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Atomic Mod and Wildflower Mural(continued) Her work, though, gives Jaime the chance to spend time with her parents.
"We get lunch and we schmooze, and then we'll go to an auction,
and of course, we have to get there early and preview…" On this particular day, Jaime is meeting her father at Rook Auction
and Appraisals in Tylersport, where she will be selling a series of
decade dresses at an auction next week. We head out in her Honda Civic,
the backseat ballooning to the ceiling with olives and emeralds, ceruleans
and indigos, crimsons and scarlets, and she tells me about the auctioneer
we're going to see, who happens to be one of her favorite people. "He's not PC at all, which I think is tremendous. I really appreciate
that in people. But he's also smart and he's honest, and that's tough
to find. And he's funny, too, the kind of funny where I almost pee my
pants, or, you know, I do, a little bit." As she navigates around the curls of Quakertown's streets, I recognize
the startling connect between Jaime and her hometown. Quakertown, which
boasts a News Agency building, a Sines' Five and Dime, and a Main Street
Theater, brims with nostalgia and the remembrance of things simple and
clean; it rides time like a pendulum instead of a one-directional extension.
We leave Quakertown behind and wind our way through the woods of Tylersport,
toward an oversized, white stone warehouse bearing "Rook's"
on the side. Jaime's father, Jim, is already there waiting for us: he
wears plain, bold colors — blue jeans and a dark red shirt under
a felt green vest — and smiles just as willingly as Jaime, under
the cover of a blonde moustache shot through with a smattering of distinguished
gray. Their conversation moves familiar and sharp, with all the quick rhythm
and staccato of an auctioneer. She remembers to ask him about South
Korea as we gather armfuls of dresses and bring them inside: "Are
they communist?" "No. That's North Korea, and that's the problem: South Korea's
booming, they're like another Japan, and North Koreans are starving
to death because they have that Looney Toon dictator, who, you know,
looks like Mickey Mouse." Rook Auction and Appraisals is high-ceilinged and stone-walled, with
sprawling windows and no capacity for heat retention — standing
inside chills completely, not unlike being enclosed in a giant walk-in
refrigerator. Desk chairs of all colors are lined up in rows in front
of a large podium, giving the empty warehouse an almost Twilight-Zone
feel. Jaime introduces me to the owner. "I'm Randall Rook, professional auctioneer. We are professional
grade here," he says with a wide, comfortable grin that starts
before he even finishes speaking. Randall stands like a man who has
always been lanky — bent slightly forward under the weight of a
coat that seems almost inflated, tapering down to a narrowed waist and
a pair of lean, black-jean clad legs. The three of them — Jaime, Jim, and Randall — banter easily,
lobbing auction humor across the expanse of the warehouse as Jaime arranges
her dresses on racks and Jim shows Randall some autographed books of
poetry and a framed Paul Revere and the Raiders poster he plans to sell
at the auction. Randall tells me he studied "pool shooting, woman chasing, and
alcohol drinking — all with great success" in college, and
that he now teaches auctioneering at Reading Area Community College.
In his classes, seventy percent of the students are over fifty years
old and have failed at everything else. "This is the sum total of my net worth," he says, sauntering
past Jaime and slapping the top of a metal cash box. "There's probably
several dollars in here." Suddenly, he bends down, scooping up a black and white cat with a prominent
belly. "Which one is that?" Jaime asks, barely looking up from the
dresses she's still hanging. "This is Little Girl. She's pregnant. She gets pregnant all the
time, because she's so nice. I think she's also easy." He frowns,
letting Little Girl leap out of his arms. She hits the concrete floor
with a thud and is forgotten as Randall approaches Jaime's dresses.
"What, uh… what do you have for me, anyway? What is this stuff,
is this Austin Powers? How're we advertising these? Psychedelic? No.
That's too long. I'm paying for every letter, you know." Jaime watches in calm bemusement as he flicks through her dresses.
"I would say groovy, not psychedelic. Fifties, '60s, '70s, housecoats,
oh, and use 'mod'; that's a good one… I actually think there are
some '40s party dresses hiding in there, too…" "You have anything pink? Pink is big. I got some old ladies who'll
pay whatever you're asking for pink." "Hot pink is a hot color," Jaime agrees, pointing to several
tea dresses mixed in between flimsy mauve Hawaiian prints, wildflower
florals, and a black and white newsprint glam. Randall nods, satisfied, and turns to me. "You're coming to the
auction, right? I'll write you a note. 'Too healthy to come to class'.
Because you can't miss it. You can't."
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