arch to position the ‘burban as instructed, I’d ah... placed my self so
that, from the driver’s seat, I looked forward directly at the side door that
the broom toting Spanish lady had come out of AND had already seen her
attractive face pinch through her yellow lacy curtains on the door “to see”
“us” AND: Being not as numb as Mr.
Green Wipe I could ALSO NOT MISS that beside the door steps... and between them
and the cement & polychrome painted Virgin Mary sculpture that listed
slightly to the left but did have immaculate bunches of red, yellow & blue
plastic flower placed on it “recently”... there HAD BEEN a VERY RECENT violent
disturbance to the little patch of soil between these two objects; a space a
New York person would often call “a garden”... but in Maine is “a bare spot”...
to.. suggest... to my aforementioned QUARTER of a CENTURY experience in these
matters that “Huh... looks like someone dug there ... AN HOUR AGO”. And buried an old cannon.
They’d
even put a couple of “old boards” bits on top of it but since it looked like a
buffalo had tried to start a mud hole out there, well... they weren’t ah gonna
fool the FBI. But they fooled ole
Green Wipe for he spent the whole time at the rear of my ‘burban cursing in
that native tongue and then got BACK IN “it”; my “Car: You LIKE this BIG?” and started to tell
how it was my “fault” that “IT” “was gone”. He smelled like farts too so I could gather he was having a
physical response to the, what he called “loss” of my “money”. I didn’t loose any money that I could
see. In fact, things seemed to be
moving right along “just fine”. I
took him back to his store, let him get out, ROLLED ALL THE WINDOWS down as I
“cut across” the train station parking lot to “air her out” AND:
It
was almost 9:30 in the morning and I had nothing to do? FUCK THAT. What I actually had was a “COMPETE WASTE” of some very
valuable hours in the dawn of the New York area antiquarian day THAT, ‘cept for
know’en “where” “a cannon” “is buried” which ain’t valuable information, means
I LOOSE. I took a swig of
Listerine and spit it out the window at a stop light. That made me feel better. I always carry a bottle of Listerine (a glass bottle; an old
glass bottle of several I saved for they’ve “switched” to plastic but “everyone
knows” that “glass keeps it fresher” so I constantly “reload” the old glass
ones from a plastic one) and a bottle of rubbing alcohol (plastic) with me
every where I go during my “business day”. Shortly after the day begins they are placed on the seat
next to me where they “rest” and “roll around” for the rest of the day unless
“being used” which is... OFTEN. I
had to “stuff ‘em” AND my two, ah, briefcases... “in the back” to accommodate
Green Wipe... “in the front”. I
had not removed my map(s), a plastic dog shit secret key hider[2],
numerous old baseball caps carrying logos suitable for all occasions THAT I
SWITCH “to fit” the “occasion” as I arrive at it, two pairs of beat up work
gloves (one for the “back” when “loading trash” [the stuff I get off the
trash]) AND...my cell phone antenna which got “broken off” (two punk, ah,
non-white kids done “ripped it” at an intersection in the Bronx) and this last
DID jab Green Wipe in the ass when he ah, seated himself.
When
one is doing this; driving around the metro New York area endeavoring to “find”
rare decorative arts, FINE ART and rare books FOR NOTHING (as little
remuneration as possible) and wants to ...find it... as opposed to BUY IT...
for this latter includes two rather substantial qualifications to what one will
“get”: IT COSTS MORE and, as a
general rule, HAS BEEN FOUND by the “someone else”; usually the one YOU
“acquires it from”. THEREFORE we
must introduce a ground rule here for a lay reader AND THE EXPERT that, in
fact, greatly distances my business day from ALL of the decorative art, fine
art and rare book MARKETS... .
What I do ain’t about go’en to no boutique and sashay’en ‘round pick’en
my nose ‘en ass ‘en WALLET with “a companion” and ah... “We’ll take
THAT.”. Not that I WOULDN’T do
that ....TOO so don’t ah think you’s “got that to myself”... . NOR is this about “tag sales”, “yard
sales”, “church sales”, “thrift shops”..., “auctions”, “flea markets” AND....
ANY OF THAT SHIT FUCK OFF. NOT
that I don’t do ‘em... any ole time I’s ah “feel”, “happen”, “think of” “why
not” and “feels good”: “Feels SOOO
go-ud”. Further, if you’s ah read
this far and are starting to have one of YOUR moral hygienic BACK UPS so as to
want to do something like blow snot into a tissue and then MAKE ME EAT IT...
you can give that up you piece of shit cause this ain’t about YOU and what YOU
think. THIS (book) IS ABOUT WHAT
IT’S REALLY LIKE; what really happens... “out there”.
“Out
there”: Please. LONG, long ago I learned that IF... IF
one wants to find a “truly rare” piece of art (OR OLD BOOK) one is going to
have to... FIND IT. This means
that ANY THING that is between you and it (the object being found) is a middle
man or middle ground; that is: The
object is NOT AT THE BOTTOM of “the market”. Therefore it is not FOUND nor is “bought for nothing”. FURTHER: This ‘at the bottom’ is a frontier.
“FRONTIER?” Damn right. I only know I’m “out there” on this frontier when I ...
don’t see “anyone” for “days”.
“Anyone” are all the people connected with the fine arts industries;
principally dealers and collectors.
YOU’S ah ain’t ah gonna “buy it cheap” IF one of ‘em (especially ME) is
standing next to you: GIVE IT
UP. FURTHER; if you’s ah numb ass
enough to even slightly “think” your on the frontier at some ole flea market or
whatever... GIVE IT UP for in fact you are SURROUNDED by people who “know what
they’re doing” PROBABLY BETTER THEN YOU DO. This last I assist you with by noting that I KNOW that ALL
OF THESE PEOPLE have a BETTER IDEA of what they “are doing” then I do AT ALL
TIMES! That’s right: I am stating that I ...fundamentally
understand... that YOU know more about what YOU and I ... I... am doing at ALL
TIMES... then I DO. I learned
this; it took DECADES.
OK? YOUR BETTER THEN ME. Therefore put your friggen snot loaded
tissue away cause I ain’t gonna eat it because... I DON’T HAVE TO because... I
... LIVE (in the fine art world) WHERE YOU DON’T. Flatly: I never
see “anyone” “in the trade” all day, every day. To reduce the art market to the crudest term ON THE STREET;
your passing intrigue with a, for example, Van Gogh painting... “bringing”
“millions” “at auction”. THIS
action; the “bringing millions”... is a LARGE FRESH HOT DOG SHIT on the
sidewalk of the fine arts world.
STEPPED IN and treaded off down the sidewalk onward follow the
footprints of this soft, hot, gooey, smeared abomination until it, many steps
later “treads out”; that is... becomes a most mere spot mare upon the
side walk surface; a trace of shit only.
THERE or more probably the NEXT step that... leaves no trace at all...
is WHERE I AM in the fine arts world.
Can I stay there?
OF
COURSE. I live there. It is my home. THANK YOU for never visiting. And you ain’t gonna even if you got up
right now and “started”. I learned
this. That took decades too cause,
believe it or not, I USED to think EVERY BODY in the fine arts industries did
“this”; what I do... and, since I never saw anyone ‘cept for a revolving group
of overstuffed well financed tweed jacketed plastic bidder pallet wave’en
JACKASS from “the top” who always “keep my mouth shut” and carry hemorrhoid
flare up medication WITH ‘EM “at all times”, eat a lot of TUMS and “I bid on
that” kind of perpetual rhetoric that MEANS NOTHING..., IT DID take me HALF MY
LIFE to find out that BLOW HOLE like YOU ... “don’t” “do this”. And I, should I “accept this mission”
DON’T have to “deal with you” IF I live “out there”; on the absolute bottom of
the ... multi billion dollar global twenty-four hour ah day fine arts industry
(Check your Internet bids, Sis.).
“Barf
me.” is my contact with most... antiquarian buffs and their perpetual shadow
group of Biblio... gnostes... . I
know that may seem harsh at first but ride along here for a bit and I’s ah
promise the air will get crisper, a vista unfold before you and a whole damn
lot of what may seem to be, ah, either controversial or confused... begin to
make a... whole lot of good sense to YOU without me have ‘en to ADD MUCH. Begins to make a whole lot of MONEY
too. I add this last to
accommodate what I presume is a top three of your jackass life (“Yeah,
money: Yeah, I like that. I like the TV too.”)[3]..
This
is why I spit the second mouthful of Listerine out at the SECOND God Damn
stoplight that was... twenty feet past the first one for I was “paused” again
in the “downtown” village section of Hartsdale on East Hartsdale Ave. Spit it out (the window) I did and
since the commuter-running-to-the-train station crunch was long over, the only
eyeballs I caught was the “now appearing” plentiful and select group of
...American citizens who, ah, “live here” ...and come out during the day to
forage...; The Westchester Housewife... .
This is a dignified body of American Woman one will not find OTHER
PLACES except... as “imitators”[4]. TWO woman caught my act in their
private eye to brain realm of dispensation of THE UNIVERSE and one, at least,
had the CLEAR and always CONCISE, ah, reaction that I suppose may be expressed
as: “That MAN just drank &
spit LISTERINE (I SAW THE BOTTLE) out his CAR WINDOW!” ...pause... “THE ONLY TIME I ...EVER... ... LISTERINE is in a
BATHROOM!” ...pause... look
away... scurry away. WELL: It’s the only time you ever PEE TOO!
And
what do I care cause it’s actually funny to watch ‘em “dig that” with their
over dressed “gotta go” “outfit” and sensible sensibilities that include the “I
never throw anything out because I’m a... RE... SOURCE... FULL (of shit and
ACTUALLY don’t HAVE anything “good” to throw out anyway). That last allows for me to have
virtually NO interaction with this “I got a life that’s better then YOURS,
Trash Man, cause I’s ah seen I DO on TV” daylight population group of the
REGION (Westchester County, N.Y.).
Since
they spend a lot of the “this time of day” out & about visiting commercial
centers where there is ABSOLUTELY no rare art, antiques or books to be “FOUND”
ever I’s ah “it’s OK by me” and this goes along way to explain why most of the
side streets I travel are “dead” and I really rarely encounter “anyone” with a
negative position to what I’s ah up to... for what I do takes place in a very
tranquil, cool, calm setting of house lined side streets extending to the
...edge of the world.
[1]: “Looping” intersections, “parking” and
“getting out” (including “putting money” “in the meter”) are VERY big
activities in urban antiquarian picking (I’M A PICKER: That’s what this book is about; picking
antiques and rare books) and therefore are a very, very big part of this
book. BUT they are very, very
boring to do, write about and READ about so: I here state that just about every God damn move I make... ALL
the time... HERE (in the metro New York area)... IS GREATLY INFLUENCED by these
actions for... THEY
TAKE TIME...: Usually a lot more time then I
GOT. But what can I do? Well... I can DO THESE ACTIONS AS FAST
AS I POSSIBLY CAN which creates a perpetual frenzy of motor vehicle action,
body action, verbal profanities uttered at windshield and PERPETUAL innovative
& super creative “driving maneuvers” that, although VERY CAREFULLY purveyed
as “not illegal” (cause a “ticket” ONLY SLOW ME DOWN) should, ah, “not be
attempted by an amateur”. In
action, the process resembles a merge of Boston driving expertise with New York
City taxi cab driver expertise... with Maine 4 wheel drive mud run “on command”
expertise... too.
[2]: This is a souvenir from... ANOTHER BOOK
I WROTE (THESE ARE MINE) so read it to appreciate WHY, in addition to, ah,
“fucking up the head” of passengers like Green Wipe AND anyone who “looks in
the window”, I’s would ah... treasure this.
[3]: If you say
it ain’t “the money”; don’t worry, I know you’re out there so don’t get all
pissy.
[4]: HEY, OK: I KNOW your not trying to “imitate” ‘em but YOU tell what
YOU are doing that’s so’s original and that THEY haven’t already “done” “long
time ago” or, ah, offer that they “could learn from YOU.” FILL IN THEIR BLANK yourself
...otherwise... give it up for they have surpassed you long ago JUST IN THE
SHOES THEY WEAR “to go out”.
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