Of Nose-rings and Nissans:
A California Auction
by John de Pillis (7 May 1995, Riverside, Press Enterprise)
It was like walking through the local shopping
mall and seeing a storefront sign reading, "Travel Agent & Brain
Surgeon". But instead of a sign, it was a full-page ad in the Riverside
Press for the weekly "Auction of Cars & Jewelry" which takes
place in Upland, California.
How does that work? If your bid is too low for a Honda, can you transfer
that bid towards a 14 kt gold nose-ring? To learn the answers, I decided
on a personal visit to this California institution --- the Auto/Jewelry
auction.
The next Sunday, I got an early start for Upland. As I headed west on Highway
60, I could hardly wait to reach the Central Avenue off ramp in Chino.
I knew that she would be there waiting.
As I turned north onto Central, I saw her standing at her usual place near
the corner of Philadelphia Avenue. How compelling and magnificent she was.
I admit, I am influenced by her superficial physical attributes --- like
her 35-foot height. But to me, she is the ultimate pino maritimo, an Italian
Stone Pine tree like no other.
As I drove on, I noticed her graceful lines diminishing in my left rear-view
mirror. That's the mirror where objects are not closer than they appear.
A left turn off Central onto Foothill Boulevard soon brought me to the
parking lot for the great Auto/Nose-ring Auction. The lot was full enough
that I had to hunt for a space, even though it was early morning.
And what a Chamber-of-Commerce morning it was! The sky was a clean, pure
blue, the temperature was warm and, looking north, you could see the snow-frosted
mountain peaks. I took a deep breath of the delicious, clear air and headed
on in.
Copies of the Auto Blue Book were on sale at the entrance. Further on,
there is the inspection area where all the autos, destined for auction,
are lined up for public viewing. (Actual auctioneering would begin at noon.)
People were allowed to poke and test, doing just about anything short of
actually driving the vehicle. Hundreds of people were evaluating, pricing,
and discussing bidding strategies. Serious homework was going on.
I thought I might fit in better if I casually but purposefully kicked some
tires. On the other hand, no one else was kicking any tires. Not even the
little kids! Another of my stereotypes had to be abandoned. Tire-kicking
was as out-dated as the polyester leisure suit.
I soon met up with my friend, Mike, who also came to the auction out of
curiosity. Mike doesn't have to kick tires --he knows a lot about cars.
So does Ted, the fellow who married Mike's sister. You see, Ted, owns an
auto repair shop. But it was not always so.
At first, Ted owned an auto paint shop. He was successful at painting cars
even though he was color blind. Ted relied on the paint labels to determine
colors, a system that worked very well. Until one day when the labels were
switched at the factory. Soon after, a customer came in to collect his
freshly painted green vehicle. As Mike tells it, the customer "literally
fainted" when his shiny green car turned out to be a shiny mud-brown
car.
Ted interpreted this non-verbal signal (fainting) as a clear message that
the time had come for him to quit auto painting. (Strong, reenforcing,
verbal signals soon followed.) In any case, that's when Ted decided to
enter the auto repair business.
The story goes on. Mike's sister, a competition body builder, helped in
the new business by keeping the books. Then, she started to help in the
shop after Ted taught her how to disassemble brakes. Ted would then finish
the job. But before long, she was doing full brake jobs and, finally, any
repair and service provided by the shop. Today, she also sews dresses for
babies who enter "beautiful baby" pageants. That's where the
real money is.
As noon approached, Mike left. People were seating themselves in an open
area shaded by an overhead protective canvas. The auctioneer was facing
the audience from the top window of a small, two-story tower directly ahead.
The autos were lined up along the side, waiting to be driven, one-by-one,
to stage center along a dirt track which ran between the audience and the
auctioneer.
Directly in front of the audience, wearing white shirts and distinctive
baseball caps, were five men acting as "transmitters". They took
bids from the crowd and passed them on to the auctioneer.
To start the bidding, a car is driven onto the track and pauses in front
of the crowd. The auctioneer describes the vehicle over a squawky low-fi
sound system and then, energetically, he asks for an opening bid. Then,
the car whisks off and the strange, tribal bidding ritual continues.
In the crowd, some people are shouting. Some are gesturing, or waving their
arms, nodding, or holding magazines along the sides of their noses. The
five Transmitters with the distinctive baseball caps, blow whistles, alternately
facing the auctioneer, then the crowd. All the while they are shouting
and making large, pulling gestures in the air, as if to milk some huge,
invisible, cow.
Seeking a clue to what was happening, I concentrated on the auctioneer.
His delivered his non-stop, high-energy, chant in a musical cadence, that
sounded like, "Nissan did-dley fif-ty dif-fty did-dley FIVE!"
One of the Transmitters blew his whistle and threw his fist toward the
auctioneer like a baseball umpire calling an out. The auctioneer, responded,
as if to say, "Oh, then hed-dy wed-dy dod-dley TEN! Do I hear TEN
TEN did-dley WHOA!" This provoked even more whistles and arm gestures
from the crowd and the Transmitters. Finally, the auctioneer announced,
"Hep-pedy Dep-pedy TEN-tee-dee SOLD!"
The dance concluded as the successful bidder announced her identifying
number to one of the Transmitters, who then shouted it along to the auctioneer.
This, and the other dances lasted about a minute for each car.
Off to one side, there is a bank of caged openings resembling a line of
betting windows at a racetrack. It is here that the successful bidders
line up to pay for their cars either in cold cash, or by credit card. There
are people with fistfuls of both.
To the left of the bank of windows is a sign that reads, "No Children
allowed in the inspection area, No Cameras, No Soliciting, No Alcoholic
Beverages, No Weapons."
As I saw more and more cars being trotted through, I didn't really get
to understand much more than when I started. But one thing came clear.
If I scratched my nose at the wrong time, I could find myself unexpectedly
driving home in one of those Nissan hep-dep hey-diddley fifties.